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25 CENTS 


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Stlingame. Calif. 






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Undiscovered 


|) AMERICAN BEAUTIES 





Crooked Penny — Condensed Novel-in-this-issue by Josephine Tey 
College Men are Funny —by Jan Weyl : 
Miracle: Relief from Arthritis by William L. Laur:nce 
Agers?. 3rd Profile of Youth 


LOIS DRIVER 
Sorrento, Florida Who Understands Tee 
“so excited 

¥ could hardly talk’? 








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"Try the IFANA way_dentists say it works” 


eee say Don and Eloise Phillips, ‘model’ couple—who show how it can work for your smile 


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ey 





en 


“My favorite model” — that’s what Don Phillips calls his cover-girl wife, Eloise, as Eloise shows you the Ipana way -— pleasant and easy as 1, 2: 
she shows off her famous Ipana smile. (And Don is something of an expert on models— 1. Between regular visits to your dentist, brush all tooth surfaces with 
he’s a successful one, himself! ) Ipana Tooth Paste at least twice a day. 

As a top modeling team, this Great Neck, N. Y. couple knows the importance of firm, 2. Then massage gums the way your dentist advises — to stimulate gum 
healthy gums to a sparkling smile. So they don’t risk halfway dental care. They follow circulation. (Ipana’s unique formula actually helps stimulate your 
the Ipana way to both healthier gums and brighter teeth. “Because,” they'll tell you, gums. You can feel the invigorating tingle! ) 


“dentists say it works!” Here’s how this professionally approved Ipana dental care can Do this regularly for healthier gums, brighter teeth—an [pana smile. 
Ipana’s extra-refreshing flavor leaves your breath cleaner, your mouth 


work for you, too... 
fresher, too. Ask your dentist about Ipana and massage. Remember, the 


care of your gums is as important as the care of your teeth. So get 


started with Ipana Tooth Paste today! 


YES, 8 OUT OF 10 DENTISTS SAY: 


ana dental care promotes 
Healthier gums, brighter vet 


*® In, thousands of recent reports from 
dentists all over the country. 








Products of Bristol-Myers 


r 1 f LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


or fone C eit Sect 


Bath Size Palmolive 
With 13 famous 


fee /) . = 


Auguat, 1949 : 








Nai tegiende! 
New Charm / 
(Mew Mure! 


IF YOU WANT to be a real Bare-Skin Beauty—get Bath 
Size Palmolive and use it daily in tub or shower! See how 
proper cleansing with this big, thrifty Bath Size Palmolive 
smooths and softens arms and shoulders . . . how its 


Thritty 
So Big! $e 
So Solid 2 
Oceans of “Beauty Lather” 


aa Long-Losting 


Exciting New Fragrance 


Menfolk Love it, Too 4 





famcus “Beauty Lather” helps make you lovelier all over! 


Buy Bath Size Palmolive f 
You'll find economical, long-lasting Bath Size Palmolive ; uy at IZe ¥ mo Ive or *” 


makes oceans of this rich, creamy ‘‘Beauty Lather”. . . ¥. 


leaves an exciting “whisper”: of perfume on your skin— ae —Shin Beauty / 
a whisper that says “come hither” to romance! Get Bath . ; 


Size Palmolive today! Your whole family will love it! 





Journal 













The lucky dress 


Lois Driver, this month’s cover 
girl, lives in a Florida town (Sor- 
rento) so small that it has only one 
telephone. Lois rode the school bus 
five miles to the consolidated school 
at Mount Dora, and there, in the 
principal’s office, she received the 
telephone call informing her she had 
been chosen as one of the JouURNAL’S 
Undiscovered American Beauties. 

“I was so excited I could hardly 
talk. Afterward I ran all the way 
downtown . . . it’s really an event in 
a small town.” 

Lois was born on June 25, 1931, 
in the nearby town of Zellwood, the 
fifth of six children. Fortunately the 
family homestead (below) is large. 

Her father is a machinist and her 
mother, in addition to keeping 
house, manages to make most of 
Lois’ clothes, including the blue 
piqué dress (above) which Lois has 
worn in three local beauty con- 
tests. She won all three! 

Now that she has graduated, Lois 
thinks it would be nice to do some 
modeling (she is 5’ 5” and apt to be 
skinny if she doesn’t eat a lot). But 
she also loves to act. Once she 
starred in a school play, Mr. and 
Mrs. Vinegar, and still remembers 
her lines. 


The family homestead 


Contents cece es dugust, 1919 


VOL, LXVI, No. 8 


Novel Condensation Complete in this Issue 


Crooked Penny Josephine Tey 





Fiction 


The Strong Man. 
The Vaccination . 


. Hannibal Coons 36 
. Marjorie Carter 38 
.Twanet Evans 52 


. Taylor Caldwell 54. 


Once Upon a Time. : 
Let Love Come Last (Fourth ant of five): 


Special Features 


Ghosts and a Vision ... . . +. Dorothy Thompson 11 
Color on the Air. . : yee ar eRe LT 
There’s a Man in the House. Harlan Miller 23 
“From Across the Great Water” . George Rodger 31 


Profile of Youth: Who Understands eeu: Apes?” ME coi s sow 40 
ras andebanciesss. «York Style, .05 39) 2. «-. 9. - «4 « 42 
Teen-Age Drivers Talk Back . . . 44 
The Visit to the Nursery . Painting ig ea Horioré onard 45 
College Men are Funny Jan Weyl 50 


Miracle Relief From Arthritis . .William L. Laurence 51 
How America Lives: Only in the U.S.A. Dorothy Cameron Disney 127 


What Do You Want to Know 


About the Weather? . . Barrie Stavis and Harry Grawick 160 


General Features 


Our Readers Write Us 
Under-Cover Stuff . 


. Bernardine Kielty 14 
Diary of Domesticity. . . Gladys Taber 24 
Making Marriage Work. : - Clifford R. Adams 26 
And We Do Mean You! (The Sub- Deb) Edited by Maureen Daly 28 
Fifty Years Ago in the Journal ¢ Journal About Town . . . . 33 


Infectious Mononucleosis, 
Not So Bad as it Sounds 


This is a Too-Silly 
Ask Any Woman . . 


.Dr. Herman N. Bundesen 112 
Munro Leaf 121 
Marcelene Cox 146 


Fashions and Beauty 


There’s Something About Her . 

The Significent Black Dress . ‘ 

Getting the Most Out of Your Suit 

How’s Your Self-Confidence? 

American Beauty’s Hundred-Dollar 
Wardrobe Recipe. 


Wilhela Cushman 46 
Wilhela Cushman 48 
; : . Nora O'Leary 139 
: pata Crowell Norman 142 


Cynthia McAdoo 154 


Food and Homemaking 


Ann Batchelder 56 

. Ann Batchelder 58 
Ruth Mills Teague 76 
Margaret Davidson 134 
. Louella G. Shouer 140 


Just Right for August 

Line a Day 

Conversation Piece . 

Let the Vacuum Do It . 

Cateh a Husband Who Can Gatshe a Fish . 


interior Decoration 


Decoration by the Yard Henrietta Murdock 136 


Poetry 


Catherine Haydon Jacobs 61 ¢ Ernestine Cobern Beyer 71 ¢ Marion 
Lineaweaver 83 e Elaine V. Emans 92 ¢ Bettie Cassie Liddell 100 
Leonora Thornber 105 ¢ Beatrice Raw 110 ¢ Elizabeth-Ellen Long 164 


Cover: Photograph by Hy Peskin 


Ladies’ Home Journal, copyright 1949 by The Curtis Publishing Company in U. S. and Great Britain. 
All rights reserved. Title registered in U.S. Patent Office and foreign countries. Published on last Friday of 
month preceding date by The Curtis Publishing Company, Independence Square, Philadelphia 5, Pa. Entered 
as Second Class Matter May 6, 1911, at the Post Office at Philadelphia under the Act of March 3, 1879. En- 
tered as Second Class Matter at the Post Office Department, Ottawa, Canada, by Curtis Distributing Com 
pany, Ltd., Toronto, Ont., Canada. 
Subscription Prices: U.S. and Possessions, Canada, Costa Rica, Cuba, Nicaragua, Dominican Republic, Gua- 
temala, Haiti, Mexico, Panama, Philippine Islands, Republic of Honduras, Salvador, Spain and South America 
except the Guianas: 1 yr., $3; 2 yrs., $5; 3 yrs., $7;4 yrs., $9. Other countries, 1 yr., $6. Remit by money order or 
draft on a bank in the U.S. payable in U. S. funds. All prices subject to change without notice. All subscriptions 
must be paid for in advance. 
Unconditional Guaranty. We agree, upon request direct from subscribers to the Philadelphia office, to 
refund the full amount paid for any copies of Curtis publications not previously mailed. 
The Curtis Publishing Company, Walter D, Fuller, President; Robert E. MacNeal, First Vice-President; 
Arthur W. Kohler, Vice-President and Advertising Director; Mary Curtis Zimbalist, Vice-President; Cary Ww 
Bok, Vice-President and Treasurer; Lewis W. Trayser, Vice-President and Director of Manufacturing; Benjamin 
Allen, Vice-President and Director of Circulation; Robert Gibbon, Secretary; Richard Ziesing, Jr., Manager of 
Ladies’ Home Journal. The Company also publishes The Saturday Evening Post, Country Gentleman, Jack 
and Jill, and Holiday. 
Change of Address: Send your Journal change of address to 

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL, INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA 5, PA. 


at least 30 days before the date of the issue with which it is to take effect. Send old address with the new, en- 
closing if possible your address label. The post office will not forward copies unless you provide extra postage. 
Duplicate copies cannot be sent. 

The names of characters in all stories are fictitious, Any resemblance to living persons is a coincidence, 



















































(RA no 




















RRO encore ines 























Shocking shantung dress by Chee Armstron« 
Parasol by Lubar e Shoes by Capez 





PLEATED CHAMBRAY 
SHORTS like this bright 
pair just crave gentle 
care with Ivory Flakes. 
No soap you can buy 
is kinder to colors than 
wonderful Ivory Flakes! 




























yvely to wear...!t’s worth 


ory Flakes 


- 9944/10% pure 



















form of baby’s pure, miid Ivory... 






0 


Give it to him 


made with your own 


little hands 


QUICK! AND FUN! 


Certo means divine grape jelly 
(whether you use fresh fruit or 
bottled juice ), and gorgeous con- 
serve or jam. In fact, you~ can 
make all kinds of jam or jelly 
easily and often with Certo—it’s 
done in 15 minutes after fruit 
is prepared! Over 80 delicious 
recipes with every bottle. 






You'll love to make 
it with CERTO! 


LAWINS HONE JOURNAL 


Housewile’s Highspot 


Mabscolt, West Virginia, 

Dear Sir: The JouRNAL is a highspot in 

my busy-housewife day. I like every fea- 

ture! Your monthly paintings are the first 

thing I turn to, and next the old houses 
and towns you reproduce. 

Yours truly, 
MRS. JAMES KIRK, 


Teaching For Pleasure 


Vanceburg, Kentucky. 

Dear Editors: 1am a happy old teacher 
(age 53) who quit teaching math and 
physics in 1947 after finishing 30 years. I 
began 1914 in a one room country school 
at $38 a month, then $42, $50, $75 and so 
on up to $160, my maximum, as a high 
school principal for two years. If it were in 
my power I would make Jesse Stuart's 
book, The Thread That Runs So True, re- 
quired reading for every high school stu- 
dent and every teacher. His experiences 
are similar to mine but he handled his 
problems of discipline better. I, like many 
others, tried a hickory switch and he used 
play. 

Jesse Stuart should now be in some 
teacher's college helping to train other 
teachers. 

I am glad I taught for 30 years. I was 
always proud of my profession and am 
still ‘an old maid school teacher," although 
I have been happily married for 20 years, 

Sincerely, 


LENA WELLS VOIERS. 


Gets Comfort From Letter 


Monrovia, California. 

Dear Editors: 1 want to tell you what 
help I have received from the letter in the 
JouRNAL, headed She is Immortal. My 
husband died’eleven weeksago—no sign, no 
pain, just the quiet closing of eyes, and 
“sleep.” 

Yes, they have told me how brave I am 
and patted my shoulder, but they don't 
know what the nights are, or how I have 
prayed for just one sign. We had cele- 
brated our forty-seventh anniversary the 
Wednesday before, and there was fun and 
laughter and fellowship, and the memories 
are poignant. I try to think of “‘seeing him 
again”’ but I know it cannot be in the flesh, 
as we knew and loved him here. 

But that letter, when she said, ‘I don't 
know the shape of immortality,’ and “I 
can never lose the realities that gave those 
things meaning’’ gave me comfort I had 
not known. I carry it with me so I can read 
it over and over again. 

Gratefully, 
(Name withheld by request) 


Journal Saves Money 


Seattle, Washington, 

Dear Editors: We certainly like Jour- 
NAL recipes and have cut our food bill over 
$10.00 per month. My husband enjoys re- 
decorating and remodeling as much as I 
and we have rearranged our problem living 
room from your suggestions to the com- 
plete satisfaction of all who have seen it. 
We've also used your ideas on color com- 
binations and completely transformed a 
small, dark bedroom by papering it our- 
selves. 

But the kitchen is our pride and joy. 
By combining ideas from at least six 
JOURNALS we have remodeled a large old- 
fashioned kitchen into a modern, step- 
saving one. This was all done at the cost 
of $60.00 and a subscription to the Jour- 
NAL. It’s like taking a correspondence 
course. Each month we learn more about 
houses, eating, marriage—everything im- 


Auguaet, 1909 


Colorful paper liners sealed 
in with cellophane tape make 
drawers brighter, neater. 

Keep a roll of *‘Scotch”’ Cel- 
lophane Tape in every room 


for all kinds of sealing, hold- 
ing, mending jobs. 


GET THE TAPE HABIT... it’s thrifty! 


BRAND 


Cellophane Tape 


SEALS WITHOUT MOISTENING 
TRANSPARENT AS GLASS 


ANOTHER reooucr 


MINNESOTA MINING & MFG. CO. 
ST. PAUL 6, MINN, © 1949 3m co. 













Big, Spare-time 


EARNINGS For 
YOU too! 


as a JANES ART STUDIOS 
SOCIAL COUNSELOR 













Sell Lovely Christmas Cards, Matched 
Gift Wrapping Ensembles, and other 
gorgeous gift and personal items. 
Earn big money for luxuries, for your 
club, or church group. Want lovely 
clothes? Like a vacation cruise? Let 
Janes Art Studios open the door to 
your dreams-come-true. 


For TOP Earnings, Show the TOP LINE. 
Janes Artists Award Christmas 
line for 1949 features 11 charm- 
ing and beautiful box assortments, 
plus 17 other fast-moving money 
makers. 


100% PROFIT ON NAME-IM- 
PRINTED DE LUXE PERSONALS 
. .. FREE, your first box Preview As- 
sortment ... Sell for $2, replace for $1. 
50 for $1 CHRISTMAS TREASURE 
BOX ... make as much as 50c on 
every $1 you sell. NEW .. . 20x30 
sheets in Matched Christmas 
Gift Wrapping Ensemble. 
No Experience Needed! J 
We furnish you with everything 


you need to make you a suc- 















portant to a happy home. panied. Janes icc ainetans 
Sincerely, aan AYE Social Counselor, earn- 
MARY ANDERSEN. ing big profits regularly. 
Me 1 Christmas Gi 
Wrappings.......$1.25 
2. Cute’n Classic, 16 cards 
on foil..... Te pete 
3. Janes “21” Feature 
Box) ...<3-beee oe e100 


EXTRA GLASSES! Using Certo means you 
don’t waste fruit by long boiling! You gét, on the 
average, 50% more glasses of jelly from the same 
amount of fruit, and much more fresh, natural flavor. 
More lovely color, and fragrance too . . , because 

you can use gorgeous, fully ripe fruit. 


WHAT IS CERTO? Certo isa highly concentrated fruit 


pectin product, and pectin is the natural “jellying” 





making plan in greeting 
Goulds Visit Iver and Lucille Sa 


Bedford, England. Janes Art Studios 
Dear Journal: On a Monday came the 
air-mail letter saying your editors were --es OCT.) 
: ee 3 ihc 715 
paying a flying visit to this country and M th PURE 
would try to see Iver and Lucille either in 
London or on arushed trip to Bedford. 





For Top Earnings, Show the Top Line! 
JANES ART STUDIOS, INC. BABYLON 18-A, N. Y. 
I want to make easy money ... quick. Rush me samples 


. : . 7 > Mina i Ss. i . y approval, and FREE SALES HELPS. 
substance in fruits, Adding Certo means you re l/ \\ ] Oe eee oes ty as ee ae Se . @ 
just helping Nature along! MU! | noon and they tactfully suggested that Name. sderaeiee goaeth oiuct ssn cosueceoonsmmpeneaeean 


they could eat out, or sleep out if we 
couldn’t cope with visitors. Of course we 
soon made ourselves clear on that point. 


Street and NoO..+sscecevecseuvvvewewrceseseseneneeesse® 





ouke, mow clam with CERTO 


The Goulds hoped to arrive at 6 P.M., so Inyacacceaecnserave “a 
two very washed and brushed children were Age: Over 2110) Under 210 z 
A Product of General Foods | y (Connie on Page's) . ee eee ee eee ete 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 












“T’ve been making pies for more 
than 65 years, and I’ve never 
found a shortening to equal 
Swift’ning for piecrust.’’ Mrs. 
John Sanders, Hinsdale, Illinois. 


“My family says the quick- 
mix cakes I bake with Swift’- 
ning are out of this world.” 
Mrs. Carl Pearson, Brockton, 
Massachusetts. 













RASPBERRY ANGEL PIE 


ee . ¢ 
fee > es 
“ i, ‘ 





A MARTHA LOGAN HELPING HAND RECIPE 


See the little ‘helping hands’’? They show where mis- 
takes might be made. Note them, use Swift’ning, and 
you'll get extra flaky piecrust that’s a thrill to serve. 


PIECRUST: Preheat oven 450°F. Sift 1 «. sifted 
all-purpose flour and \% tsp. salt in a bowl. Cut 
4 ¢. Swift’ning into flour with pastry blender or 
2 knives until particles are size of small peas. 
Sprinkle cold water, a little at a time, over dif- 
ferent parts of flour mixture. Toss together 
lightly with a fork. @@# Use as little water as 
possible, just enough to make dough hold together 
(2 or 3 tbsp. or less). Place dough on waxed 
paper. Press gently with the paper into a ball. 
Let stand at room temperature for a few min. 
Lightly flour board and rolling pin; or cover 
board with pastry canvas and rolling pin with 
knitted cover, both lightly floured. Roll dough 
in circle 14" thick. @# Use light strokes, work 
from center out. Lift rolling pin as it nears edge. 
Invert 8” pie pan on dough; cut 14" beyond 
edge of pan; fold in half; lay fold in center of 


pan; unfold. e@ Fit pastry in pan, pressing 
with finger-tips from center out to remove air bub- 
bles. Fold pastry under to fit edge of tim. Press 
down with fork. Indent edge with finger-tips 
to mark number of servings. Prick with fork. 
Bake 12 to 15 min. 


FILLING: Boil % c. sugar and 4 c. water to soft 
ball stage (235°F.). Pour syrup, in a fine stream, 
Over 2 stiffly beaten egg whites beating continu- 
ously. Soften 2 tsp. gelatin in 2 tbsp. cold water. 
Dissolve over hot water. Combine with egg 
white mixture. Beat 1 min. Add \% tsp. salt and 
1 tbsp. lemon juice. Cool, while beating % pt. 
whipping cream. Fold both together. Pour into 
cooled pie shell; chill till set. Serve with whipped 
cream border and this Raspberry Sauce in center: 
Press 1. fresh raspberries through a sieve and 
add enough water to make 1 cup. Gradually 
blend this with 1% ¢. sugar and 1 tbsp. cornstarch. 
Stir constantly over medium heat until thick- 
ened and clear. Reduce heat. Cook 10 min., 
stirring constantly. Cool. 


pantry shelf. 


~ Out-performs all other shortenings ! 


“ye 





A truly all-purpose shortening, Swift's 


amazing Swift’ning gives you both 







perfect quick-mix cakes and extra 


flaky pies. Don’t wait to try it! 






“ & SPECIAL QUICK-MIX INGREDIENT FOR FINER 
cAKES! Whether you prefer conventional recipes 
or the new, speedier methods, you’ll be thrilled 
with your Swift’ning cakes. Swift’ning contains 
its own special quick-mix ingredient ... gives 
you cakes of feather lightness. 












" FLAKIER PIES than with any other all-purpose 
shortening! Tests prove that Swift’ning makes 
pies, biscuits, shortcakes, tenderer ...extra flaky. 


“GRAND FOR FRYING! Foods fried in Swift’ning 
are light, crisp, and digestible. They keep their 
natural flavors, Swift’ning is so delicate and 
tasteless. 







“EXTRA NUTRITIOUS! HIGHLY DIGESTIBLE! Pure 
digestible Swift’ning contains a combination of 
important nutritional essentials not supplied by 
any other all-purpose shortening. 








~ NEEDS NO REFRIGERATION! Get a handy 3-lb. 
tin of Swift’ning today. It stays fresh on the 











*Swift'’ning is the 
trade-mark for Swift & 
Company's Shortening 


8 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Soaping dulls hair 
Halo glorities it! 








Not a soap, 
not a cream__ 
Halo cannot leave 
dulling, dirt-catching 
soap film! 






Gives fragrant .. 

“‘soft-water”’ lather 
—needs no 

special rinse! 








Halo leaves hair 
soft, manageable 
shining with colorful 
natural highlights! 


Removes 
embarrassing 


dandruff from both 
hair and scalp! 





Yes, “soaping”’ your hair with 
even finest liquid or oily cream 
shampoos leaves dulling, 
dirt-catching film. Halo, made 
with a new patented ingredient, 
contains no soap, no sticky oils. 
Thus Halo glorifies your hair 
the very first time you use it. 
Ask for Halo_America’s 
favorite shampoo_at any drug 
or cosmetic counter! 


Halo reveals the hidden beauty of your hair! 





(Continued from Page 6) 
waiting at that hour, and Iver had man- 
aged also to get a haircut. 

They arrived, the same smiling people, 
with their inestimable gift of taking on the 
color of their background at once, and fit- 
ting in as if they had been there for years. 
We heard the details of the drive down in 
acar with all the gear levers arranged atthe 
opposite side to which Mr. Gould was ac- 
customed, and a different side of the road 
to be driven on. However, they made it 
all in one piece. 

Iver, aged sixteen and just over six feet 
tall, and Lucille, nearly fifteen and five 
feet six, amazed them, The years between 
were those in which children change most. 
We had dinner—I suppose it could be 
called that—and then I parked them in the 
sitting room with coffee which I told Lucille 
to pour out and we left them alone. I be- 
lieve there were great reminiscences of ** Do 
you remember when I nearly set your barn 
on fire!"’ and ‘‘ When we played bowls with 
your best dinner service and you laid us 
over your knee and wielded a hairbrush!” 
and “ That picnic to the woods " and 
so on. Judging by the laughter, they had 
quite a time. All best wishes, 

RUTH DRUMMOND. 





® Both Iver and Lucille, it seems, would 


like to revisit the United States, which 
they remember with real affection and 
much laughter. ED. 


Six Bables, Trim Figure 


Elizabeth, Louisiana 

Dear Editors: We wanted children. If 
one child was so wonderful, why wouldn't 
more be more so?—so we had six. My 
husband and doctor always encouraged 
me with pep talks during the months of 
pregnancy and side line cheers during the 
hours of delivery. I felt like the hero of 
the game—bound to make a touchdown. If 
it hurt that was just part of the game. The 
tougher the going, the braver and stronger 
they told me I was, and I believed them. 
Consequently the babies were born quickly 
and normally. 

Since you have been bold enough to 
attack old wives’ tales about childbirth, 
how about publishing the truth about the 
effect of child-bearing on women’s figures? 
My waistline is only two inches larger 
than before I was married. My hip line is 
the same. Observation among my friends 
indicates that the number of children 
doesn’t affect figures as much as diet and 
exercise, Yours truly, 


MRS. C. J. PERKINS. 


Housekeeping Essentials 


Sebastopol, California 

Dear Editors: When my daughter was 

less than six years old she amused people 

by saying when she got married all she 

needed to begin housekeeping was avacuum 

cleaner and the LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL. 
Sincerely, 

MRS. W. M. ROBBINS. 


Derothy’s Private Enterprise 


The Duke's Cottage 
Rudgwick, England. 

My dear Bruce and Beatrice: Clothes 
coupons have gone at last, and with them, 
apparently, our meat ration. The butcher, 
a taciturn man, handed ours in this week 
end, saying dryly, “‘ You'll need a tele- 
scope to see it next week.’’ We don’t think 
half enough, over here, of the plight of the 
butchers. I asked mine today, ‘“*How on 
earth do you manage to pay your way 
with all this?’’—for sixpence a week from 
each customer isn’t much. *‘ We don’t,” he 
said. ‘‘ We live on love and air.’’ He isa sad 
man. One feels glad that at least he has 
love. 

Meantime I am embarking on an orgy 
of self-help. I learn that I can get a license 
to kill the long expected calf if it turns out 
to be a bull. For the first time, I hope it 
will. Furthermore, I am going to buy two 
lambs, feed them up, and then get a license 
to kill them. It seems to me that with en- 
terprise quite a bit may be achieved. I was 
told on every hand it was impossible to 
keep a cow, but it has worked. I am en- 
thralled with the idea of going round giv- 
ing away slabs of veal and mutton. Think 
of the friends I shall make if my plan 
matures. 

Love to you all, 
DOROTHY BLACK. 


a 


August, 1949 


"im a Teacher... 





| cant AFFORD 





-can you?" 


“Teaching America’s future citizens is 
mighty important work. And I don’t 
want sore feet to interfere with my 
efficiency. So I’m really happy to know 
thata... 


BLUE -JAY 
CORN PLASTER 





RELIEVES CORN PAIN 


Naturally, at the very first sign of a 
pesky corn, I apply a BLUE-Jay Corn 
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pressure pain. And what a wonderful 
thing is... 


SOOTHING NUPERCAINE* 


, ow Exclusive with BLUE-Jay, 
anesthetic Nupercaine 
. a od “as . 
Ss soothes biting surface pain 
away. Then BLUE-JAy’s 
gentle medication... 


LOOSENS HARD ‘CORE’ 


whose pressure causes harsh, 





nagging pain—you just lift 

it out in a few days! And wh 4 
BLUE-JAy is flesh-colored, ie 
waterproofed, too. A won- 
derful way to relieve corn 72% an 


- 


pain — with BLUuE-Jayr! 
Free Booklet! ‘‘Your Feet and Your 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 9 


N o, Annie doesn’t love here any more, Time 
was, when on this very bench, she and Harry, 
hovering vaguely on the fringe of an engagement, 
kissed and kissed again. Then suddenly it looked as 
though the orange blossoms and the wedding march 
were just around the corner. Now the romance was 
all over. Somehow Harry had simply eased himself 


Annie doesn’t LOVE here any more 


out of her life . . . and she didn’t know why*. 
Furthermore, she never would know. 







You may go week-in and week-out without hali- 
tosis* (unpleasant breath) and then, some day, 
when you want to be at your best, it catches up with 
you ... to put you in the worst possible light. 


The insidious thing about halitosis is that you, 
yourself, may not know when you are guilty of it 
. .. and even your best friend won’t tell you. More- 
over, it is so prevalent that anyone is likely to have 
it at some time or other. 


Smart people, popular people, won’t run such a 
risk. They never, never omit Listerine Antiseptic 
night or morning, or between times before any date. 


Freshens for Hours 


You see, Listerine Antiseptic is no makeshift meas- 
ure of momentary effectiveness. Its effects are far 
more lasting. It freshens and sweetens the breath 
. +. not for seconds .. . not for minutes... but 
for hours, usually. : 


Once again, if you want others to like you, 
never, never omit Listerine Antiseptic, the extra- 
careful precaution against offending. 


While some cases of halitosis are of systemic 
origin, most cases, say some authorities, are due to 
the bacterial fermentation of tiny food particles 
clinging to mouth surfaces. Listerine Antiseptic 
quickly halts such fermentation, then overcomes 
the odors fermentation causes, 


LAMBERT PHARMACAL COMPANY, St. Louis, Mo. 


LISTERINE ANTISEPTIC 


the extra-careful precaution against Bad Breath 





VACATIONING? Take Listerine Antiseptic along—Because of safe germi- 
cidal action, it is an efficient first-aid in cases of minor cuts, scratches and abrasions. By 


the way, it helps take the sting out of mosquito bites. 


There’s new skin beauty in 
your First Cake of Camay! 


Romance is near when your skin is soft and clear! A lovely complexion whispers: Come closer! 
Yes, and your first cake of Camay can help make your skin thrillingly lovelier. 
So give up careless cleansing—go on the Camay Mild-Soap Diet. Doctors tested Camay’s 
beauty challenge on scores of women with different types of skin. Almost all the 
women won smoother, softer complexions, each using one cake of Camay. Follow directions 


on the wrapper. Let pure, mild Camay care make you lovelier, too! 





ol eo a 








Music set the theme for the Grif 
fins’ courtship. Their romance 
grew co the strains of Chopin ar 


Liszt. And since their marriage 


Boston, where Griff is finishing 


Harvard Business Schoo! 


Hazel's beauty is an artist's dream 


But no artist could capture che 


MRS. JOHN LESLIE GRIFFIN, JR. 


lovely Camay Bride from Orange, N. J. 


bridal portraitby 77422 a 


Their first dinner guests were two 
of Griff’s classmates. Everything 
went smoothly. Hazel even baked 
a cherry pie! Griff says she’s the 
best cook in the world—and the 
prettiest wife! Her recipe for 
beauty is on the Camay wrapper. 


they ve been to many concerts in 


true softnes the exquisite glow 

of Hazel'’s Camay complexion 
She says My very /rrst cake of 
Camay showed me my skin was 
lovelier chan I'd ever imagined! 


Color on the Air 


HEN asked what he thought of television, 

Bernard Shaw is said to have replied, ‘I’m 

afraid to look.” Bernard Shaw may not have 
made this remark in the first place, but a lot of 
people have since. Many families, in localities which 
have television, have overcome this original fear, 
arranged the living-room chairs in line, and there, 
with glazed eyes, they sit all evening, not speaking 
to one another. 

Of course all those folks who are not intimately 
acquainted with Gorgeous George or Milton Berle 
don’t know what they are missing, and perhaps 
it is just as well. But all the bad jokes made about 
this new medium of family entertainment are 
mere whistling in the dark. (The man who turned 
the volume too high and John’s Other Wife 
broke through the tube, for example.) Television 
is here to stay. It’s up to the people, now, to 
adjust to it. 

There is something new at the end of the rain- 
bow—color television. For commercial purposes, 
this development is still in the experimental stages, 
but already valuable and exciting use of it has been 
made in medical teaching. In recent demonstrations 
at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital and be- 
fore the annual meeting of the American Medical 
Association, color television of surgical and other 
medical procedures has been proved a revolutionary 
new teaching aid for medical colleges. By this means 
it is possible to witness an operation while it is in 
progress, seeing the actual texture and colors of the 
exposed organs, from a vantage point hitherto 
reserved for the operating surgeon. The television 
camera, extended on a boom a few feet above the 
area of operation, sends a faithful color reproduc- 
tion which shows depth and detail not possible with 
ordinary black-and-white transmission. The equip- 
ment used in these demonstrations was developed 
by the research division of the Columbia Broad- 
casting System at the expense of Smith, Kline 
and French, Philadelphia pharmaceutical manufac- 
turers. 

This is a use for color television that even Bernard 
Shaw would approve—a truly pioneering advance in 
medical teaching. The medical world has found the 
perfect television show for its purposes. 

But it will be some time before color television 
makes its way into the American home, and it won’t 
make a bad show good. 


CS hosts and a Vision 


By DOROTHY THOMPSON 


HE French Zone of Germany is neither a political, economic 

nor historical unit,” the French functionary in military goy- 

ernment said a little wearily. “We have part of Baden, Wiirt- 
temberg, The Palatinate, the Rhineland. But the capital of Baden is 
Karlsruhe, of Wiirttemberg is Stuttgart, and both are in the Amer- 
ican Zone, and the others are divided with the British. I never could 
understand this.” 

There are many things no one can understand about the arrange- 
ments made for Germany. But what one sees is, in the first place, a 
remarkable recrudescence of the German economy, strange con- 
trasts, and a certain helplessness of the Allies, even of the Western 
Allies. For Germany is rising again—just how, to what eventual 
goal, nobody can foresee, though there are many opinions. 

The center of the French administration is Baden-Baden. The 
mere fact clothes the whole situation with strange unreality. 
Baden-Baden, before the war, was a famous international spa. It is 
a city built for the pleasure of the rich and fashionable interna- 
tional traveler. No bombs hit it. The great hotels house French 
functionaries and transient guests; the villas, French families and 
dependents. The famous rhododendron that grows to the height of 
trees embowers the city in bouquets of pink and mauve and scarlet. 
But everywhere there is a strange, secretive tension: the tension of 
the weary French watching the rise of a country they fear; the 
tension of half-triumphant Germans watching the French. 

The Germans are eager to tell their story—if they are sure no 
French are listening. ““They have cut down the Schwarzwald—the 
famous forests—you go and see it. A generation of growth is gone. 
All Europe will suffer.” 

If one—like the Germans—loves forests, one listens with a 
wince. “Only God can make a tree,” one thinks. But the thought is 
immediately corrected. ‘Whose forests do the Germans love?” one 
asks oneself. If one has just come from Greece, one’s mind is a 
little cool, for there one has seen the denuded mountains of that 
too treeless and eroded country. One remarks this, quietly, to the 
Germans, with whom one is drinking wine in a vineyard restaurant, 
and they nod gravely. But it is not of Greece one knows they are 
thinking, but of Germany. 

Among them is a very beautiful girl; she had just arrived from a 
Communist satellite state, after a considerable Odyssey, to join her 
fiancé. The young German limps; I suspect, from the way he throws 
one leg forward, that he has an artificial limb. He is a functionary, a 
German functionary, under the French. ‘““The trouble will be a 
place to live. Half our employees are separated from their families; 


Executive Editor, Mary Bass © Managing Editor, Laura Lou Brookman ¢ Associate Editors: Hugh MaeNair Kahler, 
Bernardine Kielty, Ann Batchelder, Wilhela Cushman, William E. Kink, Alice Blinn, Richard Pratt, Henrietta 
Murdock, Louella G. Shouer, Mary Lea Page, Maureen Daly, Dawn Crowell Norman, John Godfrey Morris, Joan 
Younger, Lonnie Coleman, Margaret Davidson, Nora O'Leary © Contributing Editors: Gladys. Taber, Louise Paine — 
Benjamin, Gladys Denny Shultz, Barbara Benson, Margaret. Hickey ¢ Assistant Editors: John\ Ww er, Charlotte 
Johnson, Donald Stuart, Ruth Mary Packard, Ruth Matthews; Alice Conkling, June To: Clendinning, 
Joseph Di Pietro, Anne Einsclen, Glenn Matthew White, Betty Niles Gray, Jan Weyl, Jeanne S 

Assistants: Alice Kastberg, Iris Wilken, Betty Coe, Jeanne Lenton, Tracey, Cynthia McAdoo, Eleano wnall 
Simmons, Adrina Casparian, Virginia Price, Marion Plummer, Lois Witherspoon, Philippa Herman, Jeanne Stiles, 

Elizabeth McFarland, Polly Toland, Elizabeth Crawford, Elizabeth Goetsch, Marthedith F. 5 cae 
Virginia Brown, Victoria Harris. 





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you should write about the terrible separa 
tion of families in Germany.” 

Yes, I think, probing the matter further, 
that is something to write about: the dump 
ing into Western Germany of more than 
9,000,000 persons; devastated cities, the 
lack of housing; the strictures between the 
zones; the fact that women so greatly out- 
number men that half the children of Ger 
many—it must be nearly half, at least—are 
fatherless and brought up only by thei 
mothers. 

A young woman is on hand to translate 
She wears a shabby suit with a too long 
jacket and a skirt barely reaching her knee 
which are stockingless; her feet are thrust 
into white canvas pumps. I| think of the 
brilliant shops on the Rue de Rivoli in 
Paris, and the lovely food in the restaurants 
in the Champs Elysées. My French com 
panion had said happily, ‘‘Isn’t Par ) 
traordinary? The recovery?” 

Yes, the recovery is extraordinary. But 
nevertheless I am depressed. The young 
Frenchwoman in Baden-Baden is very 
shabby indeed. She was in the French un- 
derground; forged papers aia aaa for 
Allied personnel —fiiers, intelligence agents 
Very dangerous work. So the post in 

3aden-Baden was some kind of reward; ill- 
paid, I gathered, from her dress. We stood 
together, talking, 
quaintance recognized m¢ 


when a German ac- 
and joined us, 
and she did not speak any more while he 
was there. She did not look at him with 
hostility. She did not look at him at all 

In the bar, at the International Press 
Club, we ran into som¢ 


others. Here are the Europeans, and for 
all in the same 
boat. How many are there who can pull 
themselves out and above the struggle, the 
self-pity, to see the universality of the mi 

the physical misery, the spi 
itual misery ? 


better or worse, they are 


ery Ol war 


A young woman had come from North 
Germany to meet us in Baden-Baden, ory 
her way to Italy for her first vacation since 
the war. She is a brilliant journalist, and 
was a member of the German resistance, 
and it is a miracle that she is alive 


Durinc the war,” she said, ‘‘when the 
bombs were falling, we used to meet in se- 
cret and we talked about Germany after the 
war. We believed with complete conviction 
It would 
begin at the very bottom; not with this or 
that ‘ideology,’ just with the universal rec- 
ognition of certain principles—Christian 
principles. There was going to be a rebirth 
of Christianity, not in dogma, but in 
simple purity recognition 
of everyone's duty to everybody else. De- 
mocracy meant brotherhood—sympathy 
of each with the other, We felt pity for our- 
selves, but it was lost in a greater pity, for 
the French, the Dutch, the British, the 
Russians, the Americans.” 

‘And now?” I asked 

“It is not the way we thought 
lieved,’” she said, 
her voice 


that a new world would be born 


responsibility 


and be- 
and there was misery in 
‘Our country is divided, the just 
are punished, the unjust survive, the parties 
quarrel, the old bureaucrats rule, the East 

turns communism into 


Americans. They vere —_———_—_—_—_—___s =6imperialism, the West 
officers from the Ameri- has let opportunities for 
can Zone, and one had It is never too late to give real reconciliation slide; 


the Distinguished rt 
ice Medal. He had been 
a paratrooper and in- 
troduced us to | his friend 
Jacques. ‘This is my 

“‘He was in the commandos.” 


friend,”’ he said 


Jacques was with an official French press 
service. He wore a smoked-s 
because he had only one eye, 


lass monocle, 
and he was 
cadaverous. Someone spoke of democracy. 

“Tt is all bunk,” he said in halting Eng- 
lish. ‘It is government by quarreling poli- 
ticians, each out for himself. People don’t 
want self-government; they want good 
government—leadership. One man.” 

“Heil Hitler,”’ I said quietly. 

“Why not?” he answered, his smoky 
monocle glaring in the reflected electric 
light. **Why not?” 

‘“*He is a very sick man,”’ the American 
apologized afterward. ‘‘He won’t live long 
He has TB, and wounds—internally.”’ 

Near Baden-Baden I saw a German who 
is running a youth organization. ‘French 
and German children play together here,” 
he said, showing us around an improvised 
club. ‘French families are asking us to 
send them German children for the holidays; 
we Germans—this generation—must learn 
how other people live and think. We have 
fifty offers right now for German children. 
But even more remarkable is the fact that 
French families are sending their children 
to live with German families.” 


Witu the young Frenchwoman we talked 
about England. Rebecca West and her hus- 
band had joined me in Munich and we were 
traveling together. Suddenly the young 
Frenchwoman said viciously, ““I hope you 
have seen Le Havre! How many times did 
you British bomb Le Havre?” 

“In preparation for the invasion? To 
knock out German shipping?’’ Miss West 
answered, and changed the subject. 

I thought of the grimness of life in Eng- 
land. London is not like Paris; not like 
Rome—both cities so brilliant. When you 
are determined, as the British are, to 
spread what there is around with more or 
less equal apportionment, it spreads very 
thin. I remembered that just after the war, 
when the Germans were starving, the 
British had sent food packages from their 
own meager rations. 

Perhaps, I thought, that is the very 
rarest quality: the capacity to be sorry for 


up our prejudices. 


THOREAU the youthis skeptical; the 


émigrés are disappoint- 


ees ing; and what can be the 


end of it all except an- 
other war? And that will be the end of all 
things.” 

The world doesn’t recover so quickly 
from war, I thought. People remember God 
when they face death. Then they recover 
and forget Him. 

In Mainz, on the way to Frankfurt, we 
went into Mainz Cathedral, the main parts 
of which stand intact—in the midst of utter 
ruin. It is very ancient—Romanesque—and 
of great loftiness and grandeur. In a chapel 
there is a remarkable—an unforget- 
table—Gothic sculpture. A young knight 
stands, his feet resting on nothing, as 
though lifted off the ground by some inner 
force. His hands are folded quietly, but on 
his heart rests the chalice of the Holy Grau, 
also suspended, without the support of 
human hands. The figure is absolutely 
quiet, yet as though he pushed against a 
breeze; the draperies of his garments are 
blown back to reveal the outlines of his 
slender limbs. His face is of surpassing 
beauty, though lined with inner suffering; 
the deep-set eyes reflect a vision no one 
else can see. We lingered before it, long 
and long, though we knew we should be 
pressing on to Frankfurt. 

Before we went out we passed a notice, 
telling visitors that they must not sight-see 
during a mass, nor eat or smoke in the 
cathedral, nor do this or that, and all ad- 
monitions were proper. But the notice also 
called attention to the fact that Mainz 
Cathedral was one of the greatest achieve- 
ments of German art. 

“‘Oh,”’ I thought, ‘there was no Germany 
when Mainz was built. There was only a 
Europe—in a western and Christian world. 
The youth with the suffering face and the 
vision in his eyes—who knows whether a 
Frank or a German inspired the artist? Or 
perhaps it was a youth of Flanders, or of 
England.” 

And as we left Mainz, Miss West called 
my attention to a sign on the road. It re- 
minded the passer-by of the many sov- 
ereignties which had, at one time or 
another, ruled this city. Mainz—it had also 
been Mayence. And Mainz again. Perhaps 
someday it will not matter by what name it 
is called, I thought. If there is peace for 
fifty years THE END 


7 


& 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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Billie Burke in “Annie Dear’? —1927,. 


CU nder-Coover Stal 


Ry BERNARDINE KIELTY 


ITH A FEATHER ON MY NOSE 
\\: Billie Burke’s amusing autobi- 

ography. At the age of eighteen, 
she was John Drew’s leading lady; for 
a long period she was the best-dressed, 
even if not the best, actress in New 
York, and she is still going strong. Ca- 
ruso begged her on bended knee to be 
his bride, but she preferred Flo Ziegfeld, 
whom she eventually married and lived 
with for eighteen melodramatic years. 
The other women in Ziegfeld’s life she 
made it a point never to meet—Anna 
Held, Olive Thomas, Lillian Lorraine, 
Marilyn Miller. 


There were few beauty shops before 1910, 
Billie tells us, and make-up was strictly 
home-grown. The girls used no lipstick or 
rouge at all, and the most damning thing to 
be said of a woman in those days was 
“she paints.” Billie’s maid brushed her 
hair a hundred strokes both morning and 
night, and she kept her figure by standing 









yy 
i 
Qs 


( i— 


on her head every morning—a daily ex- 
ercise which she still keeps up! 


New York City empties in Au- 
gust. The streets are lonely. But the 
great annual pilgrimage, which starts 
on August fifteenth, is not for pleas- 
ure as you may think, but for hay- 
fever relief. That’s when the thou- 
sands of sufferers make for the moun- 
tains where ragweed pollen is at a 
minimum, and fill up the hotels in 
the Adirondacks and the Catskills. 


For the unmedical-minded is a sim- 
plified book of modern instructions for 
expectant mothers, HAVING YOUR BABY, 
by Leonard H. Biskind, M.D. There 
is scarcely a technical word in it, but it 
does seem to tell all—all—from Life Be- 
gins, (0 Your Newborn Baby and Final 
Examination. (Western Journal of Sur- 

(Continued on Page 16) 


“John, your son is erying!”” 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 















iol i ~ 
| 4 C 
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ELL PINk—Here they are — AQUAMARINE- Engoy COMESPUN 
ie ee ee ihc youve MOONLIGHT YELLOW Keyjoree — Cannon Poweale bugury. These teauties 
teen wailing for! Dream soft they ne uash- fat fade- fast. Colors Hay ane whisper-sopt, famous Cannon Freabes 
Water Coles tw dream -smovth perpect through repeated washings. -now Combspun, (Fine cotton combed 
Combypun Cammow Percale ! theron, fasts prove Akal Cannon ta Heave only the long, smovth - 

Water Colors ane pact Colors: BYRD) 
f 









LAGOON GREEN Thee Common 

Water Colors ane tue pastels-debitate, 7 

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Ahalles that might have tome fom a Little more than plain white, 

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CLoUP GREY- Please your pratlical 


| Cowen 
fercale. Lhests -Now Theyie Combspune i , 


Ifo 
Percale lf 


SANNON MILLS, INC, 





CANNON TOWELS ...STOCKINGS... BLANKETS * CANNON MILLS, INC., NEW YORK 13, N. Y. 


a7 teh aA 6S 


IS CORROSION-RESISTANT 


x i a 
\ 





ZB ty 
STAINLESS STEEL IS BEAUTIFUL 


OR SCORES of household uses, nothing else can do what stainless steel 
F can do. It wilt last longer, look better, serve you more economically 
than any other material you can buy. And here’s something worth re- 
membering: you can be sure that any article of stainless steel is made of 
good stainless steel if it carries the U-S-S trade-mark! 


This label ia. your quide to quality 
Stainless Stael | 


The U-S:S label at the left is one of a 
family of U-S-S labels. Some say “Pre- 
mier Spring Wire,” or “Vitrenamel” or 
just “Steel” ... but all have the big 
letters U-S-S prominently displayed. 
Whenever you see these letters U-S-S 
—the trade-mark of United States Steel 
—you know the steel is good. 








Listen to . . . NBC Symphony Orchestra, pre- 
sented every Sunday evening by United 
States Steel. National Broadcasting Com- 
pany, coast-to-coast network, Consult your 
newspaper for time and station, 


Subsidiaries: AMERICAN BRIDGE COMPANY * AMERICAN STEEL & WIRE COMPANY * CARNEGIE-ILLINOIS STEEL CORPORATION 

COLUMBIA STEEL COMPANY * CONSOLIDATED WESTERN STEEL CORPORATION - CYCLONE FENCE DIVISION 

GERRARD STEEL STRAPPING COMPANY NATIONAL TUBE COMPANY OIL WELL SUPPLY COMPANY 

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UNITED STATES STEEL SUPPLY COMPANY * UNIVERSAL ATLAS CEMENT COMPANY 












St Ove ant 


eS Boe 1 fe ee 


(Continued from Page 14) 
gery Publishing Co., Portland, Oregon, 
$2.50.) 
es 


JESSE JAMES WAS My NEIGHBOR, 
by Homer Croy, is a recent Western 
contribution. It’s first-rate, as is any 
book by Homer Croy, salty-humorous, 
filled with horse sense, and genuinely 
foolproof American. 


“T grew up in the shadow of the late 
Missourian,’ Mr. Croy says about Jesse 
James, “and have known members of his 
family all my life. I talked to them and lo 
the old-timers and dug out the story, as 
you would a hill of potatoes with a hoe. 
The old-timers are passing; so I do feel, 
honestly and sincerely, that I am passing 
along America’s greatest lale of banditry 
and folklore.” 

es 


Someone stole a golf green one day 
in odd theft. The thief 


cut up the expensive sod around the 


this summer. 


cup of No. 5 green at the Warner Val- 
ley Golf Club, and hauled it away, 
leaving the cup. 


WOMEN ARE HERE TO STAY 1s won- 
derful! A combination of all your old- 
time album pictures, ma’s old photo- 
graphs, Sunday-supplement pictures of 
the elegance of Newport and Fifth Ave- 


3 on, bicy- 


nue, fashion styles from 187: 
cling in the ’90’s, autoing in the early 


1900’s, croquet in lawn-sweeping skirts, 


CULVER GEAVICE 





Fun for schoolteachers in the ’90’s. 


and on down to skiing, high-powered 
tennis and flying. Don’t pick this book 
up if you have anything else to do. 
Take a solid hour and a half out of 
your life and have a real good time! 


Not long back an old miner from 
the Yukon came down to New York 
to see the sights. He was one of the 
1898’ers and had been living in the 
Yukon forty-four years in a town of 
thirty-nine men and one woman, 
with the only liquor store forty miles 
away. Now he was through. It took 
him twenty hours to get to New York 
as compared with the six months to 
go to Dawson when he first joined the 
Gold Rush. Among his friends of the 
old days were Jack London, Rex Beach 
and Robert Service. His whole idea 
now is to sell his claim and take a trip 
around the world. He is 71. 

e 


Here is an item that should help put us 
in our place: on December 7, 1947, astrono- 
mers reported the explosion of a star—an 
explosion that had the force of a billion 
Hiroshima-type atom bombs. It made, 
however, only a twenty-minute flare-up 
on earth. The explosion occurred six years 
ago and the star was one of a pair of stats 
believed to be nearest the earth. The other 
star is Alpha Centauri, and is four and 

(Continued on Page 18) 








ew@wrrs of ee 


different! 
delicious! 


COCOANUT SUNDAE 


1 can Ten-B-Low 
1!4 cups water 
2 usps. vanilla 


1 cup moist, 
finely grated 
cocoanut 


(makes 1 quart of cocoanut ice cream) 


1. Set refrigerator control to coldest 
temperature. 


2. Place Ten-B-Low in mixing bowl 
and gradually add water and vanilla. 
Mix thoroughly. 


3. Pour into freezing way and freeze 
until entire mixture is frozen. You need 
only add water and flavoring to Ten-B- 
Low because each can contains all the 
sugar, heavier-than-whipping cream, 
milk and egg yolks necessary for extra- 
rich ice cream. 


4. Break up and spoon frozen Ten-B- 
Low into mixing bowl. Whip to consist- 
ency a little softer than creamy mashed 
potatoes. Stir in 1/4, cup cocoanut. 


5. Return to freezing tray and freeze. 
Sprinkle with grated cocoanut before 
serving. That's all there is to it... 
nothing to add but flavoring and the 
water we've removed! Ten-B-Low is 
NOT a powder, NOT a so-called 
“‘mix,’’ NOT a gelatin, but genuine 
ice cream in heavy concentrated form. 
Get several cans of Ten-B-Low today! 










free 20 delicious reci- 


pes, including many unu- 
sual and easy-to-make 
desserts. Just write Sally 
Ross, Ten-B-Low Com- 
pany, Department B-98, 
Columbus 16, Ohio. 


\<w 


Tend low 





CONCENTRATED REAL ICE CREAM 





‘ 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL* 


WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE 


P Hamp 
y Urger wi < 
© oe flavor twist. ae he-man” 
ated onic * teaspoon 
} f °n to each t 
= 7 Pa Ms ine ot tened but pe 
: 4 { ¢ * 
é 






- 
D 






oe 







o 
(or ma 
a ad— 
anut butter white chop 
Pean ¢ enric oon finely ess 
slices OF . kl ablesP for its erispne” 
trick: Beg ae xt putter oT separately 
t e yap 1 d - 1 pic 
ery on ttuce “ ich a t PP 
want let va the sa BE SHO Gig 
aper and act talente Atlantye es 
pap «Beautiful d eer 
18 crow 


Munchy slices of fresh, flavory bread for sand- 
wiches . . . hamburger buns and wiener rolls to 
toast over the campfire coals ...why that’s where 
picnics begin! And the eating’s mighty good. 
But see those flags! Modern enriched. ggeads and 
a flour are a real storehouse of nutrients we need 
Frizzle slices of cooked ham in hot butter every day to keep healthy and trim. So pack lots 
or margarine, adding 1% teaspoons of of that 6-way nourishment in your picnic basket. 
Benes Prepared horseradish to each 2 “IS BREAD FATTENING?” Not a bit more 
tablespoons of butter or margarine. Place 
the ham between slices of enriched white 
bread witha slice of cheese and crisp lettuce. 


*FIBBER McGEE & MOLLY, stars of Johnson’s 
Wax program, back on NBC in September. 


so than any other food of equal energy content. 
Nutritionists point out that the carbohydrates of 
bread are easily converted into energy which is 
then used by the body as needed. 


VEE EAL FE OUR IN SI TO TE, 


ane Koovevclti fasnite del: THIAMINE 


: To help build and 
US iliac on a roll, maintain healthy 
© Wife of our late body tissues 


(Vitamin B1) For 
ets ala ete 
normal appetite 


Z her Picnics, NIACI | nd BOFLAVIN 


Helps keep tissues 
hau 
prevent pellagra 


Photo by 
Pach ss 
PNM laa 

vitamin for 


children’s growth 





eon carat in 


proper weight | rte ai uC A 
and vitality yyy Milt le 
edi 


r / 
Ad J 


Copr. 1949 by y 

Flour Institute 

Jackson Blvd : A 
6, 











Theres @-way nourishment in — ‘y 


ENRICHED BREADand FLOUR 










18 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





~4 Read your book... eat your candy 
, 
i You can still make dinner dandy! 


€ 


Serve Kraft Dinner 


MAKE DELICIOUS MACARONI-AND-CHEESE 
IN JUST 7 MINUTES! 


Relax, lady, relax! With Kraft Dinner on hand, 
you walk—not run—to the kitchen. For here is a 
hearty main dish that’s done in a flash. You see, 
Kraft’s very special macaroni cooks tender and 
fluffy in just 7 short minutes. And good Kraft 
Grated is added in mere seconds. (Both ingredients 
come in the same package.) 

Try Kraft Dinner tonight... and keep some extra 


packages around for just such occasions as this. 






Costs only pennies 
a serving 





(Continued from Page 16) 
a half light-years away. We're a lilile lale 
in retailing this, but it really doesn'l 
matter, Maybe in early 1954 we'll learn 
thal Alpha Centauri exploded today. 


THE MAN WHO MADE FRIENDS 
Wirt HIMSELP, by Christopher Mor- 
ley, is a very special novel, because it is 
about Christopher Morley himself, who 
is a very special kind of person. “In a 
time when all of us are destroying our 
very souls that we may resemble each 
other, ’’writes Clifton Fadiman, “‘ Mor- 
ley, in his odd and quiet way, prefers to 
play his own instrument, no matter how 
poorly it suits with the brazen music 
of the Twentieth Century Band.” 


CULVER SERVICE 





Christopher Morley 


MR. PRESIDENT... . How Is Your 
Heavru? by Karl C. Wold, M.D., is 
fascinating. Not only symptoms, but 
symptoms in the great! Here we have 
the physical life story of every one of the 
Presidents, with some of their emotional 
upsets. 


The fact that George Washington 
lived to the age of 67, after years of 
hard fighting in the wilderness and 
equally hard fighting in government, 
unhappy in his home, and the vietim 
of innumerable infectious diseases, 
is a mark of his greatness. Nothing 
but will power could have got him 
through. He had diphtheria (“black 
canker”), smallpox, pleurisy, dysen- 


tery, malaria (“‘agues and fever”), 
pneumonia, bursitis (““rheumatism”’), 
dental ending up 


with a set of false teeth which did not 


terrible trouble, 


fit. His death, over which there was 
much scandal at the time, is now re- 
garded as ‘‘strep throat,”” and may 
have been hastened by excessive blood- 
letting. In thirteen hours, the doctors 
took nearly three quarts of blood! 


James Monroe and Thomas Jefferson 
and John Adams all died on July 4th. 
Millard Fillmore was the first President 
to install a bathtub; James Buchanan 
had a tragic romance from which he 
never fully recovered; Lincoln had 
corns and calluses, besides everything 
else; Coolidge averaged nine hours of 
sleep each night and took an afternoon 
nap of from two to four hours. 


There is a tradition that Presidents 
elected at twenty-year intervals die in 
office. These Presidents and the years 
in which they were elected are: Wil- 
liam Henry Harrison—1840; Abraham 
Lincoln—1860: James A. Garfield— 
1880 William McKinley—1900:Warren 
G. Harding—1920; Franklin D. Roose- 
velt—1940. (Had Willkie been elected, 
the year would also have been 1940.) 


One of the most engaging of the 
current Western books is APRON FULL 
oF GOLD, the letters of Mary Jane 
Megquier from San Francisco, 1849— 
1856. Mrs. Megquier had her troubles, 
but how she took to the life! For one 

(Continued on Page 21) 


~~ 


Auguet, 1949 


CHAMPIONS 
START YOUNG! 





RANDY AND JEFF KELTNER, Milwau- 
kee, Wisc., are full-time baseball fans. 
Even play miniature baseball at home in 
the evening! They inherit this enthus- 
iasm from their father. He is star third 
baseman for Cleveland Indians. 


. * - 


RS. KELTNER already has her young 

“future champions” eating like cham- 
pions. Wheaties for the whole family at 
breakfast! Her athlete husband has eaten 
this famous training dish for 13 years. 





Real nourishment in Wheaties! Seven im- 
portant food values in these 100% whole 
wheat flakes. Three B vitamins; calcium, 
phosphorus, iron; proteins and food 
energy. It’s smart to start children 


young on Wheaties. Second-helping 
good, with milk and fruit. Serve Wheaties 
tomorrow. ‘‘Breakfast of Champions’’! 


“Wheaties” and “Breakfast of Champions” are trade marks of 


General Mills. 


y 


¥ 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


TREAT THEM TO FLORIDA 


BETTER FOR THEM—When the young crowd gathers at your 
house, serve them ice-cool Florida Orange Juice—Grapefruit 
Juice—or Blended Orange-Grapefruit! While they're enjoying 
these flavor-favorites, they're getting valuable vitamin C and 
other health-giving elements that are good for them! 

CHEAPER FOR YOU~—TTotal up the difference in cost between 
these healthful fruit juices and bottled drinks! Florida canned 
citrus juices are joyously inexpensive—actually cost less than 





YOUR BEST BUY IN GOOD-HEALTH— 
GOOD-FUN DRINKS! 


CANNED CITRUS JUICES 


FLORIDA CITRUS COMMISSION, LAKELAND, FLORIDA 





CITRUS JUICES INSTEAD: 


they did 5 years ago. That makes them just about the cheapest 
beverage you can serve! 

MORE FUN FOR ALL—Dad, Mother, and youngsters all have 
more fun when everything’s informal and easy! Florida canned 
Orange Juice, Grapefruit Juice, and Blended Orange-Grapefruit 
Juice store easily on shelves, cool quickly in the icebox—pour 
straight from the can. No bottles to break or return—no caps 


on the floor—no fuss, no bother! 





2U LADIES’ TOME JOURNAL August, 1949 


tests in Prominent Hospitals show... 


ergens Lotion 


is definitely superior care for Baby's Sk 





Tests began immediately after birth. For hindvede Leading baby doctors supervised the tests. Results Actually 5 times better than any of the usual hospital 
of babies, the only skin-care used during their entire from Jergens Lotion care were compared with the cares tested! Jergens Lotion gave far better protec- 
stay in the hospital was regular Jergens Lotion. results of usual skin-cares used in hospitals, tion against rashes and skin irritation! 


Proved 5 times better than usual hospital skin-care! 


Jergens Lotion gives 





Test after test proyed this amazing fact: Jergens .rgens Lotion to give baby’s delicate skin a proven oe : . 
p g ] e if 5 ene ae aicrietens Mein ote inet! oy ~ definitely superior protection 
Lotion is by far superior care for baby’s skin! It pro- superior care! And here’s an extra protection for 
tects better against rashes and irritation... actually baby. Jergens Lotion is sterile and does not Support against rashes, 
5 times better than usual skin cares used in most erowth of infe ‘cting germs! : . 
Foaieael \ : chafing, prickly heat. 
Be So delightful to use! After bathing baby, at diaper- 
Now mothers who know how wonderfully Jergens ing, smooth on Jergens Lotion all over. Note how 
Lotion smooths and softens, can use this same quickly baby’s skin absorbs gentle, softening Jergens 






Lotion. It never leaves skin (or your hands!) unpleas- 
antly greasy or oily! Use regular Jergens Lotion for a 


MACATING 








hospital-proven superior care of baby’s skin. Still 
only 10¢ to $1.00, plus tax. 






op maar By - 






ADVERTISED 


AMERICAN MEDICAL 
ASSOCIATION 
PUBLICATIONS 


Jergens Lotion... your skin-care... 
perfect for baby too! 







45 aoveanseo HS 


Choose the creme shampoo 
beauticians use most... For 
glowing hair, mist-soft ... 


dazzling clean, obedient 


..- dandruff-free, film-free 





A- 
creme shampoo 


rich in emulsified lanolin 





Why pay a dollar for 4 ounces? 
Get this giant 8 ounce jar! 


twice as $ 
much for... 


Pinartoed oy 
‘ Housekeeping (Large Reg. Size, 60c) 


* 
45 ameter OSS 


for 


AT BEAUTY SALONS, DRUG, DEPT. STORES 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 18) 
thing, she ran a boardinghouse, which 
she describes in a letter back home to 
Maine. 


**T should like to give you an account 
of my work if I could do it justice,” 
she writes in 1850. ““By seven o’clock I 
get up and make the coffee, then I 
make the biscuit, then I fry the po- 
tatoes then broil three pounds of steak, 
and as much liver, at eight the bells 
rings and they are eating until nine. I 
do not sit until they are nearly all 
done. I try to keep the food warm and 
in shape as we put it on in small quan- 
tities. After breakfast I bake six loaves 
of bread, then four pies, or a pudding 
then we have lamb, for which we have 
paid nine dollars a quarter, beef, and 
pork, baked, turnips, beets, potatoes, 
radishes, sallad, and that everylasting 
soup, every day, dine at two, for tea 
we have hash, cold meat bread and 
butter sauce and some kind of cake 
and I have cooked every mouthful 
that has been eaten excepting one day 
and a half that we were on a steam- 
boat excursion. I make six beds every 
day and do the washing and ironing 
you must think that I am yery busy 
and when I dance all night I am 
obliged to trot all day and if I had not 
the constitution of six horses I should 
have been dead long ago but I am go- 
ing to give up in the fall whether or no, 
as I am sick and tired of work.”’ 


If you want to know what makes your 
child so pesky, or yourself so irritable, or 
the whole family life so far from your 


Side Glances 


By Galbraith 





COPR. 1947 BY NEA SERVICE, INC. T. M. REG. U. 8. PAT. OFF. 
“Have you a good book on psy- 
chology? I want to find out what’s 
the matter with my parents.’ 


young dreams, you might take a look 
into a very shrewd little pamphlet: Do 
Cows HAVE NEUROSES?, by June 
Bingham. It is written, not by a 
psychiatrist, but by a housewife, the 
young mother of four children, who felt 
that the professional jargon of psychi- 
atry and mental hygiene was difficult 
to understand, and set out to explain it 
in terms ‘comprehensible to anyone. It 
is written for laymen by a layman, and 
has been carefully checked by several of 
America’s leading psychiatrists. (Men- 
tal Hygiene Association of Westchester 
County, White Plains, New York. 15 
pages. 25 cents.) 
® 


South Congregational Church, on 
the edge of a Negro distriet in Chicago, 
is a church that lives up to its pre- 
cepts. Five years ago, as we under- 
stand it, the congregation was white. 
When Nisei were settled in the neigh- 
borhood, many were welcomed into 
membership, and many Negroes fol- 
lowed. Church leaders, teachers and 
choir have now become mixed, we 
hear, as have the youth and men’s or- 
ganizations. No quota system for dis- 
tribution of offices is used, nor is it an 
“interracial project.”’ Itis, the church 
says, just a fellowship of Christians. 


“Childh 





When a youngster’s upset by 


ood Constipation” 





“It's a laxative made especially for infants 
and children... children of all ages.” 


HEN your child frets and fusses 

...-when she’s cross because of 
“Childhood Constipation”’. . . it’s 
wise to know what to do. Give her 
Fletcher’s Castoria. 


Thorough and effective—yet so gen- 
tle, it won’t upset sensitive diges- 
tive systems. 


Made especially for children — con- 
tains no harsh drugs, will not cause 
griping or discomfort. 


So pleasant-tasting — children love 
it and take it gladly without any 
struggle. 


Tether 


The original and genuine 


CASTORIA na 


Get Fletcher’s Castoria at your drug- 
store today. Be sure you see the green 
band and the Charles H. Fletcher 
signature on the package—then you 
will know that what you are getting 
is the original and genuine. 






Ake bottorn of the bottle. This does not attect 


Mical compound and ke othor preparations 
oduct in any way. Shake well betore using. 


CBU 





ctable pharma: 
1 a Sediment in 


= 
w 

Fy 
_ 











Ciro eae re ceep 
With a simple bit of meat 
your kitchen you can get ( 
ferent fresh-cooked meals 
a thrifty way to get greater vari 












YeUM RCL Mm’ 
Maen tae CC Cy 
use for meal number 
one. Cut this boneless 
meat into cubes for a 


Cut a piece from the 
Oe ae MO tT ag 
pot roast. It will be 
thick—for best results 
in cooking, and easy 





beef and _ vegetable 
ae 


1 BEEF STEW 


Vaal 








These days when you buy a large cut of meat, plan to spread it over more of the week’s 
TC OME CR e RCC Ream Oem Meteo e mh et tame Crm tlc -< seppliabland 
DCCA oe a dees AS RUE CR om -yarrotade 4 
the essential nourishment all meat supplies—body-building protein, essential B vita- oa Mo Cores 


o ] s ri bi ad 
mins, important minerals—iron, copper, phosphorus. | ee ae # 
P. S. Mustrated booklet, showing six “thrifty use” ideas like this, yours for 5¢ in coin sent to Box 1133, Chicago 77. _ cee Chicago * Members throughou 
















om 


= > 





0 fit 2 » - . | ci a pe >) A. ms 2.) J LS eee eee ‘7 eM 


There’s a Man in the House 





By Harlan Miller 


Youcan’tstopa fortyishman from showing off 
his youth to the girls, with a backward flipflop off 
the diving board at the country club, (Not even if 
his wife tells him he hasn’t exactly the figure for it.) 


Sa 


Why do children you see in distant neighbor- 
hoods seem such innocent cherubs, while your 
own block breeds little demons fraught with 
menace? After all, they can’t hurt your place much 
if it’s built of concrete blocks surrounded by a tall 
electrified fence. 


> > 


The man next door is now the most popular man 
with the cherubs in our block. He made good by 
putting on a bathing suit on a warm evening and let- 
ting the kids squirt him with the garden hose. (I 
wouldn't stoop so low unless I'd thought of it first.) 


> > 


I never feel more like an enraged cave man than 
when the water Suddenly turns scalding hot while 
I’m in the shower. My first impulse: to denounce the 
culprit who turned on the cold water. My second: to 
ring a warning bell when I take a bath. 


$2 oir 


The man next door confides he has a flawless tech- 
nique for regaining his wife’s good graces after he’s 
been out of line at a party: in the bedtime post-mor- 
tem he agrees volubly with her that the prettiest 
woman present behaved like a silly fool. 


vs 


A few nervous husbands in our town are afraid 
housework will come to a standstill when we get tele- 
vision. After all, a wife can do her chores while not 
listening to the radio programs she keeps turned on. 


ne 


Our nine-year-old has a healthy suspicion of 
adult trickery. “What’s that thing for?” he de- 
manded when the nurse wrapped a cloth around 
his arm, at his annual physical exam, and began to 
inflate it. 

“To take your blood pressure,” she explained. 
“You can’t kid me!” he protested, “It’s a lie 
detector!” 


My wife has conceded a point: she says I’m en- 
titled to complain about the grocery bill, or the ac- 
cumulated leftovers in the icebox, or mention my 
fears that food is being wasted—but only on days 
when I take her downtown to dinner. 


> <+ 


Junior can’t make up his mind what he wants to 
study in college. But he is farsighted about one 
thing: he now reserves the family car for important 
dates as long as six weeks in advance. Gets a 

5 ee ”° 
quicker “yes” that way. 


2 Se 


“When I tell my husband it’s time to mow the 
lawn,” says Betty Comfort, exiling a too-purple pe- 
tunia to the back fence, ““he argues it ought to go to 
seed. But when I start to struggle dramatically with 
the lawn mower, thank goodness he’s chivalrous 
enough to grab it from me!” 


> > 


In our town the flight from the harem continues 
triumphant. Matrons who used to criticize a woman 
who invited a man in for a cup of tea now ask an 
old flame in for midmorning coffee with unfluttered 
aplomb. (No ruling yet from kmily Post.) 


So 


When I recognize some of my tools in a neigh- 
bor’s garage I usually seem more embarrassed than 
he does. Perhaps I'll have to be psychoanalyzed for 
a guilt complex after all. 


> <> 


Our daughter (somewhat to my consterna- 
tion) has announced firmly that she intends to 
learn to cook this summer. 

“Have you run across a strong, handsome can 
opener?” I inquired frivolously. 

“You can go on a diet, daddy, * she retorted. 


> + 


I’ve been flabbergasted by our young gest’s conten- 
tion that it isn’t fair to reprove him for doing something 
Thaven’t told him not to do. So we have a new pact: 
when he’s about to do something he knows I wouldn't 
want him to do, he’s to come to me and ask permission. 
and I'll tell him not to do it. 


“To hear me tell it,”’ confesses Peter Comfort, 
shooing a stray cherub off the top of his convertible, 
“T love all children. But I'm just a big liar. Some of 
“em in our neighborhood couldn't terrify me more if 
they carried a Tommy gun.” 


re 


It took twelve years to get a potato pancake 
im my own house, and now it looks like another 
twelve-year crusade before I get hash for break- 
fast. Calvin Coolidge could get hash for breakfast 
in the White House, but I’ve had to go as far as 
Florida! (Yet never a direct refusal!) 


Sa 


I don’t know whether the young read Kinsey, 
but since I read his book I’ve had to smother a recur- 
rent impulse to ask Junior to tell me all about sex. 


aah nts 


You never know a man’s true mettle until you 
see him play The Game. The acid test: make him aet 
out a song title like The Monkey's Serenade and see 
if (1) he’ ll prance around your living room like 
a marmoset, or (2) portray it with sheer intellect. 


Se ee 


My wife divides into two groups our friends 
who're affluent enough to send their young off to 
summer camps: (1) those who say it’s so good for 
the children, and (2) those who admit they can't 
face the summer with their darlings at home. 


> > 


When you encounter your wife accidentally 
downtown and are agog at how pretty she looks .. . 
when you find Junior at sixteen years reading late in 
bed a book you read all night whe *n you were twenty- 
six... when your small one discerns that the stern 
tantrum you put on for his benefit is partly spurious, 
and jollies you out of it... when you discover acci- 
dentally that your daughter has pasted in her 
memory book a note you wrote her... when your 
husband confesses in a burst of candor that he 
values your judgment and relies on it even when 
he argues stubbornly against it. . . then you won- 
der why you've never put your marriage certificate 
in a silver frame, or maybe gold. 











| aA fo.” 
as” y 





\ 
1 | 


f ZB / ) ‘<< r 


7 


I’m irresistibly tempted to imprint a surprise 
male touch on my wife’s little formal garden. But 
I'm torn between shocking her with lowbrow 
hollyhocks or wowing her waitll a pair of elegant 
espaliered pear trees, “flat against the garden wall. 


23 
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Maeve in a portrait pose. But when she gets excited, 


Auguat, 1949 





she is suddenly all Irish and wild as an autumn storm. 


Diary of F Pomesticity 


Ry GLADYS TABER 


HE life of Maeve is complicated by the 

fact that She is the only Irish setter we 

have. She tries half the time to be a 

cocker spaniel, making herself small 
on window sills andim slipper chairs. She 
rolls her large self into a ball and bounces on 
the cockers hoping they will not notice how 
big she is and will play games with her. 
Squeak, says Little Sister, as Maeve lands 
on her. 

Then she goes over to hunt woodchucks 
with Shep, and I see them going down the 
road after George’s truck, and Maeve is 
busily being a German shepherd. She holds 
her tail the way Shep does, in a curve, and 
she tries to run with that slinking motion 
correct for shepherds. She makes her legs 
a little stiff. and leans her head forward. 

But when she gets excited, she is suddenly 
all Irish, graceful as the spring wind, wild as 
an autumn storm, loving as an old ballad. 
Watching her behavior, I am minded to 
think that if we could somehow have play 
groups for children of all nationalities, say 
for a month a year, in different countries, 
and do it with all the energy with which we 
work on new atom bombs, we might close 
down the bomb factories for good. The chil- 
dren would imitate one another, yet not lose 
their individual race characteristics. They 
would be friends, companions. 

The foreign-student programs we do 
have are the best bid we are currently mak- 
ing for peace, and we make it a little late. 
when the students have their politics all 
sewed into the linings of their wallets. We 
should take the teen-agers. 

Now August comes with a dreamy haze 
of heat. This is the traditional vacation 
time of Americans. Generally it is the time 


mother works hardest. First she packs the. 


suitcases, gets the clothes ready for the 
family, disposes of the last dab of butter, de- 
frosts the refrigerator and closes up the 
house. If the family goes to the cottage, she 
has the opening up at the other end, and the 
unpacking. If it is an auto trip, she can al- 
ways pack and unpack every night. 


A good many women complain about this 
state of things and indulge in a martyr feel- 
ing. They shouldn't. For what really is bet- 
ter than being the hub of a wheel? Every 
little nagging chore that means more fun for 
the family is worth it. My own mother 
worked like a stevedore when we took our 
vacations in the days of flat tires every 
ten miles. Taking a rest with father was 
like idling in a cage of lions. 

So when we got home from a jaunt, 
mamma would look around her house with 
a satisfied sigh and remark, ‘‘ My, it looks 
nice right at home.”’ And maybe that is the 
real purpose of a vacation anyway, to make 
home look even better. 

Travel has always appealed to me. I 
would love to go to the Virgin Islands, or 
Tahiti or Hawaii, provided I could get 
home by night. When I do go away, I have 
a wonderful time every minute all day long, 
but around suppertime I am homesick 
with an awful deadly homesickness. I just 
get to thinking about the way the light di- 
minishes over the meadow, and the sound of 
the cows coming down the lane, and the way 
a spaniel nose feels coming soft to the hand. 
And where, I ask myself, can I find treasure 
better than that in my home place? 

The thing about country living is that 
there is always something special going on. 
In August, the gladioli—we no longer 
grow our own, for a very nice Englishman 
down the road raises all the best and most 
glamorous ones. I love to ride over to Mr. 
Sears’ house and go down into the cool dim 
cellar, visit with Mrs. Sears, and dazzle my 
sight with buckets and buckets of frosty 
white, smoky purple, seashell pink, honey 
yellow, sunset copper. Mrs. Sears has a table 
piled with deep purple eggplant, and she 
gives me a couple. I hesitate with delicious 
slowness over Duna and Mother Machree 
and Joan of Arc, and then I go out into the 
hot white light with my arms filled. When I 
get home I find I have an extra half dozen 
that I didn’t pay for. 

(Continued on Page 144) 


” 


Ta aa 





ane Tt 


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26 


y aking 


Orr ALE Work 


By CLIFFORD fh. ADAMS 


Ph.D, Pennsylvania State College, 


! department of Psychology 


Mil ling CmMdingers WUD, LYE HOVE Mh CH4 


merely WIM NG Ll wild by Cf IOs 


The Late Divorce 


DWARD and Margaret had been married nearly 
twenty-five years. Margaret considered the 
union both happy and successful. She took 

pride in their four grown children, in her husband’s 
excellent position, and in her own position in the com- 
munity. Though Edward’s work took him away from 
town frequently, she hardly missed him, for her time 
was fully occupied with community undertakings and 
social activities. It never occurred to her that any- 
thing was lacking in their relationship, or that her 
aversion to sex might hurt, then alienate, her husband. 

But when the children were self-sufficient, Edward 
decided to share his life with a woman who would put 
him first. He told Margaret that her reserve and indif- 
ference had killed his love years ago, and he now 
wanted a divorce. Instead of pleading for a chance to 
try to save their marriage, she sought to force him to 
abandon his plan. She berated him to their friends, de- 
manded that his superior intercede, and completely 
alienated him. Now they are divorced, and Margaret’s 
only refuge is self-pity. 

As the marriage counselor knows all too well, in- 
stances of late divorce are becoming increasingly com- 
mon. Though the likelihood of divorce is greatest 
in the first five years of marriage, since 1940 there 
has been an accelerating trend toward divorce among 
couples married ten or fifteen years, or even longer. 
What is more, current evidence indicates that the 
divorce rate among mature couples is still mounting. 

And late divorce poses special and tragic problems 
for the husband and wife concerned, since they are 
less adaptable than younger people, either to a single 
life or to a second marriage. The adjustment to a late 
divorce is usually harder for a woman than for a man. 

The middle-aged wife who toys with the idea of a 
divorce will do well to ask herself if she really wants 
one. Could she be happy living alone? If not, can she 
be sure of finding another husband? And even if she 
can, will she be happier with him than with the first? 

Perhaps you know you don’t went a divorce, now or 
later. Can you be sure your husband is equally con- 
tent with things as they are? The wife who regards 
each day with her husband as a fresh challence to her 
imagination, her insight and understanding stands a 
far better chance of preserving her marriage than the 
wife who assumes it will last forever. Check yourself 
on these points: 


© Do you continue to show your husband that he is per- 
sonally necessary to your happiness, now as in the early 
days of your marriage? Let him know he comes first 
with you, ahead of relatives and friends, household 
responsibilities and outside activities, even of children. 


© Do you feel that, after so many years together, the sex 
relationship is no longer important? If so, you are mak- 
ing a mistake. Though sexual activity diminishes with 
the years, the sex relationship is an integral part of 
marriage, in maturity as in youth. Many a wife dur- 
ing menopause has lost her husband because she be- 
lieved otherwise. 


© Do you conserve his strength? His energies and yours 
diminish with age; but while he works as hard as ever, 
the demands on your physical strength decline as the 
children become self-sufficient, and as you have more 


money for household conveniences and outside help. 
Did you have an afternoon nap? Remember he did not, 
before insisting that he take you out for the evening. 
© Do you identify yourself with your husband? When 
the children were young, this was often difhieult. But 
now is your chance to return with your husband to 
that close unity of spirit which satisfies the intense hu- 
man desire for belongingness. 

Are you helping him provide for your old age? 
Though the husband earns the money, the wife often 
determines the scale of living and the rate of spending. 
As a wife who wants her marriage to be a truly happy 
one, you will try not to let current demands interfere 
with adequate provision for the future. 


Most of these factors in late divorce can be just as 
much a husband’s responsibility as a wife’s. The fact re- 
mains that most late divorces are sought by husbands 
rather than wives. You have more to lose by divorce 
than he. If you sense any weakening of your: marriage 
ties, try to find out what rather than who is responsible. 


How Not to Get a Husband 


ESPITE the high divorce rate, marriage as a 
way of life continues to be attractive to most 
people. Women generally regard marriage and 

a home as the foundation of happiness, and the single 
girl, career-minded or not, usually takes it for granted 
that someday she will find a husband. 





Are You Worth Dating? 


Though these questions concern single girls, they 
can be adapted to married women too. Wives of happy 
husbands will make a good score! 


1. Do you enjoy sports and outdoor activities? 
2. Are you punctual about keeping engage- 
ments? 
3. Do you enjoy an occasional date at home? 
4. Can you have a good time almost anywhere? 
5. Are you often complimented on your per- 
sonal appearance? 
6. Do you really like men? 
7. Areyou usually cheerful and good-humored? 
8. Do your parents cordially weleome your 
friends? 
9. Are you an affectionate and friendly person? 
10. Do you get along well with most people? 
11. Are you in good health—free from physical 
defects? 
12. Do you value and merit a man’s good opin- 
ion? 
13. Are you popular with girls of your own age? 
14. Is it easy for you to show your appreciation? 
15. Are you a happy and contented person? 
16. Do you feel superior to most men you meet? 
17. Are you timid, nervous or easily upset? 
18. Is your behavior ever boisterous or incon- 
siderate? 
19. Do you ever 
men? 
20. ts your manner reserved or standoffish? 


**shock,”’ tease, or “‘deflate”’ 


Credit one point for each yes answer to Questions 
1-15 and each no answer to the last five questions. With a 
score of 16 or more you are in an enviable position if men 
are not too scarce. A score of 13-15 is average, but with a 
score of 12 or less, you need luck, unless men are plentiful. 


Yet many girls make no plan for promoting this 
event, leaving to happy coincidence the matter of 
meeting and attracting a suitable man. For some girls, 
many of whom would make good wives and mothers, 
the coincidence never eventuates. 

Here are some of the distinguishing characteristics 
of the girl least likely to marry: 


® She doesn’t bother about her appearance for ordi- 
nary occasions, such as going to the office, to classes 
ora round of errands, and so looks considerably less 
than her best most of the time. 


® She fails to promote opportunities to meet men, 
even passing up an invitation to a mixed party if she 
has a previous engagement with other girls. 


® Knowing little and caring less of masculine inter- 
ests and pursuits, she finds it hard to carry on a 
conversation with any male, whether he is a potential 
husband or not. 


® She is unsure of herself. Regarding herself as unat- 
tractive to men, she actually helps to make herself so, 
for she cannot attain the serenity and repose of man- 
ner which men generally like. 

Any of these traits is a considerable handicap. But a 
girl may have none of them, and still interfere with her 
own chances of finding a husband if she: 


© Wastes time regretting or trying to revive a ro- 
mance which has ended. 


® Is too exacting in her requirements. 


® Is too obviously and too aggressively seeking a hus- 
band. Many an attractive, lively and talented young 
woman frightens off potential suitors by making it ap- 
parent on first meeting that she has just one object— 
matrimony. 


So much for what not to do. How can a girl reverse 
the procedure? Here are a few simple suggestions: 


1. Form the habit of making the most of your looks 
on all occasions. Adapt your costume to the circum- 
stances, but always attend to grooming, to hair style, 
to make-up. Add some little touch—a scarf, or a 
flower—this shows you want to look attractive. 


2. Cultivate opportunities to meet men. Join a 
social club, go to church, accept a promising invita- 
tion even when inconvenient. Single girls often 
agree among themselves that an invitation from a 
man takes precedence over a previous engagement 
with girls only. 


3. Get acquainted with males of all ages. If you 
are timid with your contemporaries, cultivate your 
friends’ younger brothers; single out the oldest man 
in a group and chat with him. As you become ac- 
customed to masculine society, you will develop a new 
ease among men your own age. : 


4. Learn something about topics of interest to 
men; glance at the sports page, keep up with politics, 
listen to news broadcasts. And if you still don’t 
know what to talk to a man about, let him do the 
talking about his own interests. A good listener is 
always in demand. 


Do You Agree? 


I am deeply in love with a man whom my 
friends do not like. What should I do? 


Any girl who dates a man not acceptable to her 
friends takes a serious risk. Unless he can soon win 
their respect you should postpone marriage until he 
has passed the test of a long courtship without serious 
conflict. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 









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HE tables are turned and it’s time for teen-agers 

to do the listening. Here’s a right-about-face on 

the usual complaints from high-schoolers that 

start out, “Honestly, you’d think I was a child,” 
and end up with a tale of woe about mothers, fathers 
and home life in general. This time we’ve asked the 
mothers of Sub-Debs to let us in on what their daugh- 
ters do that they don’t like, a kind of grab bag of pa- 
rental complaints. Give this list the once-over to find 
yourself as your mother sees you! 

“Our biggest problem is getting our teen-ager to 
bed at night. She starts with the best of intentions at, 
say, nine o’clock. But after pinning up her hair, shin- 
ing her shoes, pressing a skirt for tomorrow or getting 
asnack from the refrigerator, she suddenly remembers 
a lot of homework that must be done. Then the house 
is ina panic. By midnight, after many pleadings and an 
ultimatum, she manages to get to bed.” 

“My pet peeve is the fact that my daughter waits till 
the last minute before getting ready to go wherever 
she’s going. Then daddy must drop evehing and 
rush her there in the family car. It’s either ‘take ie ror 
never see the car. Of course, she could ride her bike— 


THE SUB-DEB 

































b 


but that would be beneath her dignity unless it’s a 
special bike party. 

“At our have a height problem. Our 
daughter slumps, mopes, wears the flattest possible 
fact that the 
boys in nee class haven’t yet caught up to her in 
She grumps around as if her height were all 


house ¥ we 


shoes and gets self-conscious over the 
inches. 
our fault!” 

“My daughter doesn’t keep late hours—but that’s 
where the problem comes in. She always brings every- 
one home with her. A long string of little people with 
In fact, 
This wouldn’t be 
ahead of time when she was going to get a ‘bring ev- 


hungeritis. they'd eat anything that wasn’t 


nailed down. so bad if one knew 
erybody home’ brainstorm, but we never do. We just 
find out from the e mpty icebox the next day. 

“My pet peeve is my teen-child’s dressing table. 
It’s four feet long and every square inch is taken up 
with some pre cious piece of loot from a prom ora 
party. She even has a branch of mistletoe from last 


Christmas that she is saving in case she meets her 
dream man this summer! When I clean her room she 


has a fit and I have to stand by while she measures and 


®@ EDITED BY MAUREEN DALY 


pe, oy emey 


\ 4 
csi) ey 


counts the loot to assure herself that I haven’t thrown 
anything away!” 

“Mary is a ‘joiner’—she joins everything and pos- 
itively has to attend every single meeting or commit- 
And what hurt feelings there are if 


9? 


tee conference. 
any one of us ventures to ask her ‘Why? 

“Maybe I should be flattered, but I’m not. My 
daughter and I both wear the same size clothing and it 
should work to our mutual advantage. However, it 
works only one way, since my young sophisticate tells 
but she 
doesn’t find a thing in my wardrobe too mature for 


me her clothes are too youthful for me, 


her.” 

“Our worst bone of contention is the laundry situ- 
ation. There’s just too much of it. Our darling wears a 
blouse till it’s ever so slightly wrinkled and then de- 
To make it worse, instead of 
placing soiled clothes in the proper place she chucks 
them in a corner of the closet, 
drawer, under it or even under the bed. I have to go on 


cides to try something else. 
bottom of a dresser 


an exploration tour every time I want to do the wash.” 

“Come dinnertime, our Joan waltzes off to her room 
ur to the living room, leaving me to make all the din- 
ner preparations. She just has the idea that ‘mother 
does the cooking,’ but I would like a little help with 
vegetables or salad. But to keep peace, it’s easier to 
work alone.” 

“Our biggest disagree. nent is over the subject of go- 
ing steady. I’m willing to suffer through puppy love 
and oh and ah over a boy’s class ring, but please don’t 
expect me to take it se riously when a girl decides to go 
steady with a different boy every month or two.” 

“T’ve watched my daughter and her fr.cnds, espe- 
cially when they get together at our house for Sub- 
Deb club meeting. They are always eating unwhole- 
some food, too many candy bars and a dozen other 
things—and then wail because their skins break out.’ 

“It’s an old one, I know, but my complaint is too 
much talking on the phone, starting just a few minutes 
after she arrives home from school and even talking 
while the rest of the family is at the table for dinner. 
And it’s funny how some girls manage to get on the 
phone when it’s time for supper dishes.” 

“My daughter asks me almost every morning what 

she should wear that day. If I tell her and suggest 
something I know will look well, she’s bound to wind 
up wearing something else just to be contrary.’ 
“T just know all mothers are tired of hearing ‘but 
all the girls wear them.’ My daughter’s crowd 
never wear anything but balla shoes and 
no hats—what are they going to do when 
they have to dress up and get out in the 
world? A bunch of girls flopped down in my 
living room the other day after a dress-up tea 
and they were dead. Off came gloves, hats and 
high- heeled shoes, and you never heard such 
moaning and complaining. They couldn’t wait to get 
into jeans. Why can’t they act as old as they dress?” 


any 










COUNT TO TEN... 


before you start brooding about the 
way your date life is going these 
days. Or better still, send for the 
Sub-Deb booklets, How AsBout 4 
Date? No. 2269, and RaTING FoR 
Datinc, No. 1228, to help you smooth 
things along! Just 5¢ each from the 
Reference Library, Lapres’ Home 
JournaL, Independence Square, 
Philadelphia 5, Pennsylvania. 



















LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 29 





You ought to be 
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ROMANO, PROVOLONE and GOR- 
GONZOLA in Italian types... and 
EDAM in Holland style... promise 
exotic flavors for your favorite 
dishes and snacks. 








LIMBURGER S 









CAMEMBERT 


“4 






MUENSTER and LIEDERKRANZ, Ger- 
man styles... and SWISS ... are 
sandwich favorites. They are 
hearty in flavor... delicious! 







wa BLEU and CAMEMBERT, first cre- 
ated by France, are ideal for 
canapes or may be served for des- 
sert. LIMBURGER, originally from 
Belgium, has long been called “A 
man’s cheese.” 


Pi 
&. 1859 1949 


190". yearn 











%& Many of the cheeses illustrated were formerly made only in Old 
World countries but are now also produced in the U.S.A. 






Re 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


rom Across the Great Water” 


With dignity befitting the head of the family, Zamba Aluma 
looks at his picture in the Journal’s original People are Peo- 
ple story, presented to him by photographer George Rodger. 


One year later. the Journal’s African family has 


a new grandchild, new prestige and old ailments 


HAVE just returned from a visit to 
Lujulu, where I saw the Zamba Alumas, 
and thought perhaps you might like to 
hear how one of your families of the 
People are People series is faring after one 
year’s passage of time. Since I photo- 
graphed them eighteen months ago, the 
Zamba Aluma family has seen no other 
white man except the local district com- 
missioner. This shows how isolated they are 
and how completely different their outlook 
on life must. be. : 

For instance, having shaken hands with 
Zamba and exchanged formal greetings, 
I asked him what was the event of great- 
est significance since last we met. 

Speaking in Bangala, he said, ‘A paper 
came to me, Mondere, from across the 
Great Water.” 

“Can you show me this paper, Zamba?”’ 

“* Boyo, Mondere,” he said, and dived into 
his thatched hut, to emerge again after a 
few minutes carrying an old goatskin bag. 
He thrust his hand inside and brought out 
a letter which he proudly handed to me. 

It was a letter from the LADIES’ HOME 
JOURNAL, signed by Lois Witherspoon, 
thanking Zamba and his family for their 
co-operation in the production of People 
are People. In the minds of these simple 
people the receipt of that routine letter was 
the greatest event of the entire year! 

After we had spoken 
at length about the letter 
and the distance it had 
come, I asked to see the 
other members of Zamba 
Aluma’s family. They 
were all at home, but 
with one addition. Aba 
had married, and only 
two weeks previously 
had produced her first 
child, ason, called Mawa. 
This event was consid- 
ered of less importance 
than the receipt of the 
letter from abroad. 

Zamba told me that 
Aba had gained such 
prestige by being photo- 
graphed for the JOURNAL 
that all the young men 





Daughter Aba, her new baby and 
husband Tete, who had to pay 
a record “‘bride price” for Aba, 
owing to her Journal prestige. 


courted her and she was able to take her 
pick of the tribe. 

She was married only two weeks after I 
left Lujulu, and so famous had she become 
that Zamba was able to ask an exception- 
ally high “bride price’”’ for her. He was 
given five goats, twelve chickens, ten hoes 
for cultivating his fields, “Six spears, six 
bows (each with three arrows) and eight 
hundred piasters in cash ($32.00) in ex- 
change for his oldest daughter. Her hus- 
band considered her a bargain. I saw him 
and liked him very much. He was clean- 
cut, tall and muscular, which is most im- 
portant in a tribe of cultivators. 

But Aba herself had wasted away to a 
shadow. Soon after her marriage she had 
contracted malaria and had spent three 
months in the local native dispensary. 
Pernicious anemia had set in, following the 
malaria, and she went back to the dis- 
pensary two months before the baby was 
born. Now she is very weak and, being un- 
able to work her husband’s fields, has to 
continue to live at her old home, and this 
does not go down too well with the rest of 
the family. 

Little Mawa, the baby, is also very weak 
and has, I am afraid, only a small chance of 
survival. It was pathetic to see the once ro- 
bust Aba, now hollow-cheeked and emaci- 
ated, nursing her weak and sickly child. 

The younger girls were 
all looking well, had 
started lowering their 
eyelids knowingly when 
the young men looked at 
them too keenly. 

The whole family was 
glad to see us again ex- 
cept Drage, the eldest 
son, who had grown into 
a superior and very sulky 
young man. He kept him- 
self aloof and refused to 
have anything to do with 
“interfering foreigners.” 

Unfortunately, the is- 
sue of the JOURNAL which 
you sent to the family 
failed to arrive. How- 
ever, I had taken my 

(Continued on Page 124) 





ve 
mi 






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strong when wet you can actually use it as a dish-cloth to wash dishes, scrub sinks, 
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Best of all, Onliwon Towels come ready-cut and folded to fit the colorful 
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Nothing could be handier! 


hand. 
then throw it away. 


Get Onliwon Towels and Onliwon Holders at Your Grocers 


Look for this big package — equal to two rolls of ordinary paper towels. And 
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can’t supply them right away, use 
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> 


KWAY _- 


A.P.W. PRODUCTS COMPANY, INC., 
8 Bridge Street, Albany, N. Y. 


Send postpaid Onliwon Holder and package of Onliwon Towels. 
I enclose 60c. 



















Send postpaid Onliwon Holder. I enclose 30c. 


Make my holder ( ) red ( ) green (_ ) ivory 
Offer good in continental U. S. only; Expires October 31, 1949 
Name 

Address 

City State 


dreft helps protect your 
familys health 


HEALTH AUTHORITIES SAY 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 






the way you wash dishes and the kind of suds you use, 


can mean the difference between sickness and health 


Danger may lurk in your dishpan. Doctors 

’ have found that germs breed in dish- 
water film. Even dishes you’ve washed 
and polished carefully can carry this film 
—can carry sickness to the very ones 
you wish to protect. 


Dreft Leaves No Germ-Breeding Film 


That’s why Dreft actually helps protect 
your family’s health. And this new way 
of dishwashing, made practical by Dreft, 
not only helps you safeguard those you 


care for—it is actually an easier, quicker, 
happier way of doing dishes! 


New, Quick Dreft Way 


Wash your dishes in Dreft’s abundant, 
lasting suds. Give them a hot rinse (the 
hotter the better). Then let them drain 
dry. It’s just as easy and quick as that! 

So heed the warning of Health Author- 
ities... help protect your family’s health. 
Wash your dishes healthfully clean — 
with DREF'R. 


Auguet, 1949 


as no suds ever could before! 














Fifty Years Ago 
In 


The Journal 





N August, 1899, twenty persons 

drowned when a ferry gangplank 
collapsed at Bar Harbor, Maine. 
There was an outbreak of bubonic 
plague in Portugal, My Wild Irish 
Rose was written, and Alfred Hitch- 
cock was born. 


**No person of refinement and cul- 
ture can doubt that irreverence is 
one of the perils of our day,”’ states 
the August, 1899, JOURNAL. 


“During the summer months [I arise 
at 5:30 a.m. and mount my bicycle 
for a little run of 15 to 25 miles,” re- 
marks the author of Five Minute 
Talks on Good Health. 


Hair-do’s: “It is an almost universal 
custom for women who have passed 
their youth to draw their hair up 
tightly at the sides. If they could only 
be persuaded to loosen it, the increased 
number of pretty women would be 
surprising.” 


Names for girls: ‘*There are many 
names for girls that commence 
with V. Verona, Veronica, Venetia, 
Veda. Zara, Zaidee, Zoe and Zora 
are some which begin with Z.”’ 


Seen at Newport: “A muff of pink 
tulle covered with roses and hung from 


the neck by a fine gold chain. 


Mrs. Rorer’s recipe for Blind Hare 
turns out to be a meat loaf of veal, 
chicken and ground steak. 


Children’s fashions: “Little boys 
wear sailor collars of piqué, edged 
with embroidered ruffles, with deep 
cuffs to match.” 


“To Prevent Shoes From Squeak- 
ing: Soak them overnight in sweet 
oil or drive a small wooden peg into 
the center of each sole.” 


“If it is possible for you to catch 
your own fish, do not waste your 
money buying stupid goldfish,” ad- 
vises the author of A Back-Yard 
Fish Pond. 


Anybody want the recipe for Sweet 
Watermelon Pickles which take ten 
days to make? 





S we were walking here to the 
Workshop with a man from the 
Herald Tribune, on a recent 

morning when today’s new heat was 
spreading down head-on into yester- 
day’s old heat rising from the asphalt, 
a bus rolled by with shrieks of song 
and excitement from every window. 
**There goes a load of our ‘Fresh Airs’ 
on their way to the country,” re- 
marked our companion, whose paper 
has been running its Fresh Air Fund 
for years and years—ever since 1877, 
he said. Seems that last year’s dona- 
tions to the fund made vacations pos- 
sible, in either camps or homes, for 
over 8000 underprivileged kids; which 
led us to learn that out of the more 
than a million children between five 
and fifteen in the city, 100,000 get free 
vacations every summer through this 
and other nonprofit organizations— 
about half as many as go to private 
camps. Altogether, their comings and 
goings keep Penn Station and Grand 
Central as active and shrill as play- 
grounds all summer long; and from 
what we hear, as between the children 
from the tenements and those from 
the better parts of town, one thing 
when it hits, hits equally hard: home- 
sickness. 


REUTER PHOTO FROM EUROPEAN 





Princess Margaret—19 this month. 


Quite a birthday month for royalty. 
King Haakon VII on the 3d; Queen 
Elizabeth on the 4th; Princess Mar- 
garet on the 21st; and ex-Queen Wil- 
helmina on the 31st. 


With most New Yorkers bent on getting 
away, we gather from Greta Guetschow, 


3 e 
PHOTO FROM EUROPEAN 





“Fresh Air kids” on their way to camp: excited now, homesick later. 


information chief over at the Official Vis- 
itor Information Center, that more than 
three million summer visitors will have 
come here on their vacations by the end 
of August, making a tolal of over ten 
million out-of-towners for the year; a bil- 
lion-dollar industry, Miss G. reports— 
the second largest in the city. (The gar- 
ment is the largest, in case you'd like to 
know.) We asked what kind of informa- 
tion visitors requested. Seems they still 
want most to know how to get to Rocke- 
feller Center, the Statue of Liberty, the 
Empire State Building ; but other samples 
they remember are: where to get a wagon 
for a hay ride; a night club to take my 
ten-year-old daughter ; where to buy tattoo 
needles ; and lately, more and more, how to 
get seats for South Pacific. 


We've told you before about Johnny 
Watts—probably, we think, the great- 
est steeplechase jockey of all time— 
who was once quite unfairly re- 
proached by Queen Victoria for lead- 
ing her Prince of Wales astray, and 
who is now the dean of the Work- 
shop’s mail and messenger depart- 
ment. Now, among his many other re- 
sponsibilities, Johnny is custodian of 
a very scrumptious wedding gown 
once used here in a fashion photo- 
graph; which adds one more privilege 
to the long list he already enjoys. He’s 
always the first one to hear when any 
of the girls around the office is going 
to get married. 


Murder happens every hour in the U. S., 
and once every two hours someone com- 
mits a perfect crime. Approximately 60 
per cent of the murderers go unpun- 
ished. . .. How to make over your hus- 
band’s old clothes for yourself: battered 
felt hats make soft and colorful pouch 
purses; mismatched cuff links are fine in 
women’s suit lapels; and his flashy 
sports shirt can always be made into a 
hat. Or turn his vest into a weskit or 
cummerbund; his discarded silk tie into 
a good scarf or sash. . . . Ezio Pinza 
started his career as a bicycle rider in 
Italy when he was 17. He was good, but 
the other riders were better—so he 
turned to singing... . / A lady in Minne- 
apolis lost her purse and was forced to 
itemize the contents. In addition to or- 
dinary items like wallet, compact and 
lipstick, her list included a flashlight, an 
American flag, a miniature portrait of 
her Uncle Sampson, two dinner forks, 





a doorknob, a ball of twine, an empty 
pepper grinder, a pencil sharpener, a 
swatch of upholstery material, letters 
from a cousin and minutes of monthly 
meetings of a women’s club—she had 
been secretary two years before. .. .One 
out of every twenty Americans has been 
arrested at some time or other. 


When Bruce and Beatrice Gould flew 
to London for a week or so recently, 
they had a visit at 10 Downing Street 
with Mr. Attlee, during which the 
Prime Minister showed them the com- 
plete portrait collection of his prede- 
cessors, going back hundreds of years, 
all arranged, at his direction, chrono- 
logically, including Sir Robert Peel of 
the 1840’s, held by Mr. A. in highest 
esteem, he told the Géitlds. All ar- 
ranged chronologically, that is, with 
one exception. For at the head of the 
staircase, out of sequence, but in the 
best position of all, the G.’s observed 
that Mr. A. had placed the portrait of 
the man he succeeded, his present 
chief political opponent, Winston 
Churchill. . . . Checking up on Sir 
Robert Peel, who instituted great cur- 
rency reforms just a century ago, 
Mrs. G. discovered that he’d also es- 
tablished the metropolitan police 
force, which is why London cops ever 
since have been called bobbies. 


At the time of their visit, a fellow Amer- 
ican had all London standing in line for 
his daily performance at the Palladium, 
just as afterward on his tour of the 
provinces he had all England standing in 
line; so to watch the British eating out 





Danny Kaye—smash hit in London. 


of Danny Kaye’s lap, the Goulds 
found time to take in a matinee. “‘But 
how did you get into the Palladium on 
such short notice?” we asked Mr. G. 
“Oh, I just called up Jimmie Drawbell, 
a journalist ftiend of mine. Told him we 
had to have two tickets in ten minutes— 
and he took me seriously.” 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL August, 1949 


dreft helps protect your 


as no suds ever could before! 


familys hea 









ree 


ca 


on CLOUDINESS ' 


ties SAY ©, 
Authors nwatet film 


HEALTH AUTHORITIES SAY 













that 


the way you wash dishes and the kind of suds you use, 


can mean the difference between sickness and health 


> Danger may lurk in your dishpan. Doctors 

’ have found that germs breed in dish- 
water film. Even dishes you’ve washed 
and polished carefully can carry this film 
—can carry sickness to the very ones 
you wish to protect. 


Dreft Leaves No Germ-Breeding Film 


That’s why Dreft actually helps protect 
your family’s health. And this new way 
of dishwashing, made practical by Dreft, 
not only helps you safeguard those you 


care for—it is actually an easier, quicker, 
happier way of doing dishes! 


New, Quick Dreft Way 


Wash your dishes in Dreft’s abundant, 
lasting suds. Give them a hot rinse (the 
hotter the better). Then let them drain 
dry. It’s just as easy and quick as that! 

So heed the warning of Health Author- 
ities... help protect your family’s health. 
Wash your dishes healthfully clean — 
with DREFT. 














Fifty 3 Ago 
f 
The Journal 





N August, 1899, twenty persons 

drowned when a ferry gangplank 
collapsed at Bar Harbor, Maine. 
There was an outbreak of bubonic 
plague in Portugal, My Wild Irish 
Rose was written, and Alfred Hitch- 
cock was born. 


**No person of refinement and cul- 
ture can doubt that irreverence is 
one of the perils of our day,”’ states 
the August, 1899, JOURNAL. 


“During the summer months [I arise 
at 5:30 a.m. and mount my bicycle 
for a little run of 15 to 25 miles,” re- 
marks the author of Five Minute 
Talks on Good Health. 


Hair-do’s: “It is an almost universal 
custom for women who have passed 
their youth to draw their hair up 
tightly at the sides. If they could only 
be persuaded to loosen it, the increased 
number of pretty women would be 
surprising.” 


Names for girls: ‘*There are many 
names for girls that commence 
with V. Verona, Veronica, Venetia, 
Veda. Zara, Zaidee, Zoe and Zora 
are some which begin with Z.’’ 


Seen at Newport: “A muff of pink 
tulle covered with roses and hung from 
the neck by a fine gold chain. 


Mrs. Rorer’s recipe for Blind Hare 
turns out to be a meat loaf of veal, 
chicken and ground steak. 


Children’s fashions: “Little boys 
wear sailor collars of piqué, edged 
with embroidered ruffles, with deep 
cuffs to match.” 


“To Prevent Shoes From Squeak- 
ing: Soak them overnight in sweet 
oil or drive a small wooden peg into 
the center of each sole.” 


“If it is possible for you to catch 
your own fish, do not waste your 
money buying stupid goldfish,” ad- 
vises the author of A Back-Yard 
Fish Pond. 


Anybody want the recipe for Sweet 
Watermelon Pickles which take ten 
days to make? 





S we were walking here to the 
A Workshop with a man from the 
Herald Tribune, on a recent 
morning when today’s new heat was 
spreading down head-on into yester- 
day’s old heat rising from the asphalt, 
a bus rolled by with shrieks of song 
and excitement from every window. 
**There goes a load of our ‘Fresh Airs’ 
on their way to the country,” re- 
marked our companion, whose paper 
has been running its Fresh Air Fund 
for years and years—ever since 1877, 
he said. Seems that last year’s dona- 
tions to the fund made vacations pos- 
sible, in either camps or homes, for 
over 8000 underprivileged kids; which 
led us to learn that out of the more 
than a million children between five 
and fifteen in the city, 100,000 get free 
vacations every summer through this 
and other nonprofit organizations— 
about half as many as go to private 
camps. Altogether, their comings and 
goings keep Penn Station and Grand 
Central as active and shrill as play- 
grounds all summer long; and from 
what we hear, as between the children 
from the tenements and those from 
the better parts of town, one thing 
when it hits, hits equally hard: home- 
sickness. 
REUTER PHOTO FROM EUROPEAN 





Princess Margaret —19 this month. 


Quite a birthday month for royalty. 
King Haakon VII on the 3d; Queen 
Elizabeth on the 4th; Princess Mar- 
garet on the 21st; and ex-Queen Wil- 
helmina on the 31st. 


With most New Yorkers bent on geiting 
away, we gather from Greta Guetschow, 





PHOTO FROM EUROPEAN 


“Fresh Air kids” on their way to camp: excited now, homesick later. 


information chief over at the Official Vis- 
itor Information Center, that more than 
three million summer visitors will have 
come here on their vacations by the end 
of August, making a total of over ten 
million out-of-lowners for the year; a bil- 
lion-dollar industry, Miss G. reports— 
the second largest in the city. (The gar- 
ment is the largest, in case you'd like to 
know.) We asked what kind of informa- 
tion visitors requested. Seems they still 
want most to know how to get to Rocke- 
feller Center, the Statue of Liberty, the 
Empire State Building ; but other samples 
they remember are: where to get a wagon 
for a hay ride; a night club to take my 
ten-year-old daughter ; where to buy tattoo 
needles ; and lately, more and more, how to 
get seats for South Pacific. 


We’ve told you before about Johnny 
Watts—probably, we think, the great- 
est steeplechase jockey of all time— 
who was once quite unfairly re- 
proached by Queen Victoria for lead- 
ing her Prince of Wales astray, and 
who is now the dean of the Work- 
shop’s mail and messenger depart- 
ment. Now, among his many other re- 
sponsibilities, Johnny is custodian of 
a very scrumptious wedding gown 
once used here in a fashion photo- 
graph; which adds one more privilege 
to the long list he already enjoys. He’s 
always the first one to hear when any 
of the girls around the office is going 
to get married. 


Murder happens every hour in the U. S., 
and once every two hours someone com- 
mits a perfect crime. Approximately 60 
per cent of the murderers go unpun- 
ished. . .. How to make over your hus- 
band’s old clothes for yourself: battered 
felt hats make soft and colorful pouch 
purses; mismatched cuff links are fine in 
women’s suit lapels; and his flashy 
sports shirt can always be made into a 
hat. Or turn his vest into a weskit or 
cummerbund; his discarded silk tie into 
a good scarf or sash. . . . Ezio Pinza 
started his career as a bicycle rider in 
Italy when he was 17. He was good, but 
the other riders were better—so he 
turned to singing. . . . A lady in Minne- 
apolis lost her purse and was forced to 
itemize the contents. In addition to or- 
dinary items like wallet, compact and 
lipstick, her list included a flashlight, an 
American flag, a miniature portrait of 
her Uncle Sampson, two dinner forks, 


a doorknob, a ball of twine, an empty 
pepper grinder, a pencil sharpener, a 
swatch of upholstery material, letters 
from a cousin and minutes of monthly 
meetings of a women’s club—she had 
been secretary two years before. ... One 
out of every twenty Americans has been 
arrested at some time or other. 


When Bruce and Beatrice Gould flew 
to London for a week or so recently, 
they had a visit at 10 Downing Street 
with Mr. Attlee, during which the 
Prime Minister showed them the com- 
plete portrait collection of his prede- 
cessors, going back hundreds of years, 
all arranged, at his direction, chrono- 
logically, including Sir Robert Peel of 
the 1840’s, held by Mr. A. in highest 
esteem, he told the Goulds. All ar- 
ranged chronologically, that is, with 
one exception. For at the head of the 
staircase, out of sequence, but in the 
best position of all, the G.’s observed 
that Mr. A. had placed the portrait of 
the man he succeeded, his present 
chief political opponent, Winston 
Churchill. . . . Checking up on Sir 
Robert Peel, who instituted great eur- 
rency reforms just a century ago, 
Mrs. G. discovered that he’d also es- 
tablished the metropolitan police 
force, which is why London cops ever 
since have been called bobbies. 


At the time of their visit, a fellow Amer- 
ican had all London standing in line for 
his daily performance at the Palladium, 
just as afterward on his tour of the 
provinces he had all England standing in 
line; so to watch the British eating out 





Danny Kaye—smash hit in London. 


of Danny Kaye’s lap, the Goulds 
found time to take in a matinee. “But 
how did you get into the Palladium on 
such short notice?”’ we asked Mr. G. 
“Oh, I just called up Jimmie Drawbell, 
a journalist friend of mine. Told him we 
had to have two tickets in ten minutes— 
and he took me seriously.” 








They had 


packed themselves into 


the bug when Simon said, 


“What's in the box, 
Nell?” 





By JOSEPHINE TEY 


ec 


UNT BEE,” said Jane, breathing heavily into her soup, 
“‘was Noah a cleverer back-room boy than Ulysses, or 
was Ulysses a cleverer back-room boy than Noah?” 

“Don’t eat out of the point of your spoon, Jane.” 
“T can’t mobilize the strings out of the side.” 
“Ruth does.” 
Jane looked across at her twin, negotiating the vermicelli 
with smug neatness. “She has a stronger suck than I have.” 
“Aunt Bee has a face like a very expensive cat,” Ruth said, 
eying her aunt sideways. 
Bee privately thought that this was a very good description, 
but wished that Ruth would not be quaint. 
“No, but which was the cleverest?” said Jane, who never 
departed from a path once her feet were on it. 
“Clever-er,”” said Ruth. 
“Was it Noah or Ulysses? Simon, which do you think?” 
“Ulysses,” said her brother, not looking up from his paper. 
“Why, Simon? Why Ulysses?” 
“He hadn’t Noah’s good Met. service. Whereabouts was 
Firelight in the Free Handicap, do you remember?” 


Oh, dear, thought Bee, I suppose there are families that have 


conversation at meals, but I don’t know how they manage it. 
Perhaps I haven't been strict enough. 


- She looked down the table at the three bent heads, and . 


Eleanor’s still vacant place, and wondered if she had done right 
by them. Would Bill and Nora be pleased with what she had 
made of their children? If by some miracle they could walk in 
now, young and fine-looking and gay as they had gone to their 
deaths, would they say, “Ah, yes, that is just how we pic- 
tured them’’? 





Copyright, 1949, by Josephine Tey (Elizabeth MacKintosh). This is a condensation of 
the novel soon to be published by the Macmillan Cot, under the title of Brat Farrar. 







The twins were nine-going-on-ten. They had the same 
straight flaxen hair, the small-boned face and pale skin, the 
same direct gaze with a challenge in it; but there the identity 
stopped. 

Jane was wearing rather grubby jodhpurs and a shapeless 
jersey. Her hair was pushed back without aid of mirror. She 
was slightly astigmatic and, when in the presence of authority, 
was in the habit of wearing horn-rimmed spectacles. Normally 
they lived in the hip pocket of her breeches. She rode to and 
fro to lessons at the rectory on Fourposter, the old white pony, 
her short legs sticking out on either side of him like straws. 

Ruth, on the other hand, wore a pink cotton frock. Her 
hands were clean and the nails unbroken, and somewhere she 
had found a pink ribbon and had tied the two side pieces of her 
hair in a bow on the top of her head. 

Fight years, Bee was thinking. Eight years of contriving, 
conserving and planning. And in six weeks’ time her stewardship 
would come to an end. In little more than a month Simon 
would be twenty-one and would inherit his mother’s fortune, 
and the lean years would be over. The Ashbys had never been 
rich, but while her brother lived there was ample to keep 
Latchetts—the house and the three farms on the estate—as it 
should be kept. Only his sudden death had accounted for the 
near-poverty of those eight years. And only Bee’s own resolu- 
tion accounted for the fact that her sister-in-law’s money 
would, next month, come to her son intact. 

Beyond her nephew’s fair head she could see, through the 
window, the white rails of the south paddock, and the flick of 
old Regina’s tail in the sunlight. It was the horses that had 
saved them. Year after year, in spite of all the ills, accidents 
and sheer cussedness that afflict horseflesh, the horses had 
shown a profit. Bee had added the small, hardy, children’s 
ponies to occupy the colder pastures halfway up the down. 


Eleanor had schooled doubtful hacks (Continued on Page 78 ) 


THE JOURNAL’S COMPLETE-IN-ONE-ISSUE CONDENSED NOVEL 
\ 


TERCOT RATER BY AL FAREER 





360 








You cannot expect a bunch 
of clean-living boys to sit 


im a corner or maybe read. 


By HANNIBAL COONS 


ELL Mister Gooch far be it from 

me to tell you how to write for the 

papers as everybody has to make a 
living, but I just thought Id tell you that if 
you keep it up there is apt to be trouble. 
Just because we Baxter boys can outscuffle 
these other puny little boys is no reason 
why we have to be called the Bad Baxters 
all the time and talked about as if we were 
a bunch of baboons. Like yesterday when 
you said that we used to live in a tree over 
in Southern Illinois somewhere. For your 
information Mister Gooch we boys do not 
live in a tree and never did. We are getting 
mighty sick and tired of stuff like that not 
so much for us boys but because it is very 
disrespectful to pa. It is just no way to 
talk about an older man. 

Like the time pa hit Ernie over the head 
with the ham. I told a fellow about that once 
and he wrote it up in the paper as though we 
were a violent family or something. I am go- 
ing to tell you about that ham once and for 


ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER BAUMHOFER 





THE STRONG MAN 


all and I am going to tell you how we boys 
got started wrestling, and if you will put it in 
the paper just like I tell it maybe people will 
begin to understand us Baxters. There is no 
friendlier group in this whole country. 

What actually happened about that ham 
for instance was nothing at all. It happened 
two years ago when we were just commenc- 
ing to wrestle. We had of course always had 
friendly tussles with each other around the 
house and now and then somebody would 
get their arm broke. You cannot expect a 
bunch of clean-living boys to just sit in a 
corner or maybe read, 

Jamie was doing the cooking then. Jamie 
was nineteen and a fairly muscular boy weigh- 
ing maybe two-twenty. The rest of us were 
bigger but of course we had the years on him. 
Jess and Ernie were twins, twenty-two; I, 
Paul, was twenty-five; and Ed was twenty- 
eight. Pa was a big man of good health in 
his late forties maybe he was pushing fifty. 
Pa had wrestled some when he was a young 
man around Riverton, Kentucky, but there 
wasn’t any money in (Continued on Page 162) 


Haw cries pa. He pushes right on past us as though he 


doesn’t know us from Adam. ... Are you the strong man? 














Just a case of one man too 


many on a honeymoon. 


By MARJORIE CARTER 


YEBROWS were being worn at new high levels 
over the tenants in Parkside Courts 12-D. The 
name under the bell was Donald Fairmount 

Lee, but that was not the whole story. 
Far from it, as anybody who could count up to 
three would have been glad to tell you. It would 


appear that one bride and two grooms—all calling 


themselves Lee—occupied Apartment 12-D. Mrs. 
Overholt (3-C) caught on that there was even some- 
thing tricky about the initials of the name. 
“—D.F.L.,”’ said Mrs. Overholt. “Donald Fair- 
mount Lee. Design For Living—get it?” 
Mrs. Zinsberg and Mrs. Hagen, the two other 
ladies who habitually lay at anchor with their com- 





etitively gorgeous baby carriages just off the en- 
ance to Parkside Courts, got it. They rounded 
1eir eyes and compressed their lips. 

“And they’re all so impossibly good looking,” 
id Mrs. Hagen. There was regret in her voice. 
They were good looking. The bride was a pretty 
ttle thing. Of course, brides and newborn babies 
re always pretty little things. It is a natural law. 
ut Mrs. Lee went much farther. She was vi- 
acious, and she walked like a ballet dancer. And the 
ooms, as Mrs. Zinsberg called them, the grooms 
ere tall, dark and handsome. There was the smil- 
ig one and there was the smoldering one. It was 
ificult to decide which was the better looking. 
Not to be overlooked was the furniture, which 


as nice and new, except for the two or three 


“Poor Steve.” she thought. *“What he needs is to meet a nice girl. but. . .°’ 


important pieces, which were nice and very old. And 
there had undeniably been traces of rice and of 
confetti. 

It was Mrs. Zinsberg who made the chart. Mrs. 
Zinsberg had been a nurse and thought in terms of 
making a chart. The chart showed that Mrs. Lee 
left the apartment just before nine in the morning, 
carrying a brief case. (“That means not a model, 
not an actress,” interjected Mrs. Overholt. The 
others agreed.) The smoldering Lee went out on a 
run, also with his brief case, at around ten. The 
smiling Lee stayed at home until noon. Then he, 
too, left with his brief case. Mrs. Lee and Smolder- 
ing usually reached home together before six. But 
then Smoldering went out soon after that, more 
often than not. The chart was not clear, here, about 


ILLUSTRATED BY JON WHITCOMB 


Mrs. Lee, Mrs. Zinsberg regretted. The Zinsbergs 
had dinner at about that time. Smiling, however, 
seemed seldom to return until around midnight. 

It would have been next door to impossible— 
and on the far side at that—to give the picture of 
life in 12-D as it was visualized by the Mesdames 
Zinsberg, Overholt and Hagen. It was gay, it was 
disgusting, it was whimsical, it was sinful—all 
according to their states of mind at the moment. 
It simply did not bear thinking of—and it was 
their incessant preoccupation. And anyway, they 
were all wrong. 

‘Tt’s hard to figure,” said Mrs. Overholt, “just 


. s a2 s 9? 
what the Lees’ design for living can be! 


was how the succinct Mrs. 


“What gi 


Hagen put the question. (Continued on Page 156) 





LO 





= 


™ 
“My father wonders what we talk about all the time. Sometimes I do too.”’ Beverly, who 
liked high school so much she hated to graduate, was center of so many activities that her 
mother once complained, “We only see her at meals, and for a talk just before bed.” 


PHOTOS BY SOL LIBSOHN 


When a girl knows what she wants, 
she needs a plan— 


and the right amount of determination. 


a UT, daddy,” the girl said imploringly, “maybe no one would 
ever know.’ Her father—a Lutheran minister—thought care- 
fully. He liked to say yes. “No,” he said finally. “I probably should 
let you decide for yourself, but—Bevie, what kind of minister would 
I be if I asked the congregation not to see baseball games on Sunday, 
and then said it was all right for you to go?”’ 

Beverly Simonton cried herself to sleep that night, but she spent a 
pleasant Sunday at home with her family. For, while she can recite 
batting averages for every player on the Pittsburgh Pirates (her favor- 
ite team) and would “rather see a baseball game than anything,” she 
had many times told friends proudly, “I have a wonderful father. He 
most always lets me do what | want to, and if he ever says no, I know 
he can’t help it.” This was just one of those times. 

Once her date at a school dance stopped suddenly in the middle of 
the dance floor and asked, ““Hey—does your father know you’re danc- 
ing?” Bev reported this to Doctor and Mrs. Simonton with great glee, 
because no parents could be more eager to see their daughter 
have a good time, or more willing to throw open the house, with or 
without advance notice, for teen-age get-togethers. The baseball team 


Popular at her father’s church, Bev likes to talk to the older men, knows 
them all by name. Boys her own age find her “‘a good kid, but sometimes too 
well organized.”’ She dates about twice a month, has never been in love. 





41 






Bev idolizes her dad (left), but admits 
that “religion holds me back sometimes.” 


Bev was “big activity woman” in school 
while “gramp” dried the dishes, dusted. 


What do teen-agers think about parents, school, morals, 
religion, politics? What do they like to eat, to wear, to do? 


Answers to these questions will help us to determine what 





Bev has fine speaking voice, read poems 


America will be like in twenty years. This is the third of a 
often on local teen-age radio program, 


series of articles in which the Lapies’ HoME JOURNAL 
will present, objectively, findings on the individual lives of Active students like Bev spend 8-10 


twelve different high-school students. None is typical—yet hours weekly on school activities. 


all are typical. We have made no attempt to separate the 
things we approve from the things we disapprove. We are 
presenting them as we found them— twelve Profiles of Youth. 





celebrated its first victory with ice cream and Cokes at her house. On 
New Year’s Eve twenty kids got so involved in table tennis, dancing 
(with the rugs rolled back in the parsonage’s wide hallway), and a feast 
of 108 sandwiches, two gallons of cocoa and three giant fudge cakes 
that most had ‘‘P.T.” (Parent Trouble) the next morning because they 
didn’t get home until four. 

Her friends say blandly, ““Bev’s sophisticated.”’ Her father’s congre- 
gation calls her a “‘sweet little girl.” Don, her brother, says, “Don’t 
be a prude!” And Bev replies roundly, ‘I’m not!” 

Like many other boys and girls in their teens, she is all these 





things—sometimes. She’s 18, was graduated in June from,York, 
Pennsylvania’s, largest high school with an all-A average (a secret be- 
cause “boys don’t like you if they think you’re too bright”) and the 
reputation of being a “big activity woman.” She’s planning to start 
her freshman year at historic William and Mary College in September, 
and this summer is busy with her first job, general office girl for a down- 
town firm—saving $15 of her weekly $20 pay check so that she and 


Meaning—“‘Bev has lots of poise; you can never catch her off guard.”’ But 
Bey was embarrassed when a date caught her pulling her slip down an inch, 
blushed when he wanted to borrow a handkerchief to wipe off her lipstick. 





her mother can spend two days in Philadelphia seeking out ‘‘a real 
terrific tweed suit, and three skirts and sweaters for college.” 

Beverly and her mother, a gay, lively person popular with Bev’s 
friends as a “super cook and best dancer of jigs in town,” are ex- 
ceptionally close. Mrs. Simonton, who missed a feeling of real com- 
panionship with her own mother, helped Bey with her homework, 
painted posters for all her school election campaigns, discusses dating 
woes “‘endlessly.”’ Dinner-table conversation revolves around Bev’s 
day, and a late chat catches her parents up on the evening’s doings. 
She has no chores because her grandfather, who lives with them, likes 
to do the dishes and set the table; she asks her father for money when 
she needs it and can’t remember a time when he’s refused, but tries 
to stay within $5 weekly for lunches, a movie, extra eats. More 
lenient than most York parents, the Simontons let Bev go out as 
many nights a week as she likes, have never set a date dead line or‘told 
her not to go out of town on dates, although they would disapprove 
if she did. 

Admitting with a wry smile that her daughter “‘leads the life of a 
debutante,” Mrs. Simonton confesses, “I just (Continued on Page 149) 


“I’m not!’ says Bev firmly. Don kids her incessantly about “loosening up 

and being more of an outdoor girl,” is constant source of good dating tips. 
. . . . 29 

Bev refuses any boy Don doesn’t like, thinks he is the “ideal college man. 





“Hop on that!” says a York, Penn- 


sylvania, high-school boy when he 





sees a pretty “skob” (girl), and if he 





— * : 


‘plays it cool” he loses no time mak- 


“The shorter the toothpicks, the more fun it is!’’ At parties, teens pass Weight-lifting fads boost York h I tr 
candy rings around circle without using hands; team up to pantomime song as ‘Muscle Town. U.S.A.” ing a date with val key may < Lk 
and book titles for charades; scavenger hunt for dead mice, corset stays. to a hamburger joint on the edge of 


town for a “French poodle” (hot dog) and doughnuts with gobs of 

peanut butter in the hole, play miniature golf, enjoy a fast game of 
shuffleboard on outdoor courts, head for the “passion pit” (drive-in ‘ 
movie) or join the 2000 fellows and girls who jam the Teen Age Club 

on week ends for dancing and table tennis. On big nights couples go 

to parties sponsored by teen clubs and held in a rented barn equipped 

with a juke box stocked with Perry Como and Jo Stafford records, 

and piles of hay convenient for “schmotzing” —necking. 

During warm weather, steadies shop together at the Central Mar- 
ket, where twice a week farmers bring their products, going from 
booth to booth buying cheese, bacon, tomatoes and buns for “mon- 
keys on horseback,” the favorite picnic food for all-day outings in the 
Conewago hills. The week ends are busy, with steady couples dating 
all three nights, and if a girl looks “discomboomerated” (tired) after a 
date she explains, “I was playing tiddly winks with manhole covers.” 

Without a car, the social life of most York teens would come to a 


standstill. On dates, “‘padiddle” is a favorite game. The first person of a 





For casual parties, York boys wear bow ties that light up, carry batteries 
in pockets. One girl complains, “A girl can’t tell any more whether a fellow 
has a gleam in his eye or a light in his tie. It’s getting more confusing!” 


Five-part handshake ritual is leisurely greeting; gi 


rls ina hurry wave one finger, shout ““You’re okay, Louie”; “What say, John?”; or “Hiya, motherbird” to pals. 





Boys wear visored corduroy ‘Humphrey hats,” named for character in Joe Palooka 
comic strip. The Red Hat gang sports bright felt pork-pie hats at local ball games; 
one school day they wore hand-painted cardboard ties stapled to T shirts as a gag. 


couple to see a car with one headlight out shouts “padiddle”; if the 
boy is quicker, according to the rules he may kiss his date, but if she 
sees the car first she slaps his face. Even when fellows are out stag, a 


> 


car is indispensable to “gumshoeing,” the practice of driving to a 
favorite necking spot and beaming a flash or spotlight into parked cars. 
Boys’ clothes are strictly casual for daytime. Jeans and T shirts are 
favorites, often with the shirt sleeves rolled high to show off the 
muscles developed by lifting bar bells, which are manufactured in 
York in greater quantity than anywhere else in the world. Fellows 
breeze into a dance with ‘Here we are, all you lucky women,” but may 
be put in place by a sharp-tongued girl saying, “Just because your 
head is shaped like a hubcap doesn’t mean you're a big wheel,” or, 
“Put an egg in your shoe and beat it.” If the lad is really crushed 
he'll reply, “Hey, you gave me the needle,” but usually he’ll find an- 
other attractive girl (“Boy, is she hung!”) without “cracking up.” 
For date-time conversation, knock-knock jokes are again popular 
(a favorite: ““Who’s there?”—“‘Gorilla’”—“Gorilla who?”—‘‘Gorilla 
my dreams.”); a bad joke evokes the pungent comment “Smell you!” 
A boy with a smooth date is “in there like a Teddy bear”’; but if his girl 


is a “schmoe,”’ he considers himself “racked out.” 





Yorkers eat flavored ice... 


~ 





smear mustard on soft pretzels. 


Fellows may part hair on both sides, comb center lock for- “Look, ma—no hands!” York high-schoolers pass orange from 
ward or backward. Boys stow giant combs in hip pockets, girls chin to chin at doggie roast. “Scandal sheets,”’ listing faults of 
in sock cuffs. One boy carries brush to keep bur cut onend. _—_ guests, are passed at parties, cause giggles or hard feelings. 





sen 


Members of girls’ literary societies at Penn High wear felt beanies with club names; 
let beau boys wear hats when going steady. Girls debate (“‘Is the electoral college out- 
moded?”’) or listen to lectures at meetings; join with boys’ club for annual dance. 





drink from canteens during “‘dry class”’. . . 





“They look as if they locked antlers!”’ For- 
saking cheek-to-cheek dance style, York 
teens drop hands low, touch foreheads, 











THE KIDS SAY: 


‘Old men are awfully hard on cars. They’re always burning 
out clutches.”’ 


**More accidents are caused by slow drivers than by fast ones.” 

‘*My car is a tool. It saves me time I can put in worlting or 
studying.”’ 

“I’m hoping to get in the Navy Air Corps. I figure the experi- 
ence I’ve had with my car won’t do me any harm.”’ 


THEIR PARENTS SAY: 


**T never close an eye any more until I know John or Mary is 
in at night.” 

**The kids are capable enough as drivers, but not as good as 
they think they are.”’ 

**T let my son buy a jalopy to keep him from running the in- 


sides out of my new Roadmaster.”’ 


**When it comes to cars, I guess we parents can’t win!”’ 


**The kidsare going to drive whatever you do. I say teach’em.” 


IXTEEN, when a driver’s license can be taken out in most states, 
is a far more important milestone in the life of the typical 
American male than 21, when he reaches his majority and can 


vote, because “cars are more fun than anything else in the world.” 


A parent’s worry—a teen-ager’s delight—is his car. Is the average young driver prepared to follow the rules of his favorite sport? 


Not that more than a handful of boys wait till they are sixteen 
to learn to drive, whatever the law may say. The majority start 
around twelve or thirteen, and many as young as ten. One boy 
took his first lessons at the age of nine, sitting between his 
father’s knees. “I was thirteen before I got picked up. Then some- 
body complained and the town cop had to issue a warning. But he 
knew I could handle a car all right, so he managed to look the 
other way whenever he saw me coming.” 

This lad started working as a gardener’s helper when he was thir- 
teen and saving his money to buy a car. When the magic sixteenth 
birthday arrived, he was able to plank down $135 for a 1931 Ford. 

The average girl has no such “car compulsion” as characterizes 
the boys. She may learn to drive at an early age if her parents encour- 
age it, but it is a matter of comparative indifference to her whether or 
not she gets a license in the middle teens, Just try to keep her out of 
her boy friend’s jalopy, though, or forbid her to ride with a teen-age 
driver in a family car! Few things are more productive of tears, wail- 
ings and charges of parental injustice. 

Thus a new cause for concern has entered the American picture. 


Youth on wheels has come in for (Continued on Page 152) 
























NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART, KRESS COLLECTION 


THE VISIT TO THE NURSERY 


PAINTED BY JEAN HONORE FRAGONARD, 1732-1806 





-For brief story of arti@ipand his work, see Page 156 





Indian summer: Alice makes her flannel knee-length 
shorts, and wears seersucker top by Vallejo Gantner. 


Kilts are campus favorites; Alice matches her blue 
cashmere sweater to the blue of the clan plaid. 





Alice wears her blue corduroy button-front dress 
for after-football-game parties. By Mildred Orrick. 


Alice Says: - 


“Girls at Bennington dress ‘on 
the level.’ Many can afford only 
one date dress. Others who could 
spend a million have about the 


same thing. 


“Boys from Williams and Dart- 
mouth pour on the campus. . . 
we have them for dinner . . . go 
dancing at the Merry-Go-Round, 
or the State Line or Crestwood.” 


“Every Ww ardrobe shouldbe blessed 
with the kind of dress you wear 
when you don’t know what 


you're going to do.” 


“T love a jersey that goes ina suit- 


case like nobody's business.” 


Wetake an old-fashionedcotton 
chemise . . . cut it off and wear 
it as a blouse with a plaid ging. 
ham skirt, fall or spring.” 


THERES SOMETHING ADUUT 


COLLEGE SENIOR . . . CAREER AHEAD 


By WILHELA CUSHMAN 


Fashion Editor of the Journal 


Alice Cullingham knows what she likes and what she wants to do—whether it’s about 
clothes or a career. She’s an art major at Bennington College, is doing her senior project 
in sculpture, plans to try dress designing in New York next year. 

“When you go to college,” she says, “you should have a wardrobe basic enough to go 
anywhere.” Her one suit must do for a train, or a football game, or a week end in New 
York. Tweed or flannel, she will wear it most often with a jersey blouse that looks well 
without the jacket. She conforms to campus kilts, two-piece jerseys, flannel shorts, 
but with her own touches—wears a good calfskin belt with almost everything, puts 
a striped cotton smock-coat over her flannel shorts, plays up blues, greens and rust- 
browns because they’re “good for redheads.” Every college girl, Alice says, should have 
a dark dressy dress—for dates, naturally—and a coat that goes with everything. 

Alice has spent the summer modeling—“‘because I learn about clothes” —and will go back 
to Bennington the last of August. As she shops for this year, she keeps next year in mind. 





AZ 





She belts her brown coat (by Harry 
Williams), wears gold wool cloche. 


Brocaded taffeta dance dress by Sheila 
Lynn, rhinestone clips on her pumps. 


PHOTOGRAPHS 
WILHELA CUSHM. 


Alice’s “big suit” is checked tweed with a box-pleated skirt, for football and New 
York week ends; by Tilly Schanzer. Velveteen beret by Mr. Alf, matches collar. 


a “must.” The skirt is a tweedy 


her suit. By Mildred Orrick. 


Two-piece wool jersey, 
weave, blouse goes also with 





18 


tT BLACK DRESS . 


By WILHELA CUSHMAN 


Fashion Editor of the Journal 


THE NIGNIPICA 





On Nob Hill, Michigan Boulevard, Salem Street or 


in the nation’s capital . . . from New York to San Francisco, 


. 2 3 

a e 

| @ | ' the first dress needed to bridge the seasons and to 
* ‘ $ carry into fall will be “something black.” This first dress 





is a fashion indicator. It may be a tube-slim black jersey, ready 











for the touch of a new big-bead choker or a little fur 

tie... the changeable black crepe with floating panels . . . the 
slim ottoman faille suit with side pockets .. . 

the crinkled taffeta that is right for important occasions 
straight through the winter. These dresses might be 


any price. All are $25 to $39.95. 


Hip-pocket faille dress with new 
wide neckline, worn with pearls, velvet calot, 


black gloves; by Nat Kaplan, $39.95. 


PHOTOGRAPHS BY BEN ROSE 


l'lyaway-panel apron, belted around a sheath-slim black crepe, two fashions in one, $29.95. 


The dress can be worn without the apron. Velvet-and-faille beret. 


4 










PHOTOGRAPH BY ANTUNIS 


Crinkled taffeta with rhinestone 
buttons. and fullness in the skirt, $25. 


Black velvet tricorn by Mr. Alf. 


PHOTOGRAPH BY BEN ROSE 





PHOTOGRAPH BY WILHELA CUSHMAN 


The floating-panel silhouette in soft black crepe, with teardrop 


rhinestones on the belt, by Ben Barrack, $39.95. Worn for afternoon 


with shirred velvet hat, white doeskin gloves. 


Side-pocket suit in ottoman faille, important day-in-town costume, by 


Natalie Berne, $35. 





REPRODUCED BY PERMISSION OF SMITH CAMPUS CAT 


DUCED RY PERMISSION OF CORNELL WIDOW 


WALT 
DISNEY 


STUPIOS 





“The question is, does it go 
with a Harvard banner?” 





REPRODUCED BY PERMISSION OF 
ILLINOIS SHAFT 


ALAN ANDERSON. REPRODUCED BY PERMISSION OF 
WISCONSIN OCTOPUS 


TELE PHONE 





AC 





“And my buddy looks like he 
just stepped out of Esquire.” 


“Listen, darling—our song!”’ 


REPRODUCED BY PERMISSION OF MARYLAND OLD LINE 


REPRODUCED BY PERMISSION OF 
NEBRASKA CORN SHUCKS 





17 —(PREMED) ~<ous MB we 7 

v Lethon “. .. The hip bone connected to 
the thigh bone, the thigh bone 
connected to the knee bone, the 


knee bone connected to the...” 





cc 
B ‘ { 
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P, A | Cg 





ARE FUNNY 


Easy, breezy, you'll slide a 
mile.” ... “If a man’s got money and a 
.. Beer 
for me. I dropped three bucks in poker 


. 2 99 
car, nothing can stop him.” , 


last night.” ... “Some professors are 
almost normal.” ... “You'll never get 
stuck if you go steady.” ... “A girl 
doesn’t have to neck to be popular, but 
it helps.” ... “Quick! I’ve got to hang 
my brassiere on the telephone!” 

This is what you'll hear if you take a 
walk across a typical college campus to- 
day, we have learned from a JouRNAL 
poll of college editors and college humor 
magazines from all the 48 states. Since 
most of those who answered were col- 
lege men, this is largely a man’s-eye 
view of college life. Many college women 
feel that this is the only view that 
counts, anyway. 

The college character today is more 
subtle than the type of the roaring ’20’s. 
He uses his own slang—‘‘You may take 
three giant steps”; “It’s tne real Bi- 
kini”; ““You’re an E.N.P.M.” (egotisti- 
cal, neurotic, psychopathic moron)— 
wears red-and-blue Tattersall vests, loud 
girl-knitted Argyles, and plaid or 
hound’s-tooth golf caps; says jitterbug- 
ging is on the way out, but crowds the 
floor for the mambo—a jitterbugging 
rumba. His car, if he has one, is a new 
convertible or the biggest old touring 
car he can find, painted black, polished 
for high style and crowded with ten peo- 
ple—all sitting down. He sees himself as 
casual, worldly, slightly cynical and dis- 
illusioned. 

There is a subtle distinction between 
the College Man, the College Joe and the 
College Student. The College Student 
puts in hours of homework and sem- 
inars, gets good marks, and unless he’s 
quiet about it, soon has the reputation 
of being “something out of a bookbind- 
ing.” The College Joe is a survivor of 
the ’20’s, scorned by most College Men 
as “too rah-rah.” He swaggers around 
under the weight of a raccoon coat 
(vintage of 1921, and reupholstered), 
carrying a banner and toasting last 


Do you feel ‘‘oogley’’? 
Have you “got the botts’’? 


Then try a short course in college humor! 


By JAN WEYL 


year’s football team. He revived the 
Charleston at the Junior Prom, knows 
all the latest jokes, says he has a woman 
in every neighboring college and soror- 
ity house—and probably has. 

Then there’s the College Man. To be 
called a College Man, the badge of 
achievement sought by nine out of ten 
entering freshmen, takes a high degree 
of talent, front and versatility, to say 
nothing of concentrated time and en- 
ergy. The College Man must achieve 
fair to good marks with a minimum 
of obvious effort, eat and drink well, 
shine in poker, and particularly with 
the ladies. Beyond that, he must be 
“individual.” 

Having made this last point absolutely 
clear, the College Man then sets down a 
rigid set of qualifications for the boy 
who wants to follow in his footsteps. 
Many go to college and never become 
College Men. Those who succeed, says a 
University of Virginia junior, “have 
adult bearing; traces of good breeding, 
whether acquired or inborn; a well- 
rounded personality (not an intellectual 
creep or an educated muscle) ; an ability 
to do well in studies and yet be a social 
pillar with women; an open mind and 
better-than-average ability in one par- 
ticular field; conservative clothes; and 
show, in their conversation, unbiased 
opinions, a wide range of subjects, and 
cosmopolitan attitudes. No man lasts 
long who mooches, boasts, or cheats in 
sports or cards.” 

The thought of having to work to 
achieve this state of being, and get a for- 
mal education, too, almost drove three 
Virginia freshmen back home. Ob- 
viously the best way to be a College Man 
is to be twins. 

**Women,” adds a Maine man, “are 
less discriminating. A guy may be a 
schmoe, but if he’s got wheels (a car), 
he’s made. And if he plays on the foot- 
ball team and has money besides, noth- 
ing can stop him.” 

Stroll across the green, elm-shaded 
(Continued on Page 114) 


/ 


campus with a 


¥ 


MIMICLI 


New medical magic—a superhormone 


MT 


soon to be mass-produced — will bring complete relief for the millions 


now crippled by rheumatoid arthritis. 


N April 20 a distinguished group of 
medical men, chemists and biologists 
from all parts of the United States 
listened to recitals at the Mayo Clinic, 

Rochester, Minnesota, by Drs. Edward C. 
Kendall and Philip S. Hench on the re- 
markable effects of a recently synthesized 
adrenal-gland hormone, then known as 
Compound FE, now named Cortisone, in 
relieving rheumatoid arthritis, the disease 
that cripples an estimated 7,000,000 
people, young and old, in the United 
States alone. Though they knew Doctors 
Kendall and Hench by reputation, the 
former as a world-renowned chemist and 
the latter as one of the foremost author- 
ities on arthritis, what they were being 
told was nevertheless much too fantastic 
to be’fully accepted without a good-sized 
grain of salt. As I looked about me I could 
discern here and there the unmistakable 
“T-am-from-Missouri-you-will - have -to- 
show-me” expréssion. 

Then Doctor Hench said, ‘‘Now we will 
show a motion picture!’ Within a few 
minutes I found myself on the edge of my 
chair, aware of a tenseness all about me. 
That sense of electrification became in- 
tensified, and when the lights went on 
the audience of scientists gave Doctors 
Kendall and Hench an ovation such as is 
seldom heard. All of us knew that we 
had been privileged to witness one of the 
important landmarks in man’s eternal 
battle against disease and suffering. 

One after another we saw tortured 
men and women, young and old, some 
bedridden, some in wheel chairs, suffer- 
ing excruciating pain at the slightest 
touch or move. One by one we saw these 
same men and women—sixteen in all— 
transformed into smiling, happy human 
beings, walking jauntily, performing exer- 
cises, acting in every way like normal 
people. We saw a middle-aged woman 
who had not taken more than a few halt- 
ing steps for years run up and down 
stairs. A man who required three hours, 
with the aid of three attendants, to get 
out of bed could now do so unassisted in 


By WILLIAM L. LAURENCE 


less than a minute. The remarkable thing 
was that not one given the new adrenal 
hormone failed to respond. In every 
patient the improvement was either 
“marked” or “‘very marked,” as the 
Mayo doctors put it. 

The ovation accorded Doctors Kendall 
and Hench on their home grounds was 
repeated at the annual meeting at Atlan- 
tic City of the Association of American 
Physicians. Prof. Walter Bauer, of the 
Harvard Medical School, one of the 
world’s outstanding authorities on ar- 
thritis, reported that he, too, had used 
the new substance on two patients. 

“IT can safely say,” Professor Bauer 
told his colleagues, ‘‘that I have never 
seen anything as dramatic. Within twenty- 
four hours after the hormone was admin- 
istered the patients were able to get out of 
bed. The stiffness, very marked in one pa- 
tient, disappeared within one to three 
days. There can be no doubt of the effi- 
cacy of the hormone.” 

The dramatic effect of the hormone 
gives us for the first time a clue that ar- 
thritis is the result of a glandular defi- 
ciency, in this case a deficiency of the all- 
important life-essential adrenal glands, 
located on top of each kidney, just as 
diabetes is due to a deficiency of insulin. 

Not since the rediscovery of penicillin 
in 1941, after it lay neglected for thirteen 
years, has a new discovery in medicine 
been hailed with such universal approval 
and acceptance. The adrenal hormone is 
the first specific agent for controlling ar- 
thritis, or, for that matter, any of the 
major chronic diseases, with the excep- 
tion of diabetes and pernicious anemia. 
It is, therefore, regarded as the first 
breach in the impregnable wall with 
which Nature had surrounded the major 
ills of civilized man. These include pep- 
tic ulcers, degenerative diseases of the 
kidneys and the arteries, high blood pres- 
sure, heart disease and cancer. Since 
arthritis was one of this major group of 


degenerative diseases and just as baffling 
as any of them, the discovery of a specific 
agent that can reverse the degenerative 
process not only gives us the first inkling 
of the mechanism involved in this par- 
ticular disease, but also promises to open 
the road for unraveling causes under- 
lying the other conditions. 

Already the Mayo doctors and investi- 
gators at the Harvard Medical School and 
other institutions are hot on the trail of 
significant clues that point to the adrenal 
gland as playing the major role not only 
in arthritis, but in other chronic diseases 
as well, including even the diseases of the 
mind. For evidence has been accumu- 
lating that the adrenal glands, and par- 
ticularly their outer skin, or bark, known 
as the adrenal cortex, play a multifarious 
role in the very inner sanctum of life. 
Located strategically at the very center 
of the body, one on top of each kidney, 
they are intimately linked with the 
insulin-producing pancreas in the diges- 
tive tract, the thyroid gland in the neck, 
the pituitary gland below the brain, and 
the sex glands of both men and women, 
as well as with the liver and the kidneys. 
They secrete into the blood stream at 
least nine and possibly as many as twenty- 
five different substances, known as hor- 
mones, each playing one or more specific 
roles in the economy of life. They sound 
the “call to arms” whenever life is 
threatened from any quarter, whether 
by disease within or by an external 
enemy, pumping additional hormones 
into the blood stream to enable man to 
cope with the emergency. They provide 
a mechanism for speeding up the coagu- 
lation of the blood and thus prevent 
excessive loss of blood from a wound in 
battle. They liberate a hormone, or hor- 
mones, to protect man against what is 
known, for the want of a better term, as 
shock,” one of the major causes of 
fatality in war. The adrenal gland is, in 
sum, the organ provided by Nature for 
adaptation to the strains and stresses of 


living. (Continued on Page 121) 








ATHIE saw the sunlight the minute she woke up, sharp and 


sturdy on the lawn, brightening the dark cones of firs at the 

water’s edge. She sat up at once in bed, thoroughly awake, her 
brown eyes lively with anticipation. Oh, goodie! She let out an eager sigh. 
Then she bounded out of bed with ten-year-old energy. Now Geoffrey will 
take me to Portland to hunt for the new sail for daddy's boat. 

She washed her face hurriedly and wriggled into her clothes which Miss 
Penny, her governess, had laid out the night before “just in case.” She 
even managed to fasten all the little buttons down the back of her blouse 
without any help. 

But her braids were another matter! She worked with them for several 
moments, trying to make them look even. Then she stepped back from the 
mirror and frowned appraisingly. There! I didn’t need any help. She smiled 
at herself with satisfaction, remembering how many times since her mother’s 


automobile accident Miss Penny had cautioned her to be *‘self-reliant.”? 





Downstairs the sunlight came tumbling into Lena’s kitchen, making 
merry splashes on the ceiling and breakfast-nook floor. 

“Geoffrey is going to take me to Portland, isn’t he?” Kathie asked the 
very minute she sat down at the table. “I don’t want any cereal,” she 
added quickly. “I’ve got to hurry and get the mail and—and have lessons 
before I go.” 

She puckered her forehead slightly; an almost anxious look sobered her 
eager face. But a moment later she caught sight of Geoffrey, who was their 
yardman and chauffeur, going around the corner of the garage toward the 
boathouse. She jumped up, almost spilling her cocoa, and rapped on the 
windowpane questioningly. 

“Are—we—going?” She made little signs to ask him. 

Geoffrey nodded, and she flung her arms ecstatically around Lena. 

“Oh, super!” she exclaimed. Then she finished her toast in two rapid 


bites, and drank the rest of her cocoa. “I’m going after the mail,” she said. 





ILLUSTRATED BY HARRY N, ANDERSON 


Outside the day was just the right combination of blue sky and sea. She 
zipped up her jacket against the crisp May breeze and raced down the drive- 
way with Mr. Waffles and Butter, the golden cockers, at her heels. The mail- 
box was tucked in a little clump of trees where the country road curved 
around her grandfather’s estate. She had to stand almost on tiptoe to reach 
clear inside it. But she scooped out the letters hastily, putting the magazines 
in a jumbled pile at her feet. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” she scolded Mr. Waffles, who was trying to make 
away with a flat, green booklet between his teeth. 

She seized it from him and held it firmly with both hands. 
drew in her breath with surprise, her eyes growing very perplexed. It 
was addressed to her: ‘Miss Katharine Todd—Spruc R.F.D. 1, 
Portland, Maine.’”” On the shiny green cover was a picture of several girls 
on horseback. Under the picture in large, red letters was printed 
(Continued on Page 116) 


Then she 





Acres 


Camp Chick Wauk’’—very, very plain. 











kissed her mouth y*Poor child,”’ he 


said. "* My poor child 


Impulsively he bent and 


"99 


By TAYLOR 


IV 

ILLIAM’S delight in Julia’s company 

did not decrease as the carriage rolled 

toward Schiller Road. Of all his chil- 
dren, Julia was his favorite. He rarely, if ever, 
denied her anything. He was proud of her beauty, 
her wit and vivacity. He believed she had an 
excellent mind, swift and acute, and flattered 
himself that she had inherited it from him. 

He noticed the signs of spring along the way 
and called Julia’s attention to them. She leaned 
against his shoulder, and murmured assentingly. 
But her mind was busy. It was time, she thought, 
that some hint be given her father of her rest- 
lessness and discontent. She knew that William 
had no strong liking for Eugene, although he 
relied more and more upon Eugene’s judgment. 
There was, between the two, no real friendship. 

She allowed herself to sigh, and William 
turned his head. There was a mournful expres- 
sion on her lovely face. 

‘What is it, my darling?” he asked. 

Julia gave hima gentle smile. “Nothing, really, 
papa. But sometimes I am so worried about you. 
Did you have a hard day?” Her voice became 
sweetly anxious. 

William was inordinately touched. “Don’t 
worry, dear. No, I didn’t have a hard day.” The 
letters he had just mailed were forgotten. “You 
are too young to be worrying over an old fogy 
like me.” 

‘Papa, how can you talk so!” Julia regarded 
him indignantly. “But I admit I’m selfish. I 
sometimes think of all the terrible things that 
would happen to me if—if you went away.”’ She 
could actually bring tears to her eyes. 

“Silly child! I’m still in my early fifties. I 
don’t intend to die yet. I intend to see you 
married to someone worthy of you, and enjoy 
myself at the wedding.” He thought of Julia in 
white satin and pearls, with the veil floating 
about her pink cheeks. 


ee 
Copyright, 1949, by Reback and Reback 


ILLUSTRATED BY 





CALDWELL 


Julia sighed again. “But, papa, ’m almost 
eighteen, and who is there in Andersburg to 
marry? If I had gone away to school, I might 
have met the sisters of eligible young men, and 
made friends of them.” 

William said roughly, “Don’t tell me you are 
like Barbie, wanting to go away to college!” 

“Oh, no, papa, I don’t want to leave you and 
go away to school. But there are times when I 
wonder what is to become of. me, and whom I'll 
marry—if ever.” 

“Why, you have dozens of beaus,”” Said Wil- 
liam, soothed. “The house is full of young men 
when they come home from the universities.” 

‘There are none like you, papa,” said Julia. 
“They are all so boyish and irresponsible. All 
they care about is spending their fathers’ money 
and becoming excited about football and base- 
ball and the other foolish sports. They have no 
minds.’ She paused and laughed, as if what she 
was about to say were absurd. “Now if Eugene 
Arnold were a little younger, I might become 
interested in him! At least, he has a wonderful 
mind—you’ve said so, papa. You can’t say that 
of the other young men I know.” 

At the mention of Eugene’s name, William’s 
features stiffened. He said coldly, “Even if 
Eugene were younger, I’d never consider him 
fit for you, Julia.” 

She was silent. Her father might love her ex- 
travagantly, but she knew how lawless was his 
emotional nature. Of course, she and Eugene 
could elope, but Julia did not fully believe that 
William would forgive them. Then Eugene 
would be ruined. 

She made her way carefully when she an- 
swered, “Why, papa? You have done so much 
for Eugene, and you acknowledge how valuable 
he is to you.” She smiled at him ingenuously. 

William stared before him grimly. For the 
first time it came to him that his attitude was 


unreasonable, and (Continued on Page 60) 


PRUETT CARTER 





ELL, I have completed my an- 

nual course in the travel- 
brochures class, and taken quite a va- 
cation with the rocking-chair brigade. 
I feel that ve done quite a lot of 
traveling for one summer, 

There are few things to be had that 
are as fascinating as the travel guides 
and steamship brochures. Haye you 
ever wondered who writes them? Has 
he or she really ever gone to the far- 
distant places or roamed the seven 
seas in search of the romantic adven- 
tures that, in those beautiful, colored 
pages, are described so rapturously? 
Ever think of it as you look and 
wonder and plan and then never go? 


The travel-bureau blues. So you 
read up on yacation places and come 
to a decision and plan out a plan. 
Of course you are a little inhibited by 
having only two weeks’ vacation. You 
suggesta little whirl up to Nova Scotia, 
but a good long stay in the Scandi- 
navian countries sounds so enticing! 

That’s only the beginning—of a 
beautiful friendship with seven travel 
agencies and all the lovely people who 
run the steamship lines. Such lovely 
people. 

You should see my collection of 
maps, charts and romantic booklets, 
all in color, each one vying with the 
next one for beauty and appeal. There 
are hundreds of pictures of all the 
lovely places in the world. I know an 
awful lot about pensions and roads 
and chateaux and Stratford-on-Avon 
and such. 

That’s how I spend my vacation, 
collecting. Wait until it’s complete, 
this collection of mine. Or is it that it 
can never be complete? Well, any- 
way, it’s a wonderful way to spend a 
vacation. You sure do get about. You 
go everywhere. See the world and have 
a marvelous time. And it doesn’t cost 
acent. My idea, precisely, fora perfect 
holiday. And leaves you so free. 


Taking it easy. If you are going to 
take the kind of holiday I've written 
of, you'll be doing a few things around 
the house, no doubt. These travelings 
are usually done on the porch or in 
the garden. But there’s considerable 
appeal in a long, cold drink, with 
plenty of ice. Take iced tea for exam- 
ple. There’s a real cool thing and it 
goes with almost any August meal. 
And to have it right and looking like 
melted amber, fix it so: 


Iced tea for coolness. Make a pot 
of strong tea, The tea you like best 
makes the best iced tea for you and 
your friends. Probably I ought to 
have that set to music. Well, make it 
strong. Have it hot. Does that sound 
crazy? It isn’t. 

Have plenty of ice in the jug or 
glasses and pour the hot tea in. Add a 
slice or quarter—that’s best—of lemon 


™ 


or lime to each glass and pass some 
sugar erystals for those who like 
things sweet. Your tea will stay clear. 
And it won’t—at least / can’t make 
it—hbehave if you let the tea stand 
around to get cold before you serve 
it. 

Then there’s iced coffee. | believe 
no reasonable person is around who 
doesn’t like iced coffee as a hot- 
weather potion. The way that suits 
me is to do it as the tea business is 
done. Cold ice, hot very strong coffee, 
very thick cream, and sugar crystals. 
These come in little bags and some- 
how they are right for these iced 
drinks. Instant coffee, and instant tea, 
too, are handy things to have in the 
pantry. Fewer ice cubes needed, 

But in any event, along about now 
it’s a good idea to have ready one or 
the other of these cool relaxers, and 
then you may sit back and enjoy that 
holiday I’ve been talking about. The 
holiday that stays at home. Managed 
right, you'll find it one to be long 
remembered. But be sure to visit 
the steamship companies first, and 
the travel agencies. That way inspi- 
ration lies. 


What's your favorite? The strange 
foods of strange lands I shall not 
taste on this vacation, but I’ve a lot of 
favorite dishes that I éan eat right 
here at home. What's your guess on 
the food Americans eat the most of in 
August? My guess is hot dogs and ice 
creamy with the hamburger a close 
second. So,as yousee, my stay -at-home 
nominee for August has to do with a 
perfectly familiar name piece—and 
you Il know, the minute you see them, 
just what they are—and, for an Au- 
gust out-of-doors supper with corn on 
the cob, you can’t beat them, unless 
it should be with a great big steak. 


HAMBURGER ROLLS 
Take 214 pounds ground beef and add 
214 teaspoons salt, 14 teaspoon pepper 
and | tablespoon finely chopped on- 
ion. Mix well. Shape into 12 flat pat- 
ties. Slice 2 large dill pickles into thin 
strips. Place | strip of pickle on the 
edge of each patty and roll up. Smooth 
the ends of each roll so that the juices 
won't run out all over the place— 
meaning the broiler and so on. Wrap 
each roll with a slice of bacon and 
fasten with a toothpick. Broil 2 inches 
away from the heat for about 2 to 4 
minutes on each side, depending on 
whether you like them rare, medium 
or well done. Remove the toothpicks 
and place meat in frankfurter rolls 
which have been heated, split, but- 
tered and lined with a frill of lettuce. 


The rolls have a part. And a very 
important part too. For what is a ham- 
burger roll without the roll? Or the 
roll sans (that’s French for “‘with- 
out’) the hamburger? You may buy 
them or make them, as you will. 


“POR THE ROLLS 


/ Put into a large bowl 114 cups sealded 


milk; add | tablespoon sugar, | tea- 
spoon salt and 4% cup shortening, Cool 
to lukewarm. Soften 2 cakes fresh 
yeast (or 2 packages quick dry yeast, 
dissolved according to directions on 
the package) in '4 cup lukewarm wa- 
ter and let stand a few minutes. Stir 
well, Add to the milk, Then add | well- 
beaten egg. Mix in flour enough to 
make a dough that can be handled, 
but is not too stiff. Takes from 414 to 
5 cups. Take the dough out on a board 
and knead it lightly, not too long. 
Grease the bowl and put back the 
dough. Cover and set in a warm place 
to rise to twice the bulk, Take out on 
the board, mold and shape into finger- 
length rolls. Let cise again to twice the 
bulk, Bake in a moderately hot oven 
(375-400° F.) for about 10 minutes. 
Brush over with melted butter or mar- 
garine. Or, if you want a more crusty 
roll, forget the “brushing over.” For 
that softens the crust, as you no doubt 
know. 


Shall we go into it? Might as 
well, here as later. You know as well 
as the rest of us that sometimes the 
most ordinary things take on an ex- 
traordinary quality under some other 
treatment. Yes they do. And that be- 
ing the case, let us take up the sub- 
ject of potato salad, for this, with ice- 
cold melon, finishes off this simple 
but very American meal for August. 


POTATO SALAD— 
SOUR-CREAM DRESSING 


Scrub 3 pounds potatoes, cook with 
skins on in boiling salted water until 
tender. Drain and chill. When ready 
to prepare the salad, peel potatoes and 
cutinto '4-inch cubes. Add | cup diced 
celery. Let marinate with 2 teaspoons 
salt and 3 tablespoons vinegar while 
you prepare the salad dressing. 

Sour-Cream Dressing: Hard-cook 4 — 
eggs. Shell, chop and mash yolks and . 
whites through a coarse strainer. Add 1 
pint thick sour cream, 2 tablespoons ~ 
vinegar, | teaspoon sugar, | teaspoon 
salt, '8 teaspoon black pepper, 114 
tablespoons prepared mustard, 4 clove ~ 
of garlic, minced, 1 small onion, 
chopped. Blend all together. Toss with 
the cubed potatoes. Add 1% cup sliced 
ripe olives. Reseason to taste. Serve 
with a sprinkling of chopped parsley, 
paprika and a garnish of egg slices. 
And slices of marinated tomato in the 
salad—if you'd rather have them in 
than out—add a lot to taste and 
beauty. Serves 6 generously. 


Under the greenwood tree. Let’s 
gather here in the summer dusk—it 
doesn’t come so early now—and 
have a little get-together. The sun is 
setting. Here is quiet and peace. And 
we shall listen to the song the brook 
is humming as it runs lazily over the 
stones—“‘Good-by, summer, good-by, 
good-by.” For it knows it will be soon 
over. The season of holidays—the sea- 
son of the hamburger roll. 


When tt 


(Planned for 6) 
Hamburger Rolls 
Tomatoes Corn on the Cob 


Potato Salad— 


Sour-Cream Dressing 


Iced Honeydew and 


Watermelon 


Hot or leed Coffee 


PHOTO BY STUART-FOWLER 





I I have been reading Emerson again, and here is 
my thought for the day. “There is a solution for 
every problem and man’s highest duty is to be of 
good cheer.” 


2 As daisies are to the meadow, so are green peas 
to the summer table. You may have done them 
with a sprig of fresh mint and a couple of eager 
little scallions. If not, why not? A stingy pinch of 
sugar is indicated; cook them fast, in as little 
water as you can. Peas are worth time and care. 


8 Quite a fancy titbit for that predinner interval 
is made by spreading fried rounds of bread with 
mayonnaise in which a little anchovy paste is 
noted. Top with olives sliced very thin. 


A Another little thing. Pry out the pimiento from 
some stuffed olives and fill in with creamed Roque- 
fort cheese. If you can get ripe olives deprived of 
their pits, so much the better. 


% I don’t know why I started this, but olives 
stuffed with cheese reminded me that the same 


_ treatment goes for grapes, little ripe plums and 


prunes. All these are dandy with salads too. 


G This is the time when melons are about the best 
bet in fruit. Pick ripe ones. An underripe melon is 
about as good to eat as an old shoe upper. I beg 
you not to fill them with crushed ice. Chill in the 
refrigerator and cut them at the last minute.+ 


‘7 From an old cookbook: ‘‘Beware of too many 
cold dishes during hot weather. A good hot meal 
at noon will keep the family healthy all summer.” 
But would anybody show up? Better settle for 
one hot dish—soup, for instance. 


& Did you ever think what you’d do if all the 
gelatin in the world disappeared? Well, you’d 
certainly be handicapped with your meal mak- 
ing, I can tell you that. 


§ But it hasn’t happened and it won’t. We’ll be 
making jellies and jellied fruits, salads and des- 
serts with gelatin as long as we make anything. 
It’s an ace when-the last trick comes up, don’t 
forget. 


10 Take iced orange soup—and take it on the 
hottest day. This is it. Set aside 6 oranges and cut 
them in two. Take out the pulp and save all the 
juice. Use enough more oranges to make 3 cups of 
juice. Soak 2 tablespoons gelatin in 14 cup juice. 
Heat the rest of the orange juice, add 14 cup sugar 
and dissolve gelatin in this. = 


I Second stanza: Strain the hot juice, sugar and 
gelatin mixture. Add 2 tablespoons lime juice and 
a little sweet cordial, any kind. Now add the 
cut-up orange pulp. Chill—beat thoroughly and 
serve in chilled glass. Think of calling this soup! 
yo 





( 





1 > 


By ANN BATCHELDER 


12 I’ve discovered something. And that is that 
wild rice, to be served with chicken or game, may 
be cooked in chicken broth. It’s extra delicious. 
Never add nuts to this rice. Mushrooms, yes. 


133 A nice summer salad is made up with sliced 
Bermuda onions, sliced oranges and very thin 
slices of chilly cucumbers dressed with Russian 
dressing. Curious? But so are lots of other things. 


14 And don’t forget that currant jelly and bread 
sauce are just as good with fried chicken and with 
turkey as they are with such as guinea hen. Fried 
hominy may take the place of bread sauce—but 
not both together. What would the reducers say? 


13 For a perfect dessert omelet make a puffy 
omelet (you know—beat whites stiff, fold in) with 
4 eggs, 4 tablespoons light cream and 1% teaspoon 
salt. Cook over low heat until puffy and golden 
brown on bottom. Slice a ripe peach thinly, place 
slices atop the omelet, sprinkle with cinnamon 
and sugar, dot with marmalade, run under the 
broiler until sizzling and brown. Serve at once. 


16 Borrowed from a Chinese cook: Prepare 2 cups 
diced raw chicken, 1 cup sliced onions fried light 
and transparent, 14 cup bean sprouts (these come 
in cans); add 1 cup peas and 1% cup diced celery. 
Mix, moisten with chicken broth, add 1 cup cream. 
Bake in a casserole. It’s a lovely dish. 


17 Flaked crab meat with mayonnaise mixed 
with diced cucumber, heaped on tomato slices on 
rounds of toast, is a good summer luncheon dish. 


18 I'll bet you make sherbets these hot days. I 
do. Orange sherbet loves a touch of ginger sirup. 
And lime sherbet goes for pineapple sauce. 


19 For asummer buffet, hot paking-powder bis- 
cuits may make an entrance, like a ballet dancer 
who looks old-hat but who still knows her routine. 


20 Give the old-timers a lift. Make them with 
orange juice instead of milk. Add some grated 
orange peel. Mix in a few ground pecan meats, or 
some coconut. Split and butter them. Hot? Yes. 


AT LAST 


These are the things to forget: —_- 
The friendship that ends in regret, 
Love that grows cold as the years grow old, 
And the day that we met. 


Forget the treacherous memory, 
And the moonlight sorcery. 

Forget the flight of the nomad night: 
And forget me. 


BORDER DESIGN BY ROBERT N. TAYLOR 





21 Cold fillet of beef, sliced thin, set in tomato 
or beef aspic; sliced chicken in chicken aspic— 
elegant supper dishes. Green salads and a des- 
sert of fruit and cheese go with these. 


22 These little biscuits may be filled with chicken 
salad and do some pretty fancy steps. Or, if you 
are an English-muffin fan, toast them, after split- 
ting and buttering them, and spread with ginger 
marmalade, and add a slice of soft cheese. A 


2:3 It’s been ages since I spoke of punch. Guess 
this long August afternoon reminded me. Make 
up a big pitcher of strong lemonade. In each glass 
put a slice of orange and a tablespoon each of 
orange and pineapple juice. Ice, garnish with mint. 


24 Tiny cooked beets, served sliced or whole in 
sour cream, are as smart as a flower in a bachelor’s 
buttonhole. Served with fish, of course. 


25 A thought for the chafing dish: Hard-boil some 
eggs, 2 for each guest. Cut them in two length- 
wise. Prepare a sauce Newburg and add the eggs. 
Peel and slice thin at least 2 small white mush- 
rooms for each egg, sauté lightly in butter and 
put these in. Season well. Cook a spell and serve 
on toast. 


26 I remember when small boys used to come 
along about suppertime with milk pails heaped 
high with wild blackberries. They were costly— 
around eight quarts for a quarter! This miracle 
was one good reason for making blackberry pies. 


27 A little salad, as dressy as the new soprano 
in the choir, is made with lettuce hearts filled with 
black cherries, sliced avocado and balls of. cream 
or cottage cheese. Choose your own dressing. 


28 Rice pudding hot, rice pudding cold—make 
it in a milk pan or make it in a mold. But—if you 
want it as de luxe as any de-luxer could wish, 
serve it with a sauce made from raspberries, 
strawberries, cherries or peaches. 


29 One of the things you might note in your 
notebook is that sweet mustard pickle is still going 
strong. With cold cuts, with hash and with siz- 
zling steak, it’s the works. 


30 Try these: A little grated lemon rind in may- 
onnaise for fruit salads. And creamed cottage 
cheese served in a bowl with Worcestershire 
poured over it, for an appetizer. 

31 What a lot of ways there are of saying 
“‘good-by.” The French say “‘au revoir’ and the 
Germans mutter “‘auf Wiedersehen.”’ The Russians 
come right out with “yxpspyx—xyzhpx,” and like 
a soft breath on the strings of a zither is the Ital- 
ian music of ‘‘addio.’’ Having a choice, I'll just 
murmur ‘‘so long, my dears”’ and be on my way. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 








Keep cans of Campbell's ff) Then, when thoroughly 
| Consommé to jell along- = jelled, it’s ready to eat— _ 
sidethefreezingcompart- L. all cool and gleaming 


ment of your refrigerator. gy —at any time. — 


y 






Now on Summer Tables 
Everywhere —Are You Serving It? 


Perhaps you’ve enjoyed jellied consommé 
as the prized specialty of some famous 
restaurant. If you have, then you already 
know what a cooling summer delight it is. 
So—why not join the millions who now 
welcome this hot-weather treat to their 
own family tables? Serve Campbell’s 
Consommeé, jelled to a sparkling amber. 


It’s so delicious—and so easy! All you 
do is chill and serve, by the simple ‘‘1-2”’ 
directions pictured on this page. 


You’ll relish the cool smoothness of 
Campbell’s Consommé, served jellied. 
You'll taste how the deep flavor of beef 
is pointed up by tomatoes, celery, carrots 
and parsley —all strained to a clear, invig- 
orating broth. Try it once and the chances 
are you'll add Campbell’s Consommé, 
jelled, to your list of all-time summertime 
favorite dishes. Get some today! 


< => 


When appetites CP 


4 
On summer nights eS : \ 
Want a cool “‘beginner”’, CO N SO M Mi [- 
I’m here to say 


Cold Consommé g : 
SERVED JELLIED 


S Se 


Surely is a winner! 


LOOK FOR THE REO-AND-WHITE LABEL 





60 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Wrapped, it looks like a 





... or facial tissues 


Actually, it’s Modess 






standard 
shape 


new shape 


in the wonderful 


new-shape box! 


So discreet . . . helps keep your secret so nicely. 


So new ... it may not yet be in stock at your 
favorite store. Until it is, ask for Modess in the 
standard box. Because .. ., 


Both boxes contain the same number of so soft, 
so safe, Modess napkins. 


Both boxes are priced the same. . 


In Regular, Junior, and Super Modess sizes. 


August, 194 


LET LOVE COME LAST 
(Continued from Page 55) 


this was precisely what Julia intended him 
to feel. He said shortly, “‘Whenever I see 
him, I think of his father, and I detested 
Chauncey Arnold. He was a fool and a 
scoundrel,” 

“But Eugene isn’t like that, papa, or you 
wouldn’t have done so much for him.” 

William did not answer. 

Julia added quickly, ‘‘I don’t know why I 
should defend Eugene to you. Remember 
when you were ill—you said that you didn’t 
know what you’d have done without him? 
And he admires you so. He thinks you're 
infallible.” 

Again William was soothed and flattered. 
*‘T didn’t mean that I dislike Arnold! If I 
did, I wouldn’t have him in my office. And I 
suppose it is wrong of me to keep thinking of 
his father.” 

Julia kissed him with apparent impulsive- 
ness. ‘‘Oh, papa, you are so precious!” 

She said no more about Eugene. She began 
to talk vivaciously, and made her father 
laugh. By the time the carriage had arrived 
home, William was in high good humor. 


Eugene Arnold sat in Doctor Banks’ li- 
brary with the doctor’s two closest friends, 
Judge Muehller and Ezra Bassett. Doctor 
Banks was a widower now, in his late sixties, 
yet appeared younger. He was still the fash- 
ionable physician of Andersburg. 

Firelight fluttered on the hearth in the li- 
brary, danced on the backs of morocco- 
bound books and gave the room richness, 
comfort and peace. Doctor Banks’ dinner 
had been excellent. The other two men had 
joined the doctor and Eugene afterward for 
brandy and for an important discussion. 

Eugene tapped the briefcase on his knee. 
He was one with these men. He had served 
them well for the past five years, and they 
knew he served them for his own purposes. 
They approved of him heartily. 

He was just finishing a review of national 
industrial and financial conditions. His voice 
had authority. He had pointed out that no 
single business could exist without amalga- 
mating itself with other industries. William 
Prescott had understood that and that was 
why the Prescott Lumber Company had be- 
come so prosperous. Later, William had at- 
tempted to make the company self-sufficient. 
He was now doing what his associates had 
urged twenty years ago. They had been 
wrong, and now they realized it. He had been 
right then and now was wrong. The company 
was still prosperous, but it was coming to a 
standstill. His associates could do nothing 
so long as he was president of the company. 


Eucene reported further that William was 
no longer investing, in the name of the com- 
pany, in large corporations. He was fright- 
ened and his illness had frightened him even 
more. What investments he made, as in rail- 
roads, he made with his own money. He was 
speculating recklessly. His family was a drain 
upon him. He lived as opulently as a prince, 
but his salary was not equal to the endless 
demands of his children. He was spending 
his capital. At present Jay Regan was “‘car- 
rying”’ him and Regan had, as William’s 
collateral, nearly 20 per cent of his 51 per 
cent of the Prescott stock. 

Doctor Banks interrupted soberly, “‘ You 
are certain of these facts, Gene?’ 

Eugene looked down at his brief case. 
“Yes, doctor. Prescott is trying to create in- 
dependent fortunes for his sons and daugh- 
ters. He wants security for them; he has told 
me. He has no liquid assets to amount to 
anything. Nevertheless, he continues to 
plunge. He will have to continue to put up 
his stock as collateral. We have survived sey- 
eral depressions during the past ten years, 
but Prescott might not survive the next. 
In my opinion, by the fall of this year we will 
have a really serious depression—short, per- 
haps, but serious while it lasts. When that 
happens, Regan will ask Prescott for more 
collateral. After all, Mr. Regan is a financier. 
He cannot be expected to carry even his 
friends without substantial collateral.” 


“I hope your predictions are wrong,’ 
Doctor Banks said. 

“But you'd better not count on it,” sai 
Eugene. ‘‘ However, gentlemen, I am ced 
tain that your investments are sound. You 
only worry need be about the Prescott Lum 
ber Company. This may be the time to ge 
rid of William Prescott. We must be pre 
pared to buy back from Regan the stoc 
Prescott has put up as collateral for his spec 
ulations.” 

Ezra Bassett chuckled. “Jay Regan is’ 
banker, after all.” 

“Tt may not be possible to get rid of Pres 
cott immediately,” Eugene went on, “It de 
pends how frightened he becomes. I doub 
that he will attempt to cut down his way c 
living. For instance, I happen to know tha 
he has bought a pearl necklace for Julia, fo 
her eighteenth birthday. It cost him seventy 
five thousand dollars. He is not even a mi 
lionaire now. And his sons’ demands are al 
most as heavy as his daughters’. He can den 
them nothing.” 

“They were always worthless,” said Judg 
Muehller. 

“He intends to bring Thomas into th 
business,” said Eugene. ‘Thomas, I think 
will be useful, in a minor capacity, o 
course.”” 

Mr. Bassett nodded. ‘‘A very sound mini 
that young man has. No foolishness.” 

“And with excellent ideas about money, 
said Doctor Banks. ‘Yes, Gene is right 
Thomas can be an asset.’ 


Mk. sassetr cleared his throat. ‘Do yo 
happen to know, Gene, what—er—provisio’ 
he has made for Oliver?” 

“Yes. He has made a bequest in his will ¢ 
five thousand dollars to Oliver Prescott 
Nothing else. There is a trust fund for Mrs 
Prescott. But the major part of the estate 
whatever it may be at the time of his death 
is to be divided equally among his tw 
daughters and two sons.” 

“At the rate he is going,” laughed th 
banker, “‘there will be precious little left i: 
the estate.” 

Eugene leaned his thin, straight bod 
against the back of his chair. He said, “Yo 
were friends of my father. My father woul: 
have liked to be here tonight. End of th 
circle, you might say.” 

Ezra Bassett moved his head so sudden]: 
that the lamplight flashed on his rimles 
glasses. He said, “‘In consideration—ah—o 
the invaluable services you have rendered 
Eugene, we must make some recognition i 
the way of salary or stock ——” 

“Gentlemen,”’ said Eugene, in the gentles 
of tones, “‘I have a little over fifty thousan: 
dollars, carefully and conservatively in 
vested, and ten thousand dollars in cash 
That is not a tremendous amount of money 
however. In view of what I have done an 
will do in the future, gentlemen, I expect t 
be elected the next president of the Prescot 
Lumber Company.” 

The others stared at him incredulously. 

“You really have no other choice,” saic 
Eugene. “Your sons, Judge Muehller? You 
sons-in-law, Doctor Banks? Yours, Mr. Bas 
sett? Would any one of you gentlemen, a 
your age, be willing to assume the responsi 
bilities and physical strain that this worl 
demands? I see you would not. Gentlemen 
I may as well tell you something else. I in 
tend to marry Julia Prescott.” 

The older men sat motionless. The doc 
tor’s finger tips were frozen together. 

“Does William Prescott know this yet?’ 
Eugene said. ‘‘No. You see, I am very 
candid about my affairs. Once I was a cler! 
and kept the minutes of board meetings. 
have retained that habit, and I still k 
minutes. When I arrive home tonight, I’l 
write a report of this meeting, as I have writ 
ten reports of all the others. No, Mr. Prescot 
has not yet been informed of my engagemen: 
to his daughter. When the time comes, he 
will be informed. But should the need ever 
arise, he may read these minutes freely—al 
of them.” 


“You are very sure of yourself,” said Doc- 
tor Banks in a tone none of his fashionable 
patients had ever heard him use. 

“Yes, doctor, I am. It doesn’t matter to 
me who helps me get what I want. It can be 
you or it can be William Prescott. He once 
told me that five per cent of his stock will 
go to each of his daughters upon marriage. 
When I am married to Julia, it will be very 
easy to . . . assist Mr. Prescott in every way.” 

The judge asked, “‘Then why have you 
bothered with us?” 

“A good question,” agreed Eugene. ‘In 
the beginning, I had no thought of marrying 
Julia. She was only a little girl then.” 

“You have plotted for a long time,”’ mut- 
tered Doctor Banks. 

“Not plotted—planned,” said Eugene. He 
stood up. He was no longer a thin young man, 
their junior in scheming, their spy, for whom 
they felt more than a little patronage, but 
their master. Eugene bowed to Doctor Banks 
and thanked him for a delightful dinner. He 
bowed to each of the other men. He did not 
expect them to extend their hands to him. 
His manner, in fact, forbade them to do so. 
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said for- 
mally, and went out 
of the library. 


Within a few days 
Thomas and Mat- 
thew and Oliver 
would be returning 
home. Barbara was 
not concerned with 
the return of her 
brothers; her one ob- 
session was Oliver. It 
was delightfultocome 
to this high terrace 
above the city to 
think of Oliver. 

I am seventeen, she 
thought. I am not too 
young to think of 
Oliver, though he 
doesn’t seem to realize 
it. Am I nothing to 
him at all? He calls me 
“sister.” I am not his 
sister. 

Lately, a terrifying 
idea had come to Bar- 
bara, and there was 
no one whom she 
could consult without 
betraying herself. Oliver had been adopted 
by her father. Could Oliver, then, as the 
adopted son of William Prescott, marry his 
adoptive sister? Oliver would know, as a 
student of law. But she could not ask Oliver. 
So she suffered from sleeplessness and misery. 
Oliver was almost twenty-three; he was a 
man. As a man, he was capable of love. Could 
he love her, Barbara? 

Late May had thrown the most vivid cur- 
tain of green and silver and purple over the 
scene below her. No ripple or movement dis- 
turbed the river. The mountains in the dis- 
tance were amethyst and green and purest 
blue. Whiffs of pine scent, sweet earth and 
grass came to Barbara; the sun was warm on 
her shoulders. She was conscious of nothing 
but her wretchedness. She had come here; as 
usual, for solace and solitariness, but her 
thoughts brought her no comfort. 

After a time, she became aware of voices, 
shut away from her by the curtain of pines. 
Annoyed at this invasion of privacy, she was 
about to get up and let the speakers see her, 
when she realized that the voices were those 
of her sister Julia and Eugene Arnold. Then 
she heard Eugene speak of her father and, in 
spite of herself, she paused, motionless. 


you, 


where 


“ALL that you say may be true, Julie,” 
Eugene was saying, “but I’ve told you over 
and over that I’m not going to jeopardize my 
position by antagonizing your father—not 
even for you. I want to be honest with you. 
I’ve thought of marrying you for a long time. 
It’s only lately that I’ve come to know that 
I love you. Yes, that’s true, and it doesn’t 
matter a lot to me to have you look at me 
that way. I’d have married you, if I could, 
whether or not I loved you. Well, I do love 
you, and I want all the things I’ve been work- 


KK Kw Kw KK KEK 


Perfect Summer Lay 


By Catherine Haydon Jacobs 


I can remember a day like this 
Along the River Rhine, 
With a sky so blue that it throttled 


And the air like wine. 


I can remember a day like this 
On a forest lake in Maine, 

A rocky ledge at the water’s edge 
And an oar’s refrain. 


I can remember days and days 
Around the world and over, 
But the one most fair on a hilltop 


You made me a wreath of clover. 


ORK kk kk 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


ing on even more. What I want is more im- 
portant to me than you are.” 

“How can you be so hateful!” cried Julia, 
and it was evident from the break in her 
voice that she had been crying. ‘“‘It seems to 
me that if you love someone that’s the only 
important thing.” 

“You talk like a woman,” said Eugene im- 
patiently. “Until I’m sure that things will 
turn out right I’m not going to speak, or 
allow you to speak. If you say anything to 
your father, and he becomes enraged, that’ll 
be the end of me. And you’ll never see me 
again.” 


For a few moments there was no sound 
but the mournful wind in the pines and the 
rustle of bird wings and grass. Then Julia’s 
voice, torn and anguished, broke the silence: 
“Oh, if he’d only die!” 

Barbara sickened. She did not love her 
father. Nevertheless, her heart pounded at 
the monstrous thing her sister had said. 

She heard Eugene laugh, and the sound 
was ugly. ‘“‘That, I admit, would solve a 
number of problems.’”’ He did not appear 
shocked at Julia’s words; rather, there was 
an intonation of sym- 
pathetic understand- 
ing in his voice. 

Hatred filled Bar- 
bara. She wanted to 
confront these two 
and denounce them. 
But she had heard too 
much. Cautiously she 
approached the pine 
curtain and looked 
through the tangled 
boughs. Julia was 
standing a little dis- 
tance from Eugene, 
in her crimson wool 
suit and velvet hat. 
Even at her worst, 
Julia was pretty. 
Grief and despair 
heightened her 
beauty now, gave her 
a furious vitality. 

“Tt means nothing 
to you that I love 
you!”’ sobbed Julia. 

“It means more 
‘than you’lleverknow, 
you little fool,” re- 
plied Eugene roughly. 

Julia began to cry again hopelessly. Gene 
did not move. 

“Don’t try to understand,” he said at last. 
“You can’t.”” He waited until she wiped her 
eyes. Then a sort of flash passed over her 
face, and her mouth, usually so soft and full, 
became hard in spite of her sudden smile. 

“T have an idea!” she cried. ‘‘And it won’t 
hurt you. I promise you that. How would it 
be if papa suggested to you that he wouldn’t 
mind your marrying me?” 

“T can’t conceive of anything more impos- 
sible,” Eugene replied flatly. 

She laughed. ‘“‘I can, Gene. Leave it to 
me.” 

She ran to him then and threw her arms 
about his neck. Eugene, as if against his 
will, lifted his arms and put them about the 
girl. She pressed her face into his shoulder 
and incoherent sounds came from her. 

Barbara was very young. She thought, 
marveling, Is it possible for two such people to 
love each other? She had thought of love as 
something possible only among the kind, the 
unselfish, the tender. Now she saw that even 
evil could love, and with terrible force and 
emotion. Moreover, it was now impossible to 
betray Julia to her father or mother or to 
anyone. She was filled with pity for Julia, 
and even for Eugene, although she still 
despised and rejected them. 

Barbara sat down-en the warm flat rocks 
and bent her head. Tears ran down her 
cheeks. Oliver, she thought. Dear Oliver. 
When she finally lifted her head she knew 
that Eugene and Julia had gone. 


There was something about Matthew 
which acutely annoyed his twin, Thomas. 
Never, even in earliest childhood, had there 

(Continued on Page 63) 


T HAS BEEN estimated that one 
out of every two people in our 
country suffers, or has suffered, from 
an allergy. These people are unusu- 
ally sensitive to certain things which 
are harmless to the average person. 





Plants, dust, animals, foods, 
drugs, chemicals and bacteria are 
among the most common causes of 
allergic disorders. When susceptible 
persons come in contact with these 
troublemakers, it is thought that a 
substance called histamine is released 
by the body into the blood stream. 
This in turn may lead to sneezing 
attacks, skin rashes, digestive up- 
sets or more serious conditions. 





Fortunately, recent developments 
by medical science make it possible 
for the doctor to do more than ever 
before to relieve allergies. New drugs, 
known as anti-histaminics, are help- 
ful in many cases, especially those 
caused by substances which are in- 
haled. This includes hay fever which 
alone attacks some three and one 
half million people each year. 


The doctor may recommend in- 
jections of the allergy-causing sub- 
stance to help build up resistance to 
it. He may also suggest steps for 
avoiding or lessening contact with 
the troublemaker. 


Recent research has shown that 
some allergic conditions improve 
when the patient is helped to re- 
solve emotional conflicts. Today, 
authorities say that, with proper 
medical care, 3 out of 4 allergy vic- 
tims can be greatly helped. 


Za 





For the best results, treatment to 
increase resistance should be started 
in advance of exposure to the causes 
of allergy. Hay fever treatments, for 
example, are more than twice as ef- 
fective when given before the pollen 
season starts rather than after. 


There is still no “sure cure”’ for 
allergies, but patients who maintain 
close and continued co-operation 
with the doctor have the best chance 
for a great measure of relief.To learn 
more facts about allergies, write for 
a copy of Metropolitan’s free book- 
let, 89-J, ‘Allergic To What?”’ 


61 











LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


August, 1949 


ek ene cool n easy meala of You. lady | 





Hashburgers With—with the relishes that make 
them better; with the Armour Corned Beef Hash that 
makes them best/ Only lean beef . . . extra-tender and 
juicy . . . goes into Armour Corned Beef Hash. 
And firm, white potatoes that are kept firmer and 
whiter by the ‘‘fresh-cooked” way it’s made! Cut 
one tin into five man-size slices; fry in fat until 
brown. Serve as shown and prove to yourself that 
America’s favorite hash is America’s finest hash! 


Hot Day Ham —a seconds-to-fix treat that’s guaran- 
teed to bring calls for “seconds’’! All you need is 
potato salad and Armour Chopped Ham. Remember, 
this is all ham—choice sugar-cured ham—and nothing 
but ham! No bone. No waste. And now it’s packed 
with the new Middle-of-Tin Opener that on/y Armour 
has! It brings the ham out whole—makes it easier to 
cut the 8 neat slices you need for the Ham-and-Potato- 
Salad Platter shown. Try it soon. 





Eggs Viennese —a jiffy-quick summer “natural.” 
And naturally more delicious when the Vienna Sau- 
sages you serve with scrambled eggs are the famous- 
for-flavor Armour kind ! It’s their delicately seasoned 
smoky-taste that makes Armour Vienna Sausages extra- 
good. That and the pure beef and pork (no fillers) 
with which they're made. Just heat them gently in a 
litle butter or margarine, serve with scrambled eggs, 
and join your budget in a rousing cheer! 


For additional recipes for Pantry-Shelf Meals, write Marie Gifford, Dept. 388, Box 2053, Chicago 9, Illinois 


© armour AND COMPANY 





Tune in STARS OVER HOLLYWOOD—CBS Saturday 


—> 





“A 


Wi ae 


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P(e 









6 


he ee ae 
is Tabeled_ a 


(Continued from Page 61) 
been the slightest intimacy or friendship be- 
tween them. Thomas, cunning, exuberant, 
and very realistic, found Matthew’s passiv- 
ity repulsive. Moreover, he hated what he 
could not understand. 

Thomas had enjoyed the Christmas holi- 

ys. He enjoyed the excitement, the parties 
and gaiety and the gifts. Matthew often for- 
got to give gifts, but this year he had actually 
brought himself to buy something for every- 
one in the family. He had an extraordinary 
imagination; the colorlessness of his gifts 
could be attributed only to indifference. He 
gave his father a desk set, his mother a sew- 
ing basket, and Julia and Barbara identical 
purses. Thomas was not forgotten either. 
Matthew gave him a leather wallet, thriftily 
stuffed with tissue, much to Thomas’ annoy- 
ance. But Matthew gave Oliver a really as- 
tonishing gift. It was a miniature of Voltaire, 
exquisitely executed. No one was more sur- 
prised than Oliver. 

Matthew heard a soft knock upon his 
door and sat very still. If he pretended to 
be asleep, or absent, the knocker would go 
away. But the door, after a second knocking, 
opened. Oliver stood there, smiling quietly. 

“Hello, Matt,” he said. ‘I came to thank 
you for the miniature. How did you know I 
admire Voltaire so much?” 

Matthew replied indifferently, “I saw your 
books once, years ago.” 

Oliver sat down. ‘It was a wonderful pres- 
ent, and I’m grateful.” 

Matthew lifted a hand in acknowledg- 
ment, but it was a weary gesture. Abruptly, 
he said, “I am going away. To Italy.”” He 
was astounded at his own 
words. He was even more 
astounded that he-could 
speak so to Oliver, for his 
foster brother had been 
even less to him than his 
own family. He did not 
know how he had come to 
buy that miniature for Oliver, for he had 

ever given him a gift before. For months 
at a time he forgot that Oliver existed. Yet, 
when he had seen the miniature in the win- 
dow in New York, he had thought of Oliver 
and bought it. 

“Ttaly?”’ repeated Oliver. 

Matthew stiffened. ““You don’t think the 
idea is stupid?” 

“No. Why should I think that?” 

Matthew was silent, studying the backs of 
his hands, the fingers and palms, in that 
familiar way of his. He said haltingly, “I 
must go to Italy. I may have some difficulty 
with my father. Mother is fond of you. 
Would you speak to her for me?” An expres- 
sion of bitterness touched his face. He said, 
“Mother is always talking about ‘common 
sense.’ Doesn’t she know that common sense 
is usually just lack of imagination?” 


Ouiver said, “Of course, I’ll speak te her if 
you want me to. But I don’t think mother 
lacks imagination. Have you forgotten that 
it was she who insisted on taking you to Italy 
three years ago, even though Tom and Julie 
didn’t go—just you and I and Barbie?” 

“T had forgotten,” muttered Matthew. 
The slightest color rose in his face. 

“T think she’ll be pleased,”’ added Oliver. 

Matthew’s voice had always been aloof 
and disinterested, and it surprised Oliver to 
hear a sudden desperate note in the younger 
boy’s words: “You see, I’ve got to go. It 
doesn’t matter who objects, though I hate 
scenes and noise. I don’t know how I'll get 
the money, but I'll sell everything I have if 
necessary.” 

Oliver was quiet for a moment. Then he 
said, ‘I’ve never spent all my allowance. I 
have about four thousand dollars. It’s yours, 
if you want it.” 

Matthew stared at him. His habitually 

otionless face seemed to come to life. “I 
don’t know how to thank you. I .. . think 
you understand. You do, don’t you?” 

ten. 

Matthew stood up and moved about the 
room. He lifted one canvas after another, 
dropped each back. He looked at the one on 
the easel. “‘I’ll never paint again,” he said 
at last. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“You might. But that doesn’t really mat- 
ter, if you can learn how to live. You might 
possibly discover that others are living, too, 
and that others have importance.” 

A cold tightness covered Matthew’s face 
again. Oliver moved toward the door. 

“You're not alone, Matt. You may think 
you are, and that you are only interested in 
living alone. That attitude is annihilation 
for you. Of course you can’t suddenly say to 
yourself, “The whole world is part of me, and 
I am part of it.’ But it’s true. The only way 
you can get any help is from outside yourself. 
Perhaps that may come in Italy.” 

“You are wrong,”’ said Matthew. “I have 
never been interested in anything at all— 
except myself, perhaps. You think that is 
ugly and self-centered, don’t you? You think 
I ought to be ashamed?” 

Oliver shook his head. “‘Why should I 
condemn anyone? There are too many fac- 
tors to be taken into consideration in judging 
another.” He went out of the room as quietly 
as he had entered. 


Ursura recognized Oliver’s knock, and 
when he entered her sitting room greeted 
him with pleasure. She said, “‘ What have you 
been doing all this dreary day? Walking?” 
She glanced at the dark snow. 

“No.” Oliver smiled. “I’m no athlete. 
Frankly, I’ve been thinking.” 

“Very unprofitable,” murmured Ursula, 
indicating a chair for Oliver. 

He sat down. “How is father?”’ 

“He is lying down now until after tea- 
time. Oliver, I was so delighted when you 


told me that Scott, Meredith and Owens have 
PRR er SS] 


I can live for two months 
on a good compliment. 


given you an increase in 
salary. William seemed as 
pleased and proud as 
if cae 59? 

“As if I were his own 
son,” said Oliver, finishing 
it for her. “I’m happy to 
know that.” 

He stood up and threw some coals upon the 
crimson embers in the fireplace. As had hap- 
pened before, Ursula was caught by some 
familiarity in Oliver’s movements. Once she 
had thought there was a likeness between 
Oliver and Matthew. But there was certainly 
no resemblance between them now. Still, 
persistently, Oliver reminded her of some- 
one. 

He bent and poked at the fire. There was 
something about the motion, a certain ele- 
gance that was familiar. She struggled with 
the shifting image, trying to focus it clearly. 
Then Oliver turned, his back to the fire, 
and smiled at her. That instant brought 
stunned shock; it was not Oliver smiling at 
her, but Eugene Arnold. 

Eugene Arnold! But Eugene was pale 
and parched and colorless; Oliver was dark 
and had a quiet vividness. Nevertheless, the 
resemblance was there. 

“What is the matter, mother?” asked 
Oliver quickly, - 

Ursula’s hands elutched the arms of her 
chair. Out of the past rushed the memory 
of the young Chauncey Arnold._In his later 
years he had become clumsy and boorisr 
But Ursula remembered Chauncey as 2 


—MARK TWAIN, 


young man, dark and slender, before avarice }- 


had become dominant in his character. Ur- 
sula stared at Oliver. Suddenly she put her 
hands over her face. 

She felt Oliver beside her. “‘Are you ill?” 
ae asked. Ursula dropped her hands and 
ooked up. 

“Please sit down,” she said. ““The strang- 
est thoughts come to one in the twilight 
sometimes. I suppose I must be getting old.” 
There was a pain in her throat, like the point 
of a knife. “Oliver, dear, have you_ever 
thought who might be your real parents?”’ 

“Yes,”’ he said quietly. ‘For a reason of 


_my own. It is very important to me.” 


She was frightened. ““Tell me why you 
want to know. You see, the reason is impor- 
tant to me too.” 

He looked at her somberly. “Mother, I’m 
afraid you are going to hate me if I tell you. 
But I can’t go on this way. I love Barbie. 
I’ve been trying to find out if Barbie is my 
sister. If she is, of course I’ll go away.” 

(Continued on Page 66) 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 63) 

Ursula could hardly make her voice au- 
dible. ‘‘Oliver, you are afraid that William 
might be your real father?” 

Yen. 

Too many thoughts confused and shocked 
her. She could not think of Barbara just yet. 
Ursula caught Oliver’s arm and said ve- 
hemently, ‘Oliver! Don’t be afraid of that. 
It isn’t true.”” Then she could not continue for 
a few moments. Her face was haggard with 
wretchedness. Presently she went on, “For 
many years something about you has plagued 
me. It has just come to me that you resem- 
ble someone and now I know who it is.” 

“Who, mother?” 

She put her fingers to her lips. She looked 
over them at him, and her eyes were stark. 
“Eugene Arnold.” 

Oliver moved to a lamp and lighted it. 
He carried it to the long pier mirror at the 
end of the room, held it high and looked at 
himself. He carried the lamp back to the ta- 
ble, put it down, walked back to his chair and 
sat down. 

“Yes,” he said. 

“No!” cried Ursula. “It was just my 
imagination.” 

“It is not my imagination,” said Oliver. 
“T can see it and I’m glad for me and Bar- 
bie. I didn’t tell you, but I’ve been trying 
to find out for nearly two years. You see, 
I’ve always loved Barbie. You don’t know 
what you’ve done for me, mother!” 

She was incredulous. ‘You don’t care? 
You won’t try to find out anything more?” 

“‘T don’t care, but I'll go on trying to find 
out. I’m a lawyer; there’re ways.” 

Ursula had another disturbing thought. 
“You said you loved Barbie, Oliver. But 
Barbie’s only seventeen.” 

“You mean that father wouldn’t have it.” 

Ursula was silent. 

“Mother,” said Oliver grimly, “I know 
how it is with you about father. You’d do 
anything, even sacrifice your children, to 
save him pain. But I want Barbie and I’m not 
going to give her up for anyone. When she 
is past eighteen, we must do something 
about it.” 

“You won’t speak to Barbie, Oliver?” 
Ursula was too eager, too desperate. 

Oliver pressed his lips together and lied. 
“Not if you don’t want me to.” 

She had always trusted him. She trusted him 
again. William would never give his consent 
to a marriage between Barbara and Oliver. 
Something would happen to arrange things. 

She said, trying to be casual, “Will you 
have tea here with me? Just the two of us.” 

He said he would be glad to. For the first 
time, he remembered his promise to Matthew. 


August, 1949 


The tea was brought, and Ursula busied 
herself over the tray. 

Oliver said, putting down his teacup, “I 
went in to see Matt this afternoon to thank 
him for that wonderful miniature.” 

“Yes, it’s lovely. | wonder why Matthew 
has given up his painting. After we came 
back from Italy he seemed so interested.” 

“He ought to go back to Italy,” said 
Oliver. “‘ He ought to go now, At once.” 

“But, Oliver, he has to go to Princeton 
after the New Year. You talk very extrav- 
agantly, as if it were a matter of life and 
death.” 

“Ttis,” Oliver told her. “Haven't you 
noticed that he’s more listless than ever, this 
Christmas, that he looks really ill? It was 
only when we spoke of Italy that he came 
briefly to life. Perhaps it won’t work. But it 
is worth trying.” 

Ursula’s maternal instinct stirred vaguely 
and dimly. “I’m sure his father wouldn't 
allow it now. Perhaps next summer. And he’s 
too ill now to have any more worries.” 

Oliver stood up. ‘I know how you feel, 
But there is something else for you to think 
of. Suppose Matthew . . . dies?” 

Ursula sprang to her feet. ‘Oliver, what do 
you mean?” 

He put his hand over hers very gently. 
“Mother, I’m not going to try to soothe you 
with half-truths. When I went into Mat- 
thew's room he was thinking about death. I 
know it—it was in his face.” 

Ursula walked heavily, like an old woman. 
“Please go away,” she said. “‘Leave me 
alone. Forgive me, but you must go.” 

She was alone then and the room was dark. 
It was cold, for all the fire. But I have always 
been alone, she thought. I have four children, 
and I am alone. I have a husband. But I sacri- 
ficed my children for him, just as he sacrificed 
himself for them. We have nothing. William, 
William, we have nothing at all, either of us. 


William Prescott sat alone in his florid 
marble drawing room, reading an accumula- 
tion of financial journals. He hearda brisk step 
on the floor and looked up eagerly. His son 
Thomas was approaching. 

“‘Look, pa,” he said, ‘I wanted to talk to 
you. 

William exclaimed, ‘‘ Why, of course! You 
don’t need money again, do you, Tom?” 

“Well, I always need that,’”’ Thomas 
laughed. He could use a hundred, but he de- 
cided to postpone the request. However, 
William was taking out a wallet; he removed 
two one-hundred dollar bills which he tossed 
to his son. Thomas caught them deftly. 
“Thanks,” he grinned. ‘You know how it 

(Continued on Page 68) 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 66) 

is: all those presents for Christmas.”’ He care- 
fully tucked away the bills. ‘‘ You know how 
interested I am in the lumber business. I’ve 
read all those books you sent me and I’ve 
read others. Look, I’m over twenty-one, and 
I’m wasting my time at Yale. I want to go 
into the business with you. I don’t want to go 
back to school,” 

William, listening, was torn between de- 
light and dismay. He said, “ But, Tom, I want 
you to complete your education. You’ve 
done good work in the summers in the office, 
and in the mills. I can’t tell you how that 
pleases me. But I want you to have your 
education. You have only eighteen months 
more. It would be a mistake to throw all 
that away.” 

Thomas was relieved. He had expected a 
categorical refusal. This was going well. Now 
he leaned toward his father. ‘“* You know how 
I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. 
But you’ve done too much for all of us. It’s 
time we did something for you.” 

William was so moved that he could 
scarcely speak. His eyes dimmed. Then he 
said a little hoarsely, ‘Tom, when you talk 
that way I can’t tell you what it does to me. 
But youre too young to know what is best for 
you. Not to graduate would be a lifelong 
liability.” 

“All right. I'll go back if you insist, but 
I’ll be miserable. You don’t want that, do 
you?” 

“No,” murmured William. He thought 
of Tom permanently beside him, in his 
offices. He saw a Tom slightly older, efficient 
and absorbed, a Tom upon whom he could 
lean, a Tom he could 
trust. He said, “I’m a 
fool even to listen to you. 


August, 194 


heavily on his knee. It was the gesture of 
sick man, 

He said painfully, “Why must you ¢ 
away, Matt? You have only to say whz 
you want, and I'll get it for you.” 

“T know,” said Matthew dully, “I knovy 
And that's why I've get to go away.” : 

*“T don’t understand you, sen.”’ 

“Father, I want to go to Italy.” 

“TItaly!’’ William looked up quickly. Tt 
pain retreated from him. “Why, of cours: 
It’s your painting, isn’t it? Why didn’t yc 
say so in the beginning? Of course you cz 
go to Italy. After you come home in tl 
spring.” 

“No, not in the spring. It has to be now 


Witram smiled affectionately. “Shall v 
plan for you to goin June? I might even 
with you. Maybe Julie will want to go too 

“No,” said Matthew. “‘ Not in the sprin 
father. And not with anyone else. I must 
now and alone.” He stood up, tall and lis 
less, his hands hanging at his sides. “ Yc 
must understand, father. I've got to go awz 
alone, perhaps for a long time. I know yc 
won't understand, but I thought I ought | 
tell you. I’m going. I'll find some way, eve 
if you won't help me.” 

William tried to get to his feet, but an ove 
powering weakness made him drop bac 
“You won't say why, but you want | 
leave—to leave everything I’ve given yo 
everything I’ve worked for.”’ 

“Yes,” said Matthew. 

William shook his head slowly. “I nev 
asked anything of my children. Your liv 
were your own, I always told you. A mz 
can be free only when |] 
knows that he has no o! 
ligation to anyone exce; 


But if that is what you The discovery of a new dish himself.”’ 

2 , - does more for human hap- . Ant " 
want, I'll put my own pisses thas: the'diasdeenals The light which hz 
disappointment aside. jaw «tar. come for an instant in 


You can come into the 
business after the holi- 
days. As my secretary.” 

Thomas pulled his chair closer and patted 
his father’s knee. 

“I’m _ getting old,” said William. “I 
wouldn’t tell it to anyone else but you, Tom, 
but there’re times when I’m infernally tired.” 

Thomas stood up, strutted up and down. 
“Look at these shoulders. They’re big and 
willin’. They’re for you, pa. For you.” 

William followed him with eyes that shone. 
“What a rascal you are, Tom!” 

A rascal. Thomas contemplated the word 
with cynical satisfaction. Yes, he was a ras- 
cal. The maudlin old chap would find that 
out only too well one of these days. In the 
meantime, let him have his dreams. He drew 
out his watch. ‘Nine o’clock. And Iam due 
at Mary Blake’s home in fifteen minutes.” 

Mary Blake was the daughter of one of the 
richest ‘‘outsider”’ coal families. The Blakes 
always came to their home on the mountain 
overlooking the city for the holidays. 

“A very nice girl,’’ William said. 

“And a million dollars isn’t to be sneezed 
at,” said Thomas, winking. 

“Tt never was,” laughed William. ‘‘Go 
along. Don’t keep Mary waiting.” 


Arter Thomas had gone the warmth still 
lingered about William. He sat there alone, 
smiling. He was still smiling when he glanced 
up to see Matthew before him, Matthew who 
moved with no more sound than a shadow. 

“Matt!” said William. He saw his tall 
and delicate son, whose narrow golden head 
gleamed in the lamplight. 

“Father, I want to talk with you.” 

“Well, sit down, boy,” said William. The 
feeling of warmth and well-being increased. 
His children were coming to him, as children 
should come to a father, when they had 
problems. 

However, understanding Matthew was a 
trifle difficult. Of course, he was quiet and his 
teachers said he was a “‘genius.”’ But how 
handsome he was. Here was an aristocrat 
indeed. 

Matthew was no liar, no dissembler. He 
sat down and looked directly at William. “I 
want to go away. I must go away. At once.” 

Slowly the warmth about William re- 
treated. He dropped his hand and it fell 


— BRILLAT-SAVARIN, 


Matthew’s eyes dwindle 
to dullness. “Yes. That 
why I want to go to Italy 

Once more William moved his head slow 
from side to side in a distress for which he hz 
no words. He said, “If I were like oth 
men, I’d say, ‘No. You'll finish your educ 
tion just as I have planned.’ But that wou 
be an affront to you as a human being. If yc 
really want to, you can go to Italy.” 

Matthew said, “‘I’ll need very little mone 
I want to find some small place, and stz 
there for a few months by myself.” 

“But that’s ridiculous, Matt. You’re n 
son. I’ll send you a check every month. You 
live at the best hotels—see something | 
life.”” His smile was dark and painful. “* Th: 
girl you liked last summer, Martha Pierc 
Her father told me last summer that he ar 
Mrs. Pierce and Martha were thinking | 
touring Europe this spring. I'll drop him 
line in Pittsburgh tomorrow, and tell hi 
that I’d appreciate it if he would make 
point of seeing you in Italy.” 

Matthew stirred. ‘‘Thank you, father 
He would not see the Pierces. The ver 
thought was a weariness. He forced himse 
not to think, for if he did he would lose th 
precarious volition to go away. He had 1 
leave his father now. He almost crie 
“Thank you. Good night.” 


Barbara liked silence, but the silence of tl 
house tonight was almost more than sl 
could bear. She thought of the dance tomo 
row night in celebration of the New Year, a 
the gaiety which money could buy, all tl 
laughter youth could evoke, and turne 
away from the thought with distaste. Aft 
the guests were gone, and the musicians, to 
there would be this silence again, with eac 
member of the family walled up in himse 
because he cared for no one else. 

She sat in her own room looking out at tt 
snow heaping itself upon spruce and shrub 
blotting out the earth and the sky. J must ta 
to someone, she thought desperately. St 
had not seen Oliver since dinner, and he ha 
appeared unusually abstracted. Her brother 
had disappeared, as usual, and Julia ha 
murmured something about preparations fc 
tomorrow and had gone upstairs. Barbar 
had followed. 

(Continued on Page 70) 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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69 


70 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 68) 

She had been sitting here in her own room 
for a long time. Even Julia was someone to 
talk to, and she decided to find her sister. 
Julia seemed pale and very quiet these days. 
Was she ill? 

Barbara had waited for months to discover 
how Julia would solve the problem of herself 
| and Eugene Arnold, Apparently she had not 
| truly had any solution. Or she had failed. 
| J don't love Julie, thought Barbara. But 
I’m sorry for her. Pity was an alien thing in 
this house and Barbara had never been 
taught gentle words, consoling words or any 
phrases of sympathy. To her own wonder, 
she found herself knocking on Julia’s door. 
| Then she opened it. 
| Julia was sitting on her bed, surrounded by 
a half dozen beautiful gowns. She stared at 
Barbara with sullen distaste. ‘What do you 
want?” 

Barbara closed the door behind her. Julia 
did not ask her to sit down. 

Barbara hesitated. She glanced down at 


1 . 
6 at at \ 
y The wil rea the gowns on the bed and asked, ‘‘Are you 
=. A trying to decide what you are going to wear 
= Brea as me | tomorrow night? I think the silver one is 
a 


pretty.” 

Julia stood up, went to the fire and moved 
| a fallen ember with the toe of her buttoned 
shoe. ‘‘I’m not interested,"’ she said. *‘ What 
| does it matter to you anyway? You didn’t 
| come here to ask about my clothes, did you?” 

““No,” said Barbara seriously. ‘No, I 
didn’t.”” Awkwardness and uncertainty had 
flushed her cheeks. 

“Well, then, why are you here?” 

Barbara had no proper words for what she 
was trying to say. At last she blurted, “I 
came because I wanted to help you!" 

Julia swung around to face her. ‘Help 
me?” she repeated incredulously. “* What 
makes you think I need help?” 

Barbara detected fear in the other girl. 
| “Julie, you're not well, are you? I've seen 
| that for a long time. That's why I thought— 
I really did think—that I might be able to 
help you.” 

Julia laughed, but it was not a pleasant 
one. ‘‘How concerned you are all of a sud- 
den.”” She added, with almost her father’s 
| brutality, ‘If I needed help, which I don’t, 
I’d never go to you.” 

Barbara considered this soberly. “No,” 
she said. ‘‘And I wouldn’t blame you.” 

Julia waited, but Barbara did not go on. 
The older girl sighed in an exaggerated man- 
ner. ‘Really, Barbie, you are so mysterious 
tonight. I think you'd better go. We’ll all 
be up late tomorrow, and I was just about 
to go to bed.” 





or flavor 
and energy 


for body-building 


protein 





Suppen ty, more than ever, Barbara felt a 
desperate pity for her sister. She drew a deep 
breath. “Julie, I’ve got something to tell 
you. Last May I saw you and Gene Arnold 
up on the mountain. I didn’t intend to listen, 
but I heard everything you said. I couldn’t 
help it.’’ Julia was utterly still, standing on 
the hearth. Barbara took a step toward her. 
“Julie, you don’t need to be afraid of me. 
I’ll never tell anyone. I wouldn’t have spoken 
cae about it now only I can see you’re so worried. 
. ings you nour- oS And that’s why I wanted to help.” 
: Lipa Oey you. = ss Julia’s words came in a rush: “ You sneak. 
yeh 1 You spy! Why don’t you go and tell... . him, 
g hunger ote 7 fe" | or mamma? You’ve always hated Gene and 
it’s a great new y . » 3 © | you’ve always hated me. Well, go and tell 
CORN for ‘ : " | them. I don’t care! But I'll leave this house 
= | and I'll never come back. Never!” 





Corn-Soya wit 


ishment that actua 


It keeps mid-mornin 
Crisp and delicious, 
j food combination - - - ; 
tempting flavor and bee = “Julie, please,’”’ said Barbara wretchedly. 
SOYA for more boay- “I’m not going to tell anybody anything. 

ppersy Pia tein* than in any 4 Can’t you trust me?” 
building Pr° Julia leaned against the mantel as if com- 


in vita- 

cereal.-- plus whale ot aes f | pletely exhausted. “Trust you,” she said 
-< and minerals. It's gran Wee | bitterly. “How could I trust you, Barbie?” 
me . d everybody else. “‘T know it’s almost impossible to believe 
the kids, s eas cers that you could, isn’t it? I don’t suppose 
Get some at ¥ H we can ever be friends. It’s too late for 
x of one ounce (2/3 4 eS that. But you can trust'me, Julie. I was sit- 
The protein value with four ounces of LA A. ting alone tonight. And I began to think 
cup) of bn. of one egg with VOR. ey f about you. Then I got the idea that maybe 

me eteaiak Bacon: cit srea nOnts 7A nan : I could help you. That’s why I came.” 
‘cae and real economy: Matttone pea es oo fs Something in the younger girl’s voice must 
- Were have reached Julia. She continued to lean 
against the fireplace, but she was listening. 
Barbara went on falteringly, “You know 
how papa is always trying to get you to 





August, 1949 


notice some of the boys in the Pittsburgh or 
New York families that come here in the 
summer. He keeps wanting to know why 
you aren't interested. Julie, why don’t you 
say to him, ‘Papa, you've brought Gene 
Arnold here so many times, but he never 
even looks at me. He doesn’t know I exist. 
But I like Gene, papa. He's the kind of man 
who interests me’?” 

Julia said scornfully, “And do you know 
what papa would do? He'd send Gene away. 
He'd ruin him. And Gene would never look 
at me again.” 

Barbara said, “I don’t think so. Papa 
cares more for you than for all of us put to- 
gether. And you know how to manage him. 
Make it plain that Gene isn’t in the slight- 
est interested in you, that he even avoids 
you. That would enrage papa—the idea that 
any man could fail to admire his daughter. 
Then if he threatens to transfer Gene or 
discharge him, you can say what you've said 
to me. That you'll go away and he'll never 
see you again. You meant it, didn’t you? 
Well, papa will know that you mean it.” 

Julia clasped her hands together tightly. 
“But he hates Gene so,” 


Barpara looked at her eagerly. *‘ Yes, but 
he also depends upon him. He’s pushed him 
ahead at the office. Oh, you can do it, Julie. 
I know you can,” 

Julia moved away from the mantelpiece, 
sat down and rested her chin on her hand. 
Then she said softly, “I don’t know why you 
came here to talk to me this way. I’m not 
going to say whether I'll think about it or 
not. But I can tell you this. If you ever 
mention Gene to papa I'll tell him how you 
moon over Oliver. Papa hates him more 
than he does Gene. You know what he’d say 
if I told him you were gone on Oliver!” 

Barbara had no answer. She could only 
stand there, looking at her sister in amaze- 
ment. 

Julia began to laugh. ‘You didn’t know 
that I’ve watched you too. But I have, 
Barbie, and I know. If papa thought that you 
and Oliver were in love he'd drive Oliver out of 
the city, maybe out of the state. And so you'd 
better not say anything about me and Gene. 
If you do, I'll tell him what I know about 
you and Oliver. That’s the kind of bargain 
I'll make. That’s how much I'll trust you!” 

Barbara said brokenly, ‘‘Oh, Julie, how 
terrible this is.” 

Something in the young girl’s attitude or 
in her voice reached Julia’s consciousness. 
“Yes,” she said, “it’s terrible. But that’s the 
way we are, isn’t it?” 

Barbara lifted her head and drew a deep 
breath. “It’s the way we were, Julie. It isn’t 
the way I am any more.” 

She walked out of the room, closing the 
door behind her, then stood there, leaning 
against it. There were tears in her eyes. 
After a long moment she returned to her 
own room, put on her sealskin coat and hat, 
and slipping carefully down the servants’ 
staircase, went out of the house. 


Oliver stood near a great spruce, heavy 
with snow, and smoked quietly. His shoulders 
were white. But there were problems he must 
face and, in order to think clearly, he felt 
obliged to get out of the house. There was 
no place there where a man could be at 
peace and really alone. 

The bitter snowstorm had not done what 
he desired. He had stood by the spruce tree for 
a long time, his breath a visible vapor, and 
been unaware of the cold. He was alone in 
the storm, but he saw Eugene Arnold’s face, 
his gestures, his figure, his manner of walk- 
ing, the sudden turn of his head. He saw him- 
self reflected in all of these. 

My brother, thought Oliver, and threw his 
cigarette into the snow with a gesture of dis- 
gust. There had always been an antipathy 
between the two. Oliver was William Pres- 
cott’s adopted son, but Eugene had looked 
at him with narrow contempt. 

For over a year Oliver had been trying to 
find some trace of the parents who had 
brought him to life. William was a director 
of the orphanage from which he had taken 
Oliver, and the other directors and the 
manager were his friends. Oliver had had to 










oproach them obliquely. All he had learned 
as that he had been found in the doorway 
* the orphanage, when slightly more than 
year old. Someone had cared for him since 
irth. The orphanage could give him only 

ger information. At that time it had been 
small and poverty-stricken place. The staff 
ee a woman manager and two nurses— 

lead now—a charwoman and janitor who 
robably were also dead, since they had been 
lderly when Oliver was an infant. 

Oliver had searched the files of the Anders- 
rg newspaper and found only a single item 
eporting the fact of his arrival at the orphan- 
ge, and the date. Later, there was a para- 
taph announcing that the deserted orphan 
‘ad been adopted by William Prescott. As a 
awyer, Oliver had access to the files of the 
ocal courts. He had found the official record 
f his adoption with the notation, “Parents 
inknown.” But one parent, dead now 
or twenty-two years, was no longer un- 
snown. He was Chauncey Arnold. 

Had Oliver’s mother been a servant in his 
jouse? Or a shopgirl, a dressmaker? Any of 
hese was possible. Oliver, oblivious of the 
torm, lighted another cigarette, shielded 
he flame with his cupped hands. In his mind 
vas the certain conviction that he was not 
William Prescott’s 
on. But it was not 
nough. 

Now he was con- 
cious that he was 
very cold, and that 
lis shoulders were 
covered with snow. 
te was about to turn 
yack toward the 
jouse, so huge and 
lark behind him, 
vhen he heard foot- 
teps, as if someone 
vere running from 
the house toward 
iim. He stood still. 
[he footsteps were 
ight and quick. He 
rd the wide 
sranchesof the spruce 
yeing disturbed, a 
shower of white blew 
nto the air. Then he saw that the runner 
was Barbara, her head bent against the 
vind. She had stumbled into the spruce. 


Oliver caught her by the arm. “‘ Barbara!” 5 


1e exclaimed. 

Her round fur hat, her coat and hair glit- 
ered with the snow that had fallen upon 
hem. Oliver saw, by the distant glow of the 
treet lamps, that her face showed signs of 
srief, that there were tears in her eyes. He 
ightened his hand on her arm. 

“Don’t be frightened, dear,”’ he said. He 
sut his arms about her, held her close. “‘My 
900r child.” Then he held her more closely, 
sutting his check against her forehead. He 
et her cry, though he was deeply disturbed. 
It was not like Barbara to weep easily, and 
ne had never seen her hysterical. Presently 
ne tried to calm her. “Barbara,” he said ur- 
sently. ‘Dear Barbara. Try to tell me about 
t. Let me help you.” 

Impulsively, he bent and kissed her, first 
ner cheek and forehead, then her lips. And 
then she was no longer crying or trembling. 
She was standing very still, trying to see his 
face through the swirling snow. 

She said, ‘“‘ What did you call me, Oliver?” 

“What did I call you?” He withdrew his 
nands. He looked down at her earnestly and 
sadly. 


“You called me ‘dear,’” she said. She was 
crying again, but softly now. “Did you mean 
that, Oliver? Am I dear to you?”’ When he 
did not answer, she shook his arm. “‘Oliver, 
you kissed me. You didn’t kiss your sister, 
did you? You kissed me, didn’t you?” 

ze took her elbows in his hands and held 
ic tightly. “‘No, dear, I didn’t kiss my sister. 
I kissed you, Barbara. Dear Barbie.” 

She clung to him. “Oliver, I love you. 
Haven’t you known?” 

His lips closed sternly. Then he said, “Yes, 
dear, I did know. And I love you too. I’ve 
loved you for a long time. But, Barbie, I’ve 
nothing to offer you. And there is something 


ROO I ORK. KK Ra 


wit Tippler 
By Ernestine Cobern Beyer 


From the clover’s convivial cavern 
There issues a jovial hum 

Where the bee in his velveteen tavern 
Is quaffing his redolent rum! 


Then tipsy with essence ecstatic 
Distilled in the summery dawn, 
Off on an errand erratic 
He reels to his wings, and is gone! 


Kok Kk KR ew KK 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


that I must do which might make it impos- 
sible for you ever to marry me. I don’t want 
to do it, but I must.” 

She had heard only what she wanted to 
hear. She threw her arms about him and 
kissed him again. The fresh sweet breath 
was against his lips, the cold young mouth 
pressed against his face. ‘“Oliver!’’ she cried. 
There was so much innocence, so much pas- 
sion in her voice and in her kisses that he was 
profoundly moved and shaken. He put his 
arms about her again. He wanted to return 
her kisses, but instead he said: 


“PLease listen, Barbie dear. I have nothing 
and I am nobody. In a little while, perhaps, 
I'll even be worse than nobody. There’s some- 
thing I have to do. We must wait, Barbie.”’ 

She heard him now. “You think I’m too 
young, don’t you?” she asked. ““But I’m not, 
Oliver. Not really. Who could live in our 
house and ever be young? Oliver, I ran out 
here because I couldn’t stand it another 
minute. I had to get away. You must take 
me away from here soon. I’m not hysterical, 
believe me!” 

He thought of Matthew, and said, “I be- 
lieve you. However, you are still only a young 
girl. I can’t give you any promises, Barbie, 
and I can’t take any. 
It wouldn’t be fair to 
you.” 

She said, “Oliver, 
will you marry me? 
Soon?” 

“Barbie ——’”’ he 
began. 

But she was speak- 
ing again. “‘ You said 
you have nothing, 
that you’re a ‘no- 
body.’ I wouldn’t 
care, even if it were 
true, but it isn’t. 
You have what you 
are, and that is so 
much for me that I 
feel ashamed to ask 
for it. Will you marry 
me, Oliver?’’ she 
asked. ‘‘Will you take 
me away?” 

He tried to withdraw his arms, but she 
held them tightly about her. Then he said, 
“Why did you run out of the house tonight?” 

“Because I was frightened. Frightened at 
the terribleness of it, and the people who live 
in it, and even of myself. Perhaps you don’t 
want me because you know what we all are. 
But I’m trying not to be like that. Believe 
me, I am.” 

“Barbie, dear,” he said, “I know what 
you are.”’ He was disturbed to see her in such 
misery. He went on gently, ‘‘Barbie, will 
you marry me? Not right away, but perhaps 
in a few months?” 

She was overwhelmed with joy. “‘Oliver!”’ 

“But you mustn’t tell this to anyone, 
Barbie, not even to your mother, until we 
are ready. You must promise me that.” 

“T will! I will, Oliver!” 

She was like a child. She is a child, thought 
Oliver. But she is also a woman. No child 
could kiss a man as she had kissed him. 

“Well, then,” he said affectionately, “‘it’s 
settled. But it’s late, and you are shaking 
with cold. Let us go back to the house.” 

He drew her hand through his arm, and 
they turned to the house together. 


The spring air was cold and chilling as 
Oliver left the courthouse, but he was elated 
and filled with a sense of well-being. He had 
won his case in behalf of the clients of Scott, 
Meredith & Owens. Mr. Scott had intended 
to present the case himself, but had been 
stricken with influenza. He had asked Oliver 
to take his place, and now Oliver had won. 

He treated himself to a good luncheon at 
the Imperial Hotel. He had almost three 
hours before court opened again. Inthemean- 
time, he had some personal errands. This 
morning, before going to court, he had re- 
ceived two messages, one from William Pres- 
cott and one from Ezra Bassett. The one from 
William disturbed him. Could Barbara’s 
father have learned about their secret en- 

(Continued on Page 73) 


71 


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in the pantry package or 
handy cellophane 





he 

re 1 package Orange Jell-O 
rot 4s ; 2 cups hot water 

ao % V 1 tablespoon lemon juice 


——— 


LUXURY FRUIT WHIP... A dash of imagination and 


the rich sunny flavor of won- 
derful, wonderful Orange Jell-O 
transform a thrifty bit of 
canned fruit into this lavish 

























> 
46 cup drained canned fruit lovely! 
’ salad or fruit cocktail Just dissolve Jell-O in hot 
; water. Add lemon juice, Chill 


; 1% cups of the mixture until slightly thickened. Place in 
bowl of cracked ice and water and whip with rotary egg 
beater until fluffy and thick like whipped cream. Pile in 
serving bowl and place in refrigerator. ; 
Chill remaining Jell-O mixture in the bowl of ice and 
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Makes 6 servings, 








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TANGY SUMMER SALAD ... Excite lazy appetites on a warm day 
with this cool, green dream of a jellied 
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Dissolve Jell-O in hot water. Add vine- 
gar, grated onion, salt, and pepper. Turn 
1 cup of mixture into 10 x 5 x 3-inch loaf 


2 packages Lime Jell-O 
3% cups hot water 

2 tablespoons vinegar 

2 teaspoons grated onion 
1 teaspoon salt 

Dash of pepper 


44 cup sliced scored cucumber 
1 cup cottage cheese 

44 cup finely diced green pepper 
44 cup finely diced carrot 

44 cup finely diced cucumber 


pan and chill until slightly thickened. Ar- 
range cucumber slices in mixture. Chill 
until firm. 

Chill remaining Jell-O mixture until 
slightly thickened. To 1% cups, add cot- 
tage cheese and diced vegetables. Turn 


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2 cups hot liquid (fruit juice young guest’s name! 
and watex, on oll wales) Just dissolve Jell-O in hot 
Recs liquid. Turn into sherbet glasses 
and chill until firm. 
Make icing by creaming 114 teaspoons butter with 4% cup 
sifted confectioners’ sugar, 1 tablespoon cream, 4 teaspoon 
vanilla, and dash of salt. To spell out children’s names on 
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(Continued from Page 71) 
gagement? In any event, the interview could 
hardly be pleasant. Mr. Bassett’s message 
merely stirred his curiosity. 

He set off toward the sawmills, where he 
was almost a stranger. 

A receptionist told him that Mr. Prescott 
had not yet returned from luncheon. Oliver 
sat in the waiting room, and looked about 
him. Across the hall he saw on another door 
the words, ‘‘Eugene Arnold, General Man- 
ager.” 

Oliver stood up on impulse and crossed the 
hall. He said to the young man at the desk, 
“Mr. Arnold, please. Oliver Prescott calling.” 

The young man disappeared through a 
door, soon returned. ‘“‘Mr. Arnold will see 
you, sir,” he said. ‘ 

Oliver entered the private office where Eu- 
gene sat behind a wide and shining width 
of mahogany. Everything about the room 
had his own aseptic quality, austere and 
aloof. Eugene looked at Oliver in deliberate 
silence for a moment, then said, ‘Hello, 
Oliver. You wished to see me?” 

Oliver was already regretting his impulse. 
“Father asked me to drop in to see him,”’ he 
said. “‘ He’s not in his office and I thought he 
might possibly be in here with you.” 

Eugene laid down the pen he had been 
holding. He is wondering why father called me, 
thought Oliver. He is also disturbed. And he 
may be my own brother! 

“Well, he isn’t here,” said Eugene. He 
was studying his visitor and there were thin 
lines of perplexity between his eyebrows. 
“Have you any idea why he wanted to see 
you? Perhaps I could take care of it and 
save him time. You know 
he isn’t well.” 

“T know that,’’ Oliver 


, 


said. “After all, I live in $ The woman 


from the back seat is no 
worse than the man who cooks 
from the dining-room table. 


the same house with him. 
I don’t know why he 
wanted to see me.” 

Eugene continued to 
regard him thoughtfully. 
Suddenly the door opened, and Tom en- 
tered with his usual boisterousness. ‘Hey, 
Gene!” he began before realizing that Oliver 
was in the room. He stopped and a blank 
look came over his face. He said in a lower 
voice, ‘‘Oh, hello, Oliver. It’s a surprise to see 
you here.” 

“Has your father returned?” asked Eu- 
gene, with cold formality. “Oliver is waiting 
to see him. Your father asked him to’ call.”’ 

“Eh?” said Tom. Then he turned to 
Oliver curiously. ““He wants to see you? 
Why?” 

Oliver stood up. “I don’t know. I came 
to find out.” 

Thomas jerked his head toward the door. 
“Well, ifit’s important to you, he’s in his of- 
fice now. We just came in from lunch to- 
gether.” 

Oliver said “‘Good-by,” and went out, 
closing the door decisively behind him. 


Wiuiam prescott faced Oliver across his 
desk, lowering and gloomy. He looked much 
older than his actual years. Something seemed 
to have broken in him since Matthew had 
gone away. He said angrily, ‘‘ Why didn’t you 
come to me in the first place? You didn’t 
have to go to that asylum, asking questions 
and making a nuisance of yourself. Why 
didn’t you come to me if you had questions 
to ask?” 

“I’m sorry,” said Oliver quietly. “I didn’t 
want to bother you.” 

William still looked angry. ““Why do you 
want to know, anyway? Aren’t you satisfied 
with things the way they are?”’ 

“Tt isn’t that,” Oliver said. ‘‘ But it’s nat- 
ural. isn’t it, to want to know who I really 
am? If I still have a mother or a father, or 
perhaps a brother or a sister. Somewhere 
there must be someone who belongs to me.” 

“T doubt it,” William said roughly. “But 
I can understand your wanting to know. I 
suppose it’s natural. Just the same, you 
should have come to me.” 

“I don’t suppose there is anything you 
can tell me beyond what they told me at the 
orphanage?” 

William leaned back in his chair, scowling. 
“I know what they’ve told you. There’s 


73 


just this much more. On the night you 
were left at the hospital, someone rang 
the janitor’s bell. It was.late. He was an 
old feller, that janitor, and he came to the 
door half asleep. There was a woman there, 
with a child in her arms. Nota young woman. 
Just a poor woman, about fifty years old. 
She said she wanted to talk to the manager 
about leaving the child there for a few days. 
The janitor let her come into the hall and 
said he’d go for the manager. Then the 
woman said to him, ‘The baby’s name is 
Oliver.’ Apparently she wanted to be sure 
he had heard that, for she repeated it. The 
janitor went off to get the manager and when 
they returned the woman was gone. She had 
left you on a couch in the hall. No one else 
had seen her. That is all there is to the story.” 

“And she never came back ?”’ asked Oliver. 

“No. She couldn’t have been your mother, 
though, she was too old. They examined your 
clothes. They were poor, but clean and warm. 
You’d evidently had good care, for you were 
healthy and plump. A few months later I 
adopted you.” 


O iver tried to speak lightly. ““So I wasn’t 
exactly left on a doorstep, as the story goes?” 

“No. But almost.” 

Oliver stood up. ‘Thank you, father.” 

He walked back to the courthouse, think- 
ing intently. At any rate, he had been given 
a name. Oliver. Oliver what? And then he 
had a sudden inspiration. He hurried on to 
the courthouse. 

Within a short time he had found a copy 
of Chauncey Arnold’s probated will. It was 
dated two years before he died. It was a brief 
will, but a sound one, 
for at that time he had 
had a fortune and a pros- 
perous business. He had 
left his money in trust for 
his wife, Alice, the income 
to be used by her during 
her lifetime. Then came a 
curious paragraph: 


who drives 


Upon the death of my wife, Alice Arnold, 
the principal is to be divided between or 
among my issue, equally, without reservation 
or prejudice, under any circumstances. 


Oliver stared at the last paragraph. “‘Be- 
tween or among my issue.’”’ Chauncey Arnold, 
then, had known that another woman was 
about to bear him a child. He had not named 
her. He had not named any child, not even 
Eugene. He had spoken of his “‘issue.”’ 

Chauncey Arnold had been swept into 
bankruptcy, but he had left a sum in trust 
to provide Eugene’s education, a sum beyond 
the trust left to his wife. No one had ques- 
tioned the will. It had been assumed that 
Chauncey Arnold had had hopes that Alice 
would bear more children. She had borne 
him only one child. 

Did Eugene Arnold know the exact word- 
ing of this will? If so, had he ever wondered 
about it? 

Or had anyone else? 


After court had adjourned, Oliver tele- 
phoned Ezra Bassett. Ezra’s voice came over 
the wire in the friendliest fashion. Banking 
hours were over, but if Oliver could come now 
he would see him at once. He concluded mys- 
teriously, ‘It is quite important, my boy.” 

Oliver made the trip to the bank by hack 
and was admitted to Mr. Bassett’s office. The 
banker was smoking before a fire. He gave 
Oliver his hand, greeted him warmly. Then 
he went to a cabinet and drew out a musty 
old bottle and two small glasses. 

“T’ve been hearing good things about you 
lately, Oliver. Very good things.” He poured 
the brandy, offered a glass to the young 
man and replaced the bottle. Then he sat 
down before the fire again. He held up his 
glass to the light, nodded as if satisfied, drank 
a little. “‘Oliver,’”’ he said, “‘you’re a lawyer 
and I want to engage your services. In short, 
I want your advice.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Bassett. But Mr. Scott 
or Mr. Meredith would be a better choice, 
though I can’t help being flattered at your 
calling on me.” 

“Nonsense,” replied the banker sturdily. 
“As I said, I want your advice. It is a per- 








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74 


sonal matter, Oliver, and of course strictly 
confidential. I must tell you first a rather 
sordid story.” He took up his glass, and again 
examined it critically. Then he touched a bell 
on the table beside him. A clerk came in and 
Mr. Bassett said, ‘‘Make out a check as re- 
tainer for Oliver Prescott.”” He turned to 
Oliver. ‘‘Shall we say two hundred dollars, 
Oliver?”’ 

The young man was thoughtful. After a 
moment he said, ‘‘Two hundred dollars will 
be all right, Mr. Bassett.” . 

The clerk departed and Oliver waited. But 
Mr. Bassett began to inquire paternally 
about Oliver’s affairs. J see, thought Oliver. 
He will say nothing until he has given me the 
check, and has a witness. Ezra Bassett’s voice 
went on until the clerk returned. Mr. Bas- 
set signed the check and handed it to Oliver. 

It was the time, the young man knew, to 
make his decision. He did not like Ezra Bas- 
sett or trust him. He could refuse the check 
and again advise the banker to consult a 
senior member of the firm. But something 
kept him silent. 

Ezra Bassett said to the clerk, ‘“ You have 
a receipt for Mr. Prescott to sign?” 

“A check is usually a receipt,” said Oliver 
curtly. 

Mr. Bassett nodded. ‘“‘ Yes—but you must 
forgive my old-fashioned ways.”’ 

A check might not be cashed, but a re- 
ceipt was always on hand. Oliver set his lips 
tightly. In silence, he signed the receipt and 
the clerk withdrew. 

‘‘Now then,” said Bassett. His voice had 
subtly changed. ‘‘This story concerns an old 
friend of mine who died nearly twenty-three 
years ago. Chauncey Arnold.”’ He coughed. 
“Of course, you were only an infant at the 
time Mr. Arnold died, so you would not know 
all the details of the matter between your 
father and Chauncey.” 

“T know about it,”’ said Oliver. 

“Indeed,” murmured Mr. Bassett. ‘‘ Well, 
I suppose it was inevitable that you would 
hear about it. And then, there is Gene Arnold. 
It was good of William to employ him. I 
thought at the time it might prove embar- 
rassing, but William couldn’t have made a 
better choice.’’ He paused, studying Oliver’s 
face. ‘What do you think of Gene Arnold, 
Oliver?” 

“T don’t know him well,” replied Oliver. 
“IT see him often, of course, but I still don’t 
feel that I know him well.” 

Bassett went on, “Gene is doing an excel- 
lent job as general manager. In spite of what 
some people might say, Chauncey Arnold 
was no fool, except in one instance. He might 
have continued his success if he hadn’t bee= 
so self-indulgent in later years, just before he 
died. You would not know this, but as a 
young man he was very handsome. We were 
boys together, Oliver. Chauncey, however, 
developed a tendency to put on too much 
flesh and he drank considerably.” 

“Ts this the ‘sordid’ story you wished to 
tell me, Mr. Bassett?”’ asked Oliver after 
some moments of silence had passed. 

‘“No, it is only the prelude, my dear boy. 
I just wanted you to know something about 
Chauncey Arnold’s life and his background. 
I have areason for it. Do you remember Mrs. 
Arnold, Oliver?” 

“Yes. We used to call her Aunt Alice. I was 
very fond of her. She was kind to me, and 
mother regarded her as one of her best 
friends.” 


Eizra Bassett nodded. ‘Yes. She was a 
fine woman and Chauncey was devoted to 
her. Even at his worst, when he appeared to 
neglect her, he’d never have willingly 
wounded her. And that is why he came to me 
nearly twenty-five years ago with a story 
that distressed him to tell, and distressed me 
to listen to.” 

Oliver’s heart was beating faster. He felt 
an excitement he could not suppress. 

“In short,” Bassett continued; “‘it was 
the old, old story, with a slight variation. 
Chauncey was at one time a very rich man. 
Alice had a personal maid, a quiet, demure 
little thing, whose name was Mary Bauer. 
She was eighteen, and very pretty. I saw 
her once or twice. A small girl, rather frail- 
looking with big dark eyes and dark hair.”’ 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Tn short,” repeated Oliver harshly, “it 
was the ‘old, old story,’ and Mr. Arnold 
seduced her.” 

The banker coughed, as if offended by 
such direct language. ‘“‘Let us say that 
Chauncey and the girl fell in love,” he 
said. ‘‘I don’t know how it happened. But 
it did. None of Arnold’s friends knew any- 
thing about it—not even Alice, I am certain. 
I myself was astounded when Chauncey 
came to me, very much upset, and told me 
the girl was going to have a child. She had 
told him she was going away. Not to her 
home, because her parents were sternly reli- 
gious people. She went to some family friends 
in Greensleet.”’ 

Greensleet! Oliver knew the place. It was 
a small town only thirty miles from Anders- 
burg. 

Bassett said, ‘‘Of course, I was very dis- 
turbed when Chauncey told me the story. 
He said that the girl would not accept money 
from him, begged him not to follow her, or 
try to see her ever again. It was the only way 
she could protect herself, she said. So, she 
went to Greensleet to her friends. And 
Chauncey came to me. He gave me three 
thousand dollars for the girl. I was to send 
it to the bank in Greensleet with the ex- 
planation that ‘friends’ were forwarding the 
money for Mary, friends who preferred to 
remain anonymous. They sent me a receipt 
and I have it. But apparently Mary found 
her ‘friends’ in Greensleet less hospitable 
than she had expected. At any rate, within 
six weeks she married a young ne’er-do-well 
of a farm laborer, possibly with the idea of 
protecting her child. No one knew much 
about him. She had refused the money in the 
bank at first, but one day she appeared at 
the bank and said she was going to be mar- 
ried, and wanted the money to buy a farm 
for her husband-to-be. I suspect that is why 
he married her.” 

Oliver was beginning to see little Mary 
Bauer with clarity, a girl suddenly facing the 
realization that her child would be born 
under dreadful circumstances, unless she 
accepted Chauncey Arnold’s money, and 
some sort of husband. He could feel her 
despair. This poor little creature, without 
friends and without help, who was _ his 
mother. 

“Yes, it was very sad,” the banker went 
on. “Very unfortunate. At any rate, she 
married the young man and they bought a 
farm. It was a good property, but he was 
worthless. His name was John Oliver.” 

Oliver stood up—too restless and dis- 
traught to remain quiet. 


Ezra Bassett apparently had not noticed; 
he was too engrossed in memories of the past. 
“Perhaps things might not have gone badly, 
except for a most unfortunate accident. The 
baby was born about six months after the 
marriage, Then the farmhouse burned down 
in the middle of the night, when the child was 
about a year old, John Oliver drank heavily 
and probably was responsible for the fire. 
Mary awakened to find her bedroom full of 
smoke and flames, She escaped with the child, 
just before the roof crashed in, John, who 
had been downstairs, died in the fire. The girl 
was terribly burned, but she had wrapped a 
blanket about the baby, and it was not in- 
jured. They were given shelter in the home 
of a neighbor about a mile away. It was 
winter, and how she managed to find the 
house, suffering as she was, I don’t know. 
Only fear for her child must have driven her 
She collapsed as soon as she reached the farm- 
house. They called the village’s only doctor 
and he told them that the girl was dying. 
The neighbors prevailed upon her to tell the 
name of the friends who had originally taken 
her in. She told them and the friends came. 
They notified Mary's family.” 

“Did they come?” asked Oliver. 

“Yes. Her mother and father came. Mary 
was an only child and her parents were grim, 
unrelenting people, astounded at the story 
which they heard. The girl told them every- 
thing before she died and begged them to 
keep her baby. They might have done so, but 
they discovered that the whole neighbor- 
hood knew that John Oliver was not the 
baby’s father. According to their ideas, an 
illegitimate child was not only an outcast in 
the sight of man, but in the sight of God. 
As guilty as the parents. So one night the 
grandmother brought him to Andersburg 
and left him at the orphanage. She spoke to 
the janitor, told him the baby’s name and 
then went away.” 

Oliver sat down again. He felt that his 
legs could no longer hold him. 

Mr. Bassett relaxed in his chair. “Let us 
be just to Chauncey. He never knew any of 
this. I’m sure that if he had, he would have 
helped the child. He never knew that the 
baby left at the orphanage was his. About 
twelve years ago I received a letter from the 
girl’s mother. By this time, Mary’s father 
was dead. The mother was seriously ill, too, 
and probably her conscience had begun to 
disturb her. Her daughter had told her that 
Chauncey had deposited some money to 
Mary’s account in the Greensleet bank and 
she had learned that I had forwarded the 
money. So she wrote me. She enclosed two 





August, 1949 


newspaper clippings, one about the desertion 
of the baby and the other about its adoption. 
She wrote that for years she had pondered 
over whether or not she should communicate 
with the man who had adepted her grand- 
child. She could not bring herself to do this, 
for some hidden reason, But she hated 
Chauncey Arnold, Apparently she did 


know he was dead and thought he ought to — 


be ‘shamed,’ that her daughter should be 
‘avenged in the sight of God,’”’ 

Bassett got up and brought out the bottle 
of brandy again. He refilled Oliver's glass 
and his own. Then he sat down and drank 
meditatively. But Oliver did not drink. 


Naruracy,” said the banker, “I was 
greatly disturbed. Chauncey was dead and I 
knew the man who had adopted the child. 
What should I do? Should I open old wounds, 
cause misery and distress to my friend? For 
of course he, too, hated Chauncey Arnold. It 
was a great responsibility. I felt unequal to 
it. What would happen to the boy, if my 
friend learned that his adopted son was 
really the child of a man he hated? No,” said 
Bassett, ‘*I was not equal to telling. Let the 
dead bury the dead.” 

Oliver said harshly, ‘ But you intend tell- 
ing your ‘friend’ now?” 

Ezra Bassett gave him a hurt and as 
tounded glance. ‘My dear boy! Certainly 
not! How could you think that?” 

Strangely, Oliver believed him. ‘ What 
are you waiting for, Mr. Bassett? For, you 
see, I know you are waiting for something.” 

“Yes, Oliver, I am waiting for some- 
thing.” 

“You are waiting for the time to tell 
Eugene Arnold who his brother is?” 

Bassett sipped his brandy with relish. 
“Exactly.”” For a moment he was thought- 
ful. ‘Or, perhaps, for the brother to reveal 
his identity to Gene.” 

Now Oliver understood. He got to his feet 
and moved about the room. “Mr. Bassett,” 
he asked, ‘‘ why have you told me this story?” 


“IT wanted your advice. Shall I tell this | 


young man of his real parentage?”’ 

For a long time they looked at each other. 
The fire crackled. The short spring evening 
was darkening outside. Then Oliver said, 
“No. Not yet.” 

“But when?” 

““When the time comes. You are waiting 
for the time, aren’t you?” 

“You are very astute, Oliver.” 

The younger man drew a deep breath. 
“You have everything—the letter, the clip- 
pings, the receipts?” 

“Yes. Certainly. And the child’s birth 
certificate, and Mary’s marriage certificate.” 

Oliver took up his hat and coat. ‘‘Good-by, 
Mr. Bassett. And, of course, I understand 
that all this is confidential. You made sure 
of that. Good-by, Mr. Bassett.” 

“Er, just a moment, my boy.” They left 
the office together. The bank had been closed 
for some time. Clerks were busy at their 
books. Mr. Bassett called one, and within a 
few moments he and Oliver were standing in 
the vaults. Mr. Bassett opened a certain box 
while Oliver stood by. ‘‘This box is in your 
name, Oliver,’’ said Mr. Bassett. 

Inside there was a yellow envelope, filled 
with letters and papers. Oliver took the en- 
velope, balanced it in his hand. They were the 
papers that established his paternity! He 
looked at Mr. Bassett, and his eyes narrowed. 
He put the envelope in his pocket. 

“I shall have copies made,” he said, ‘and 
put one copy in this box, and keep the orig- 
inal myself, and give another set to you.” 

“Good.” Bassett patted Oliver’s shoulder. 
“You do not consider my silence reprehensi- 
ble, everything considered?” 

Oliver did not answer immediately. 

Mr. Bassett smiled. “‘ You see, I am also a 
director of the orphanage. And I understand 
that you have been doing a little questioning 
there. Nothing to be found except their 
records, which tell very little. Just the name 
of the boy. That clears me, eh?” 

“T am your lawyer,” Oliver said. “I told 
you that what you have communicated to 
me is confidential.” 


(To be Concluded) 








M-G-M present 
JENNIFER JONES 
VAN HELE 
LOUIS JOUKD 






LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 75 


aa 


5 


“CHRISTOPHER KENT - cene Locknart . FRANK ALLENBY ~ GLADYS COOPER 


and J AM I \ MAS () \ GUSTAVE FLAGBERP THE AUTHOR 


: Screen Play by ROBERT ARDREY e Based on the Novel by GUSTAVE FLAUBERT 
Directed by VINCENTE MINNELLI + Producétt sy PANDRO S. BERMAN 


A METRO-GOLDWYN- MAYER PICTURE 


Sharpened appetites always come to 








an outdoor buffet. 


@ Lentil-and-tongue casserole 
holds the position of honor, with a 
huge salad, relishes and bread sticks 


to make the main course complete, 


@ Homemade French pastries 
are the sweet—serve them with a 
basket of ice-cold fruit to provide 
a contrasting fresh, tart taste. 


PHOTOS BY STUART 


TION 





T least once during August [ like to entertain with an outdoor buffet. I don’t 
nN mean a sandwich-and-salad affair, but acomplete meal that is transportable 
from house to terrace or garden or wherever the spirit moves us. Some- 
times we serve our outdoor buffets at the pool, and occasionally we go fairly far 
afield to some especially beautiful spot. But these parties, wherever their set- 
ting, are always a lot of fun. Maybe it’s the knowledge that summer is going, 
going and will soon be gone that gives them an extra fillip, and certainly the 
sharpened appetite that seems to come to dinner in the open does them no harm. 

Here is one of my favorite menus for an outdoor buffet, and I hope your 
guests will enjoy it as much as ours have. 

The whole meal is built around one extra-hearty main dish, lentil-and- 
smoked-tongue casserole. | may be wrong, but it seems to me that most people 
think of lentils in connection with soup and let it go at that. Too bad if I’m 
right, because they are so delicious baked, just as you would bake beans, with 
lots of bacon and stuff, and they make a perfect base for all sorts of meat cas- 
seroles. In this one they are combined with tomatoes, onions, green peppers and 
tongue, all built up in layers and baked in the oven, and it’s really quite a con- 
coction. With it we'll have a huge salad, made of greens, cucumbers and to- 
matoes, with a mound of cottage cheese dressed up with grated onions and 
horse-radish. (Continued on Page 158) 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


into “safe rides for a lady,’’ and had sold 
them at a profit. And now that the manor 
was a boarding school she was teaching 
others to ride. 

“Eleanor is very late, isn’t she?” 

“Ts she out with La Parslow?” Simon 
asked. 

“The Parslow girl, yes.” 

“The unhappy horse has probably dropped 
dead.” 

Simon got up to take away the soup plates, 
and to serve the meat course from the 
sideboard, and Bee watched him with critical 
approval. At least she had managed not to 
spoil Simon; and that, given Simon’s selfish 
charm, was no small achievement. Simon had 
an air of appealing dependence that was 
quite fallacious, but it had fooled all and 
sundry since he was in the nursery. Bee 
sat with her eyes on the view beyond the 
window. 

A fine inheritance; a fine rich inheritance. 
She hoped that Simon would do well by it. 
Only Latchetts, of all the surrounding es- 
tates, still sheltered a local family, and Bee 
hoped that it would go on sheltering Ashbys 
for centuries to come. 

Across the valley the long, white house of 
Clare stood in its park, gracious as a vice- 
reine, but there were no Ledinghams there 
now. The great house in the park was a board- 
ing school for the unmanageable children of 
parents with large banking accounts. 

But the Ashbys stayed at Latchetts. 


As Bee poured the coffee the twins disap- 
peared on ploys of their own, this being their 
half holiday. 

“Do you want the car this afternoon?” 
Simon asked. “I half promised old Gates 
that I would bring a calf out from Westover 
in one of our trailers. His own has collapsed.” 

“No, I don’t need it,”” Bee said, wonder- 
ing what had prompted Simon to so dull a 
chore. She hoped it was not the Gates 
daughter, who was very pretty, very silly and 
very commonplace. Gates was the tenant of 
Wigsell, the smallest of the three farms. 

“Tf you really want to know,” Simon said 
as he got up, “I want to see June Kaye’s new 
picture. It’s at the Empire.” 

The disarming frankness of this would 
have delighted anyone but Beatrice Ashby, 
who knew very well her nephew’s habit of 
throwing up two balls to divert your atten- 
tion from the third. 

“Bee,” said a voice in the hall. “Are you 
there, Bee?” 

“Mrs. Peck,” Simon said, going out to 
meet her. 

“Come in, Nancy,” Bee called. “Come 
and have coffee with me. The others have 
finished.” 

The rector’s wife put her empty basket 
on the sideboard, and sat down with a 
pleased sigh. “I could do with some.” 

When people mentioned Mrs. Peck’s name 
they still added, ‘““Nancy Ledingham that 
was, you know,”’ although it was a decade 
since she had stunned the social world by 
marrying George Peck and burying herself in 
a country rectory. Nancy Ledingham had 
been the debutante of her year. And then, 
quite suddenly, she had married George 
Peck. As the society editor of the Clarion 
said, “A clergyman! I ask you! I could get 
more romance out of a cement mixer!” 

But after thirteen years of rectory life 
Nancy Peck was still serenely and unques- 
tionably beautiful; and people still said, 
“Nancy Ledingham that was, you know.” 

“T’ve come for the eggs,” she said, “but 
there’s no hurry.” 

Bee’s eyes slid sideways at her in a smile. 

“You have such a nice face, Bee.” 

“Thanks. Ruth says it is a face like a very 
expensive cat.” a 

“Nonsense. At least, not the furry kind. 
Oh, I know what she means! The long- 
necked, short-haired kind that show their 
small chins. Heraldic cats. Yes, Bee, darling, 
you have a face like a heraldic cat. Especially 
when you keep your head still and slide your 
eyes at people.” She put her cup down and 


CROOKED PENNY 


(Continued from Page 35) 


sighed again with pleasure. “How are the 
coming-of-age preparations getting on?” 

“The invitations are about to go to the 
printer’s. A dinner for intimates, here; and a 
dance for everyone in the barn. What is 
Alec’s address, by the way?” 

“T can’t remember his latest one offhand. 
He has a different one almost every time he 
writes. Not that I hear from him often, of 
course.” 

“Ts he playing just now?” 

“T don’t know. He is so much a type that 
his parts are necessarily limited.” 

“Yes, I suppose so.” 

“No one could cast Alec as anything but 
Alec. You don’t know how lucky you are, 
Bee, to have Ashbys to deal with. The inci- 
dence of rakes in the Ashby family is singu- 
larly low.” 

“There was Walter. 

“A lone wolf crying in the wilderness. 
What became of Cousin Walter?” 

“Oh, he died.” 

They sat together in a comfortable silence. 
Bee was several years older than her friend. 
But neither could remember a time when the 
other was not there; and the Ledingham 
children had gone in and out of Latchetts as 
if it were their home. 

“T have been thinking so often lately of 
Bill and Nora,”’ Nancy said. “‘This would 
have been such a happy time for them.” 

“Yes,”’ Bee said, her eyes on the window. 

It was at that view she had been looking 
when it happened. On a day very like this. 
The turning on of the wireless had been so 
absent-minded a gesture that she did not 
know she had done it. ‘‘The two-o’clock 
plane from Paris to London,” said the cool 
voice, “crashed this afternoon just after 
crossing the Kent coast. There were no sur- 
vivors.”” 

Nancy said, “‘ They have been so much in 
my mind lately, now that Simon is going to 
be twenty-one.” 

“And Patrick has been in mine.” 

“‘Patrick?’’ Nancy sounded at a loss. “‘Oh, 
yes, of course. Poor Pat.” 

Bee looked at her curiously. “ You had al- 
most forgotten, hadn’t you?” 

“Well, it is a long time ago, Bee. And— 
well, I suppose one’s mind tidies away the 
things it can’t bear to remember. Bill and 
Nora—that was frightful, but it was some- 
thing that was part of the ordinary risks of 
life. But Pat—that was different.’”’ She sat 


: isin ar 
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August, 1949 


silent for a moment. ‘‘ Was he as like Simon 
as Ruth is like Jane?” 

“Oh, no. They weren’t identical twins.” 

“Simon seems to have got over it. Do you 
think he remembers it often?” 

“He must have remembered it very often 
lately.” 

“Yes, But it is a long way between thir- 
teen and twenty-one. I expect even a twin 
grows shadowy at that distance.” 


Tins gave Bee pause. How shadowy was 
he to her: the little boy who should have been 
coming into his inheritance next month? She 
tried to call up his face in front of her, but 
there was only a blur. All she really remem- 
bered was that he was solemn and kind. 

“T still wonder,” Bee said unhappily, 
“whether we should have allowed the body 
that was found on the Castleton beach to be 
buried over there. A pauper’s burial, it was.” 

“But, Bee! It had been months in the 
water, hadn’t it? And Castleton is miles 
away. It is not sense to worry over—to iden- 
tify it with ——” Her dismayed voice died 
into silence. 

“No, of course it isn’t!”’ Bee said briskly. 
“I am just being morbid. Have some more 
coffee.” 

And as she poured the coffee she decided 
that when Nancy had gone she would unlock 
the private drawer of her desk and burn that 
pitiful note of Patrick's. She had never had 
the heart to tear it up. But of course that was 
absurd. It was no more part of Patrick than 
was the despair that had filled him when he 
wrote: “I’m sorry, but I can’t bear it any 
longer. Don’t be angry with me. Patrick.” 
Round, careful letters written with the stylo- 
graph that he had been so attached to. It was 
so like Patrick to apologize for taking his own 
life. 

Nancy proffered what she considered to be 


consolation. ‘They say that when you throw- 4 


yourself from a high place you lose conscious- 
ness almost at once.” 

“T don’t think he did it that way, Nan.” 

“No. But that was where the note was 
found. I mean, the coat with the note in the 
pocket. On the cliff top.” 

“Yes, but by the path down the gap to the 
shore.” 

“Then what do you ——” 

“T think he swam out.” 

“Till he couldn’t come back, you mean?”’ 

(Continued on Page 81) 


**Roses are red, 
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If I were you!”’ 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 79 






a h 


“With this ring I thee wed...” Eddie started campaigning for Dot 
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‘ 


(Continued from Page 7&8) 

“Yes. When I was in loco parentis that 
time, when Bill and Nora were on holiday, 
we went several times to the gap, the chil- 
dren and I, to swim and have a picnic. And 
once when we were there Patrick said that 
the best way to die—I think he called it the 
lovely way—would be to swim out until you 
were too tired to go any farther. He loved the 
water.”’ She was silent for a little and then 
blurted out the thing that had been her 
private nightmare for years. “I’ve always 
been afraid that when it was too late to come 
back he may have regretted.” 

“Oh, Bee, no!” 

“Morbid. I know. Forget I said it.” 

Nancy said, wondering, ‘‘Why was Pat- 
rick so inconsolable about his parents’ 
death?” 

_“T didn’t know he was. None of us did. All 
the children were wild with grief to begin 
with, of course. But none more than another. 
Patrick seemed bewildered rather than in- 
consolable. “You mean, Latchetts belongs to 
me now?’ I remember him saying, as if it 
were some strange idea, difficult to under- 
stand. I think that it was all too much for 
Patrick. The adrift feeling of being suddenly 
without his father and mother. He was so un- 
happy that he... took a way out.” 

“Poor Pat. Poor darling.” 

“Come; let us go and get those eggs. You 
won't forget to let me have Alec’s address, 
will you? A Ledingham must have an invita- 
tion.” 

“No, Dll look it up when I go back, and 
telephone it to you. You won’t forget that 
he is Alec Loding on the stage, will you?” 

“T wonder if he would come. A country life 
is not Alec’s idea of amusement. But an 
Ashby coming-of-age is 
surely something that 
would interest him.” 


Thinking is the talking of 
the soul with itself. 


Alec Loding’s main in- 
terest inthe Ashby coming- 
of-age was to blow the 
celebrations sky-high. In- 
deed, he was at this moment actively engaged 
in pulling strings to that end. He was sitting 
in the back room at the Green Man, the re- 
mains of lunch spread before him, and beside 
him sat a young man. Loding poured coffee 
for himself and sugared it liberally, casting 
a glance now and then at his companion, who 
was turning an almost empty beer glass 
round and round. 

“Well?” said Loding at last. 

“No.” 

Loding took a mouthful of coffee. “Squeam- 
ish?” 

“I’m not an actor.” 


Sometuinc in the unaccented phrase 
seemed to sting Loding, and he flushed a 
little. ““You’re not asked to be emotional, 
if that is what you mean. There is no filial 
devotion to be simulated, you know. Only 
dutiful affection for an aunt you haven’t 
seen for nearly ten years.” 

- No.”’ 

“You young idiot, I’m offering you a for- 
tune.” 

“Half a fortune. And you're not offering 
me anything.” 

“Tf I’m not offering it to you, what am I 
doing?” 

“Propositioning me.”’ 

“Very well; what is wrong with the propo- 
sition?” 

<“It's:crazy:- 

“You aren’t asked to impersonate anyone. 
Just to be yourself.” 

“No,” said the young man. 

Loding kept his temper with a visible 
effort. He had a pink, collapsed face that re- 
minded one of the underside of fresh mush- 
rooms. 

“Your teeth!’’ he said suddenly. 

Even that did not startle the young man’s 
face into any expression. He lifted his eyes. 
““What’s the matter with my teeth?” 

“Tt’s how they identify people nowadays. 
A dentist keeps a record of work, you know. 
I wonder where those kids went. Are those 
front teeth your own?” 

“The two middle ones are caps. They were 
kicked out.” 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“They went to someoné here in town; I re- 
member that much. There was a London trip 
to see the dentist twice a year. These are the 
kind of things you would have to know, by 
the way.” 

“Yes?” 

The gentle monosyllable maddened Loding. 
“Look, Farrar, what are you frightened of? 
A strawberry mark? I bathed with that kid 
in the buff many a time and he hadn’t as 
much as a mole on him. You are more like 
his brother at this moment than that kid was, 
twins though they were. I tell you, I thought 
for a moment that you were young Ashby. 
Isn’t that good enough for you? You come 
and live with me for a fortnight and by the 
end of it there won’t be anything you don’t 
know about the village of Clare and its in- 
habitants. Can you swim, by the way?”’ 


Tue young man nodded. He had gone back 
to his glass of beer. 

“The kid could swim like an eel... . There’s 
the matter of ears too. Yours look ordinary 
enough, and his must have been ordinary, 
too, or I should remember. Tell me, do you 
believe my story at all? Do you believe that 
you are as like young Ashby as I say?” 

For a whole turn of the glass there was no 
answer. “I doubt it.” 

“Why?” 

“On your own showing it is some time 
since you saw him.” 

“But you don’t have to be young Ashby. 
Just look like him. And it is worth a fortune 
to you. You have only to put out your hand 
and take it.” 

“Oh, no, I haven’t.” 

““Metaphorically speaking. Do you realize 
that except for the first year or so your story 
would be truth? It would 
stand up to any amount 
of checking.” 

“Oh, yes, it would 
check.” 

“Well, then. You have 
only to stow away on 
the Ira Jones out of West- 
over instead of going for a day trip to 
Dieppe.” 

“How do you know there was a ship called 
the Ira Jones at Westover about then?’’ 

““About then’! You do me scant justice, 
amigo. There was a ship of that repellent 
title at Westover the day the boy disap- 
peared. I know because I spent most of the 
day painting her. And the old scow went 
out before I had finished, bound for the 
Channel Islands. All my ships go out before 
I have finished painting them.” 

There was silence for a little. 

“Hadn’t it occurred to you at all, Mr. 
Loding, that you’re offering me the sweetest 
chance for a double cross that I ever heard 
of? I take your coaching, pass the exam and 
forget about you. How did you figure to keep 
tabs on me?” 

“T hadn’t. No one with your Ashby looks 
could be a double-crosser. The Ashbys are 
monsters of rectitude.” 

He pushed away the glass. “Which must 
be why I don’t take kindly to the idea of 
being a phony. Thank you for my lunch, 
Mr. Loding. If I had known what you had 
in mind, I wouldn’t have ——” 

“All right, all right. Don’t apologize. And 
don’t run away; we'll go together. You don’t 
like my proposition; very good; so be it. But 
I shall give you my address in the hope that 
you will come to see me. I am truly sorry I 
couldn’t sell you the idea of being an Ashby. 
You would have made an excellent master of 
Latchetts. Someone who was at home with 
horses, and used to an outdoor life.” 

The young man paused. “Horses?” 

“Yes,” Loding said, vaguely surprised. 
“Tt’s a stud, you know. Very well thought 
of, I understand.” 

“Oh.”’ He paused a moment longer, and 
then turned away. 

Loding watched him as he went down the 
street. I missed something, he was thinking. 
There was some bait he would have risen to, and 
I missed it. Why should he have nibbled at the 
word “‘horse”’ ? 


—PLATO. 


The boy lay on his bed in the dark, fully 
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62 


ing today had shaken him. Somewhere, it 
seemed, there was another fellow so like him 
that they could be mistaken for each other. 
To one who had been very much alone all his 
life, that was an amazing thought. 

Indeed, it was the most surprising thing 
that had happened to him in all his twenty- 
one years. In a way it was as if all those years 
that had seemed so full and exciting at the 
time had been merely leading up to that mo- 
ment when the actor chap had caught him- 
self short in the street and said: 

“Hello, Simon. . . . Oh! Sorry!”’ he had 
said at once. ‘Thought you were a friend 
of ———”’ And then he had stopped and stared. 

“Can I do something for you?” the boy 
had asked at last. 

“Yes. You could come and have lunch 
with me.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s lunchtime, and that’s my favorite 
pub behind you.” 

“But why me?” 

‘Because you interest me. You are so like 
a friend of mine. My name is Loding, by the 
way. Alec Loding. I act a bad part in a bad 
farce at that very bad old theater over 
there.’’ He had nodded across the street. ‘* Do 
you mind telling me your name?” 

“Farrar.” 

So he had gone to lunch, and the man had 
talked and been charming. But always be- 
hind the lively puffy eyes there had been 
that quizzical, amused, almost unbelieving 
look. Truly he, Brat Farrar, must be like that 
other fellow to bring that look of half- 
incredulous amusement into someone's eyes. 

He lay on the bed and thought about it. 
He had a great desire to see this twin of his, 
this Ashby boy. He would like to see the 
place too: this Latchetts, where his twin had 
grown up while he had bucketed round the 
world, all the way from the orphanage to that 
moment in a London street. 

The orphanage. It was no fault of the 
orphanage that he had not belonged! It was 
a very good orphanage; a great deal happier 
than many a home. The children had loved it. 
They had wept when they left and had come 
back for visits; they had invited the staff to 
their marriages. Then why had he not felt 
like that? 

Because he was a foundling? Was that 
why? But if anything, he had been privileged 
beyond the other children by his foundling 
status. His Christmas present from Matron, 
he remembered, had been looked upon with 
envy by children whose only present came 
from an aunt or uncle; a mere relation. It was 
Matron who had taken him off the doorstep, 
and who had determined his name with the 
aid of a pin and the telephone directory. The 
pin had come down on the name “Farrell.” 

There had never been any doubt about his 
first name, since he had arrived on the door- 
step on St. Bartholomew’s Day. He had been 
Bart from the beginning. But the older chil- 
dren had changed that to Brat, and the name 
had followed him to the grammar school. 


The grammar school. Why had he decided 
that the school was not for him? Decided 
with such unboylike finality that Matron had 
countenanced his going to work. 

There was no mystery about his not liking 
the work. The office job had been fifty miles 
away, and he had had to stay in the local 
‘boys’ home.’’ He could have supported 
either the job or the home, but not the two 
simultaneously. 

He had said good-by to his office life al- 
most accidentally. ‘DAY RETURN TO 
DIEPPE,” a bill had said, plastered against 
the glass of a news agent’s window; and the 
price was exactly the amount of his savings 
to the nearest half crown. 

He had planned to stay and work in 
France. It was his neighbor in the Havre 
bistro who enlightened him. 

“My young friend,” the man had said, 
“it is not sufficient to be a man in France in 
order to work. One has also to have papers.” 

“And where,” he had asked, “does one 
not have papers? I mean, in what country? 
I can go anywhere.” He was suddenly con- 
scious of the world, and that he was free of it. 

“Go to the harbor and take a ship,”’ the 
man had said. 


Auguat, 1949 


“Which ship. 

“Tt is immaterial,” the man told hirn. 
“Go to the harbor and do ‘Eeney, meeney, 
miney, mo,’ And when you go aboard ‘mo’ 
see that no one is looking. On ships they 
have a passion for papers.” 

‘““Mo” was the Barfleur, and he had not 
needed papers after all. He was the gift fromy 
heaven that the Barfleur’s cook had been 
looking for for years. 

Good old Barfleur; with her filthy pea- 
green galley smelling of overused olive oil, 
and the gray seas combing up mountains 
high, and the cook’s weekly drunk that left 
him acting unpaid cook, and learning to play 
a mouth organ, and the odd literature in the 
fo'c’sle. Good old Barfleur! 


He had taken a lot away with him when 
he left her, but most important of all he took 
anew name, When he had written his name 
for the captain, old Bourdet had taken the 
final double-/ to be an 7, and copied the name 
“Farrar.”’ And he had kept it so. 

And then what? 

Tampico and the smell of tallow. And the 
tally man who had said, ** You Englishman? 
You want shore job?"" So he had gone as 
cook to a collection of botanists. 

He had cooked his way steadily to the New 
Mexico border. That was the easy way into 
the States: where there was no river to stop 
you. He enjoyed this absurd, brilliant, angu- 
lar country, but it was not what he was look- 
ing for. 

After that it had been a slow crescendo of 
satisfaction. Assistant cook for that outfit 
at Las Cruces. Cook to the Snake River 
roundup. And his discovery of horses. And 
the feeling it gave him of having come home. 

Riding herd for the Santa Clara. And the 
discovery that ‘‘ornery” horses were less 
ornery when ridden by the limey kid. 

A spell with the blacksmith at the Wilson 
ranch, seeing what he could do with the 
“hopeless lot” in the corral. ‘‘ Nothing but 
shooting for them,’’ the boss had said. And 
it was from that lot that Smoky came: his 
beautiful Smoky. The boss gave it tohim asa 
reward for what he had done with the hard 
cases. And when he went to the Lazy Y he 
took Smoky with him. 

Breaking horses for the Lazy Y. That had 
been happiness full up and running over. 
Nearly two years of it. And then, that mo- 
mentary slowness on his part; drowsy with 
heat or dazzled by the sun. And seeing the 
writhing brown back turning over on him. 
And hearing his thighbone crack. 

The hospital at Edgemont. The ward had 
sage-green walls, the fittings were old and 
dingy, and the nurses overworked. 

The sweat-making business of learning to 
walk again, and the slow realization that his 
leg had mended short. That he was going to 
be permanently lame. 

The letter from the boss that put an end 
to the Lazy Y. Oil. They had struck oil. The 
first derrick was already going up not two 
hundred yards from the bunkhouse. The en- 
closed check would look after Brat till he was 
well again. Meanwhile, what should be done 
with Smoky? 

What would a lame man do with a horse 
in an oil field? He had cried about Smoky, 
lying in the dark of the ward. It was the first 
time he had cried about anyone. 

Well, he might be too slow to break horses 
any more, but there were other ways of living 
with horseflesh. 

The dude ranch. That had not been like 
the films. The one good thing about the dude 
ranch was that you made money at it. He 
had never had so much money in his life as 
when he finished there. He planned to go 
East and spend it. And then something had 
happened to him. The smell of spring gar- 
dens woke in him a nostalgia for England. 
For several restless weeks he fought the long- 
ing—and then quite suddenly gave in. 

And so to the back room in Pimlico and 
that meeting in the street. ; 

He got up and took his cigarettes from the 
pocket of the coat that was hanging on the 
back of the door. It was a pity that Loding’s 
proposition was so very criminal. 

Would he have listened to it with any 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


horses earlier? No, of course not. The thing 
was criminal, and he wouldn’t touch it—he 
was sure of that. 

“Tt would be quite safe, you know,” said a 
voice in him. “They wouldn’t prosecute you 
even if they found out, because of the scandal. 
Loding said that. You have only to go to 
Latchetts and say, ‘Take a look at me. Do I 
remind you of anyone? I was left on a doorstep 
on such-and-such a date, and as from today 
I want a job.’” 

“Blackmail, ’m? And how much do you 
think I'd enjoy a job I'd blackmailed out of 
anyone? Don’t be silly.” 

“They owe you something, don’t they?” 

“No, they don’t. Not a bean.” 

“Oh, come off it! You're an Ashby and you 
know it. Where did you get your way with 
horses?” 

“Lots of people have a way with horses.” 

He poured cold water into the basin and 
washed vigorously. And as he toweled him- 
self he thought, “J wouldn’t like it, anyhow. 
Butlers and things. His idea of English 
middle-class life being derived from Amer- 
ican films. 

Anyhow, the thing was unthinkable. And 
he’d better stop thinking about it. But he 
would go sometime and see Loding. There 
was no harm in that. He didn’t like Loding 
much, but just going to see him could do no 
harm, and he did 
want to see photo- 
graphs of Latchetts. 


Mr. Sandal, of Cos- 
sett, Thring and 
Noble, was nearing 
the end of his after- 
noon’s work, and his 
mind was beginning 
its daily debate as to 
whether it should be 
the 4:55 or the 5:15 
that should bear him 
home. This was al- 
most the only debate 
that ever exercised 
Mr. Sandal’s mind. 
Family solicitors; that 
is what Cosset, Thring 
and Noble were. 
Keepers of wills and 
protectors of secrets; 
but not wrestlers 
with problems. 

“Ts that all, Mercer?”’ he said to his clerk. 

“There’s one client in the waiting room, 
sir. Young Mr. Ashby.” 

“Oh, good; good. Bring in a pot of tea, 
Mercer, will you?” 

The young man came in. 

“Ah, Simon, my dear boy,” Mr. Sandal 
said, shaking hands with him, “I am de- 
lighted to see you. Are you up on business, or 
are you just ——” His voice died away. 
“God bless my soul, you are not Simon.” 

“No. Iam not Simon.” 

“But—but you ave an Ashby.” 

“Tf you think that, it makes things easier 
for me.” 

“Yes? Do forgive me if I am a little con- 
fused. I didn’t know that there were Ashby 
cousins. Which Ashby are you?” 

“Patrick.” 

Mr. Sandal’s neat mouth opened and shut 
like a goldfish’s. 

“T think we had better both sit down,” he 
said at last. He indicated the visitors’ chair, 
and subsided into his own. ‘‘Now, let us 
clarify the situation,” he said. ‘““The only 
Patrick Ashby died at the age of thirteen— 
let me see—eight years ago, it must be.” 

“What makes you think he died?” 

“He committed suicide, and left a farewell 
note.” 

“Did the note mention suicide?” 


“T am afraid I cannot recall the wording.” 

“Nor can I., But I can give you the sense 
of it. It said, ‘I can’t stand it any longer. 
Don’t be angry with me.’”’ 

“Yes. That was the tenor of the message.” 

“And where in that is the mention of 
suicide?” 

“The suggestion surely is—one would 
naturally infer. The letter was found on the 
cliff top with the boy’s coat.” 


Kw kK Kee ew, x 


Summer Lo 
UM MEFY OVE 


By Marion Lineaweaver 


A summer’s love is far too brief 
To break the heart for long, 
Yet it leaves a ghost of grief 
Tenuous as a skeleton leaf 
And as unduly strong. 


The strength is in remembering 
How fair and sweet a lie 

It was that gave to pleasuring 

Semblance of a cardinal thing 
That does not wholly die. 


ier wk KK KOK 


“The path is the short cut to the harbor.” 

“The harbor? You mean ——’” 

“Tt was a running-away note; not a suicide 
one.” 

“Are you seriously suggesting that you are 
Patrick Ashby, and that you never com- 
mitted suicide at all?”’ 


Tue young man looked at him with unre- 
vealing eyes. ‘““When I came in,” he said, 
“you took me for my brother.” 

“God bless my soul, so I did. So I did.” 

Mercer came in with the tea. 

“Do you take two?” Mr. Sandal asked, 
the question being merely a reflex condi- 
tioned by the presence of the tea tray. 

“Thank you,” said the young man. ‘No 
sugar.” 

“You do realize, don’t you,”’ Mr. Sandal 
said, half appealingly, ‘‘that such a startling 
and—and serious claim must be investigated ? 
One cannot merely accept your statement.” 

“I don’t expect you to.” 

“Good. Very sensible of you. You ran 
away, you say. Ran away to sea, I take it.” 

“Nest” 

“On what ship?” 

“The Ira Jones. She was lying in Westover 
harbor.” 

“And where did the ship take you?”’ asked 
Mr. Sandal, making notes and beginning to 
feel that he wasn’t do- 
ing so badly after all. 

“The Channel Is- 
lands. St. Helier.” 

“You disembarked 
at St. Helier, undis- 
covered ?” 

“se Yes.”’ 

“And there?” 

“T got the boat to 
St. Malo.” 

“You remember 
what the boat was 
called?”’ 

“No; it was the 
regular ferry service.” 

“Tsee. And then?” 

“T went across 
country and fetched 
up in Havre. In Havre 
I got a job as galley 
boy on a tramp 
steamer.” 

“The name? You 
remember it?” 

“Tl never forget it! She was called the 
Barfleur. I joined her as Farrar. F-a-r-r-a-r. 
I stayed with her until I left her in Tampico. 
From there I worked my way north to the 
States. Would you like me to write down for 
you the places I worked at in the States?” 

“That would be very kind of you. Here 
is—ah, you have a pen. If you would just 
write them here. Thank you. And you came 
back to England ——” 

“On the second of last month. On the 
Philadelphia. As a passenger. I took a room 
in London and have lived there ever since. I'll 
write the address for you.”’ 

“Thank you.” Mr. Sandal had an odd feel- 
ing that this young man was dominating the 
situation. “Have you attempted to commu- 
nicate with your—with Miss Ashby?” 

“No. I thought this was the best way.” 

“Very wise. I shall get in touch with Miss 
Ashby at once and inform her of your visit. 
Meanwhile you will go on living at this ad- 
dress?” 

“Yes, I shall be there.”” The young man 
got up, again taking the initiative from him. 

“Tf your credentials prove to be good,” 
Mr. Sandal said with an attempt at severity, 
“T shall be the first to welcome you back to 
England and to your home. I find it inexpli- 
cable that you should not havecommunicated 
with your people before now.” 

“Perhaps I liked being dead.” 

“Being dead!” 

“Anyhow, you never did find me very ex- 
plicable, did you?” 

Se Didnt Lyi 

“You thought it was because I was afraid 
that I cried, that day at Olympia, did you?”’ 

“Olympia?” 

“Tt wasn’t, you know. It was because the 
horses were so beautiful.” 

(Continued on Page 85) 






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(Continued from Page 83) 

“Olympia! You mean... but that was... 
you remember, then ——’”’ 

“T expect you'll let me know, Mr. Sandal, 
when you have checked my statements.” 

“What? Oh, yes; yes, certainly.” Good 
heavens, even he himself had forgotten that 
| children’s party at the Tournament. If this 
young man—the owner of Latchetts—dear 
me! “T hope you don’t think ——” he began. 

But the young man was gone, letting him- 
self out with a brief nod to Mercer. Mr. San- 
dal sat down and mopped his brow. 

And Brat, walking down the street, was 
shocked to find himself exhilarated. He had 
expected to be nervous and a little ashamed. 
It had not been in the least like that. It had 
been one of the most exciting things he had 
ever done. A wonderful, tightrope sort of 
thing. He went to a telephone at Victoria. 

“Well?” said Loding. “How did it go? 
Did the old boy fall on your neck?” 

“No. He nearly fell over. He’s being very 
correct.”” 

“How did he receive you?” 

“He took me for Simon.” 

He heard Loding’s amused laughter. “Did 
you manage to use his Tournament party?” 

“Yes. It had him on the ropes.’’ 

“Tt didn’t convince him, though?” 

“T didn’t wait to see. I was on my way 
out.”” 

“You mean that was your exit line? My 
boy, I take off my hat to you.” 

“T surprise myself, if it’s any consolation 
to you.” 

“T don’t detect any bitterness, do I?” 

“No. Just surprise. Neat.” 

“Ah, well; we shall not be meeting for 
some time to come. Don’t 
ring me up unless there is 
no alternative. You are as 
well briefed as I can make 
you.” 

Loding was right: it had 
been a wonderful briefing. 
Fora whole fortnight, from 
early morning till seven in 
the evening, rain or shine, they had sat in 
Kew Gardens and rehearsed the ways of 
Latchetts and Clare, the histories of Ashbys 
and Ledinghams, the lie of a land he had 
never seen. ‘‘ Whicharm did you bowl with?”’ 
“Go to the stables from the side door.” ‘‘ Did 
you sing?” “Could you play the piano?” 
“Who lived in the lodge at Clare?” “‘ What 
color was your mother’s hair?” “How did 
your father make his money?”’ “‘What was 
thename of his firm?” ‘‘What was your fa- 
vorite food?” “‘The name of the tuckshop 
owner in the village?” ‘‘Where is the Ashby 
pew in the church?” “Go from the great 
drawing room to the butler’s pantry in Clare?’ 
“What was the housekeeper’s name?’’ 
“Could you ride a bicycle?” ““What do you 
see from the south window in the attic?” 

Kew had been Loding’s idea. ‘‘ Your life 
since you came to London must be subject 
to the most searching scrutiny. So you can’t 
come and live with me as I suggested. You 
can’t even be seen with me by anyone we 
know. Nor can I come to your Pimlico place.” 
So the Kew scheme had been evolved. 

Each morning they had arrived separately, 
by different gates; had met at a new point 
and gone to a different locale; and there for a 
fortnight Loding had primed him with pho- 
tographs, maps, plans, drawings and penciled 
diagrams. It was methodical, careful teach- 
ing, and Brat appreciated it. 


Burt the high light, of course,‘was provided 
by the photographs. And it was not, oddly 
enough, the photograph of his “twin” that 
held his attention once he had seen them all. 
It was the child who had not lived to grow 
up; the boy whose place he was going to take. 
He had an odd feeling of identity with Pat- 
rick. 

Crossing the courtyard at Victoria after 
telephoning, he wondered what had prompted 
him to say that about Patrick crying. Loding 
had told him merely that Patrick had cried 
for no known reason (he was seven then) and 
that old Sandal had been disgusted and had 
never taken the children out again. 

Well, there was no going back now, whether 
he wanted to or not. That insistent voice 


Originality is simply a pair 
of fresh eyes. —T. W. HIGGINSON: 
Thesaurus of Epigrams; by 

Edmund Fuller (Crown Pubilishers). 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


that had talked to him in the dark of his 
room had fought for its head and got it. All 
he could do was sit in the saddle and hope for 
the best. 

He couldn’t go to Latchetts as a black- 
mailer, he wouldn’t go as a suppliant; he 
would damn well go as an invader. 


The telegraph wires swooped and the 
earth whirled round the carriage window; 
and Bee’s mind swooped and whirled with 
them. 

“T would have come down to see you, of 
course,’”’ Mr. Sandal had said on the tele- 
phone. “It is against all my principles to 
deal with such grave matters by telephone. 
But I was afraid that my presence might sug- 
gest to the children that there was something 
serious afoot.”’ Poor dear old Sandal. He had 
been very kind; had asked her if she were 
sitting down, before he broke the news, and 
had said, ‘‘You’re not feeling faint, are you, 
Miss Ashby ?”’ 


Sue had not fainted. She had sat for a long 
time letting her knees get back their strength, 
and then she had gone to her room and looked 
for photographs of Patrick. Except for a 
studio group taken when Simon and Patrick 
were ten and Eleanor nine, she seemed to 
have nothing. 

Simon had burned them all. It was the 
only sign he had given that his twin’s death 
was more than he could well bear. Simon had 
gone away to school after Patrick’s death, 
and when he came back for the summer holi- 
days he had behaved normally. And then one 
day Bee had come on him tending a bonfire 
and on the fire were Patrick’s toys and other 

belongings. Books and 
childish paintings and the 
silly horse that had hung 
‘at the end of his bed? 
Simon was burning.all of 
them. 

He had been furious 
when he saw her. He had 
moved between her and 
the fire, standing at bay, as it were. “I 
don’t want them around,” he had said, al- 
most shouting. 

“T understand, Simon,” she had said. 

There was nothing of Patrick, either, in the 
old nursery under the eaves. When this had 
been Bee’s own nursery it had been ugly and 
individual and furnished with patterned 
linoleum, a rag rug, a cuckoo clock and crazy 
basket chairs. But Nora had done it over, so 
that it became an illustration from a home- 
maker magazine, in powder-blue and white, 
with a wallpaper of nursery-rhyme charac- 
ters. Only the cuckoo clock had stayed. 

The children had been happy there, but 
had left no mark on it. Now that it was empty 
and tidy, it looked just like something in a 
furniture-shop window. 

She had gone back to her own room, baffled 
and sick at heart, and had packed a small bag 
for her use in the morning. Tomorrow she 
must go up to town and face this new emer- 
gency in the history of the Ashbys. 

Her mind was still swooping and swirling 
as she climbed the stairs to the offices of 
Cosset, Thring and Noble. 

“Ah, Miss Ashby,’ Mr. Sandal said. 
“This is a shocking dilemma. A most un- 
precedented —— Do sit down.” 

“Did he say why he didn’t write, all those 
years?”’ she asked. 

“He said something about ‘perhaps pre- 
ferring to be dead.’”’ 

Oh: 

“A psychological difficulty, no doubt,” 
Mr. Sandal said. 

“Then you believe it 7s Patrick?” 

“T mean, if it is Patrick, his ‘preferring 
to be dead’ would no doubt arise from the 
same psychological difficulty as did his run- 
ning away.” 

“Yes. I see. I suppose so. Only—it is so 
unlike Patrick. Not to write, I mean.” 

“Tt was unlike Patrick to run away.” 

“Yes; there is that. He certainly wasn’t a 
runner-away by nature. Something must 
have gone very wrong.” She sat silent for a 
moment. “And now,” she went on, “‘he is 
back.” 

“We hope so; we hope so.” 


85 


Gueon o the por UPN UES 


SUPER-LIGHT! SuUPER-LUSCcIOUS! 


Betty Crocker makes it with Wesson Oil / 


1. In first bowl, sift together: 
24 cups sifted Softasilk Cake 
Flour (spoon lightly into 
cup, don’t pack) 
12 cups sugar 
3 teaspoons baking powder 
1 teaspoon salt 
1 teaspoon cinnamon 
V2 teaspoon nutmeg 
Ya teaspoon allspice 
V2 teaspoon cloves 
Make a well and add these: 
V2 cup Wesson Oil 
5 unbeaten egg yolks 
(medium-sized) 
34 cup cold water 


Beat with spoon until smooth. 


2. In large second bowl put: 
1 cup egg whites (7 or 8) 
V2 teaspoon cream of tartar 


Beat into very stiff peaks, stiffer 
than for meringue. DO NOT UNDER- 
BEAT. 


Wes a new “star” for your cooking- 


crown—serve Betty Crocker’s* deli- 
cious Chiffon Cake. Airy as angel food, so 
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Wesson 





For Quicker, 
Easier 
Baking 








‘Nes 


For Digestible Fried Foods 


POLKA DOT SPICE CHIFFON 


Heat oven to 325° (slow moderate) and... 


3. Pour egg yolk mixture gradu- 
ally over beaten egg whites, gently 
folding with rubber scraper just 
until blended. pon’? stir. Pour im- 
mediately into wngreased 10’x 4” 
tube pan. Bake 55 minutes at 325° 
then increase to moderate (350°) 
for 10 to 15 minutes, or until top 
springs back when lightly touch- 
ed. Turn pan upside down, plac- 
ing tube over neck of bottle. Let 
hang, free of table, until cold. 
Loosen sides and tube with spat- 
ula; turn pan over and hit edge 
sharply on table to loosen. Frost 
with— ‘ 


CHOCOLATE CREAM ICING: Combine a 6-02. 
pkg. semi-sweet chocolate bits and 
1 cup heavy cream in saucepan 
over low heat. Stir constantly un- 
til chocolate melts. Bring to boil,.;, 
then simmer about 1 minute: Cool 
to lukewarm. Add 1 tsp. vanilla. 
Beat about 2 minutes or until 
bubbles appear; refrigerate until 
thick enough to spread on cake. 
‘To decorate with polka dots: beat 
together 1 cup sifted confection- 
ers’ sugar and 3 to 4 tsp. water. 
Drop from end of spoon onto cake. 





ae 


Oil 
ira 
For Salads 


& Cooking 





cate Wesson Oil to bring out chiffon-light 
texture, tastier flavor! For that “master” 
touch in cooking, use Wesson Oil—for deli- 
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* Of General Mills, Inc. 


e 
Q)jl- makes so many good things to eat 


WESSON OIL— Your All-around Helper 


Yes, pure delicious Wesson Oil helps you make 
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all recipes that call for “‘melted shortening.” 
Take waffles, muffins or brownies. . 
delicious with Wesson Oil! And Wesson saves 
time.. 
melt, or cool. 


. simply 


. for you don’t have to wait for it to 


And for frying! Just pour the amount of 
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86 


Now, in only five minutes, you 
can have all the good, hot beef 
gravy you want—rich with old- 
fashioned roasting pan flavor! 


Just open a can of Franco- 
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and serve. Nothing to add. 


Grand poured over meat, 
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Delicious, nourishing—and 
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Franco - American 


BEEF GRAVY 


e Adds taste and glamor COS 


to economy foods 
e@ Enriches slim meals 
e Livens up leftovers 


e Grand on bread for 
children’s snacks 





Tips on 
Table Settings 


Save at every meal by using crisp, 
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etc. Beautiful as real linen. Cost less than 
laundering of linens. Get Roylies for every 
meal—variety of shapes, sizes, patterns. At 
5 & 10's, naborhood, Dept. Stores. 


aes Y CA 
oo ry BS a me 


Trade Mark ‘‘Roylies’’ 





Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“T looked for photographs of Patrick, but 
there is nothing later than this.” She pro- 
duced the studio group. “Patrick is ten 
there.” 

She watched while Mr. Sandal studied the 
small immature face. 

“No,” he said at last. “‘It is impossible to 
say anything from so early a photograph.” 
He looked up from studying the photograph 
and went on: “I am hoping that when you 
yourself see the young man you will have no 
doubt one way or another.” 

““But—but if I am not sure?” 

“About that; I think I have found a way 
out. I dined last night with my young friend, 
Kevin Macdermott.” 

“The K.C.?” 

“Yes. I was greatly distressed, of course, 
and told him of my difficulty, and he com- 
forted me greatly by assuring me that identi- 
fication would be a quite simple matter. It 
was merely an affair of teeth.” 

“Teeth? But Patrick had quite ordinary 
teeth.” 

“Yes, yes. But he had no doubt been to a 
dentist, and dentists have records.”’ He 
caught the look on Bee’s face and paused. 
“What is the matter?” 

“The children went to Hammond.” 

“Hammond? Well? This is simple, isn’t 
it? If you don’t definitely identify the boy as 
Patrick, we have only to ——’”’ He broke off. 
“Hammond!” he said quietly. “‘Oh!” 

““Yes,”’ Bee said. “‘They never found him. 
Everything was just blown to dust.” 

“Yes. Yes, so I heard; poor fellow.” 

“Now that we have no physical evidence, 
I suppose we have to rely on the boy’s own 
story. I mean, on checking it. I suppose that 
can be done.” 

“Oh, easily. It is all quite straightfor- 
ward, with dates and places. Of course it can 
be checked. And of course I am sure that it 
will check. He would not have offered us in- 
formation which would be proved nonsense.” 

“So really there is nothing to wait for.” 

“No, I No.” 

Bee braced herself. “Then how soon can 
you arrange for me to meet him?”’ 

-““What I should like to do—with your per- 
mission and co-operation—would be to, as it 
were, walk in on him. Go and see him un- 
announced. So that you would see him as he 
is and not as he wants you to see him.” 

“Yes, I see. Can we go now?” 

“T don’t see why not. There is, of course, 
the chance that he may be out. But we can at 
least go and see.” 

“Did he explain why he chose the name 
Farrar?’ she asked, when they were seated 
in the taxi. 

“He didn’t explain anything,” Mr. Sandal 
said. 

“There was no suggestion of a loan?” 

“Oh, no. Oh, dear me, no.” 

“Then he hasn’t come back just because 
he is broke,” Bee said, and felt somehow 
pleased. 

“TI have never quite understood why 
Pimlico descended so rapidly in the social 
scale,” said Mr. Sandal, breaking the silence 
as they traveled down the avenues of pre- 
tentious porches. 

“There is sort of suction about desertion,” 
Bee said. ‘“The local Lady Almighty occa- 
sions the draft by leaving, and the rest follow 
in her wake. .. . Is this the place?” 





Her dismay took possession of her again as 
she looked at the dismal front of the house. 
The front door was open and they walked in. 

“The address is Fifty-nine K,’”’ Mr. Sandal 
said. “I take it that K is the number of the 
room.” 

“They begin on the ground floor and work 
upward,” Bee said. 

The second floor was also the top one. 
They stood together on the dark landing lis- 
tening to the silence. 

“Have you a match?”’ she said. 

“T and J,’’ she read on the two front- 
room doors. Then it was the back one. 

Mr. Sandal moved purposely forward and 
knocked. 

“Come in,”’ said a voice. It was a deep 
boy’s voice; quite unlike Simon’s. 

Bee, being half a head taller than Mr. 
Sandal, could see over his shoulder; and her 


first feeling was one of shock that he should 
be so much more like Simon than Patrick 
ever was. 

The boy got up from where he had been 
sitting on the edge of the bed, and with no 
haste or embarrassment pulled from off his 
left hand the sock he had been darning. She 
couldn’t imagine Simon darning a sock. 

*‘Good morning,” he said. 

“Good morning,” said Mr. Sandal. “I 
hope you don’t mind; I’ve brought you 
a visitor.’”” He moved aside to let Bee come 
in. ‘Do you know who this is?” 

Bee’s heart hammered on her ribs. 

“You do your hair differently,”’ he said. 

“You recognize her?’’ Mr. Sandal said. 

“Yes, of course. It’s Aunt Bee.” 

She waited for him to come forward to 
greet her, but he made no move to. After a 
moment’s pause he turned to find a seat for 
her. . 
“T’m afraid there is only one chair. It is 
all right if you don’t lean back on it,” he said. 

Bee was glad to sit down on it. 

The details of the face were not at all like 
Simon’s, she thought, watching the boy stick 
the needle carefully in the sock. It was the 
general impression that was the same. 

**Miss Ashby could not wait for a meeting 
at my office, so I brought her here,” Mr. 
Sandal said. ‘“‘You don’t seem particu- 


SO” ff CRS as, 
% The expression blue Monday orig- 


inally referred, not to a dreary oc- 
casion, but to a day of revelry and 
pleasure. For centuries, it was the 
custom to decorate churches with 
blue hangings on the Monday before 
the beginning of Lent. In order to 
make up for the restrictions of the 
Lenten season, a great feast was 
* usually staged on Blue Monday. Eat- 
ing, drinking and debauchery fre- 
quently continued all night. By the 
sixteenth century, such excesses 
were practiced that the holiday was 
abolished by law. Probably because 
Blue Monday was invariably fol- 
lowed by that “morning after” feel- 
ing, the term came into general use 
to designate any occasion on which 
one might feel depressed or gloomy. 
— WEBB B. GARRISON. 


larly ’” He allowed the sentence to 
speak for itself. 

The boy looked at her in a friendly, un- 
smiling way and said, “I’m not very sure of 
my welcome.” 

He moved over to lay the socks on the 
dressing table, and she saw that he was lame. 
“Have you hurt your leg?” she asked. 

“T broke it. Over in the States. It doesn’t 
hurt,” he said. **It’s just short.” 

“Short! You mean, permanently short?” 

“Tt looks like it.” 

They were sensitive lips, she noticed, for 
all their thinness, 

“But something can be done about that,” 
she said. 

“They did all the correct things: hung 
weights on the end of it, and all that.” 

“But Pat——”’ she began, and failed to 
finish his name. 

Into the hiatus.-he said, ‘You don’t have 
to call me anything until you are sure.” 

“They do miracles in surgery nowadays,” 
she said, covering her break. “‘ How long ago 
is it since it happened?” 

“T’d have to think. About a couple of 
years now, I think.” 

““A horse, was it?” 

“Yes. I wasn’t quick enough. How did you 
know it was a horse?” 

“You told Mr. Sandal that you had worked 
with horses. Did you enjoy that?” 

“Tt’s the only life I do enjoy.” 

“Really?” she said, pleased. ‘Were they 
good horses, those Western ones?”’ 

“Most of them were commoners, of course. 
But every now and then you come across one 
with blood. Some of those are beauties. 
More—more individual than I ever remem- 
ber English horses being.” 

“Perhaps in England we ‘manner’ the 
individuality out of them. Did you have a 
horse of your own?” 





August, 1949 


“Yes, I had one. Smoky.” 

“A gray?” 

“Yes, a dark gray with black points. Not 
that hard, iron color, you know. A soft, 
smoky color, When he had a tantrum he was 
just a whirling cloud of smoke.” 

A whirling cloud of smoke. She could see 
it. He must love horses to be able to see them 
like that. 

“What happened to Smoky?” 

“T sold him.” 

No trespassers. Very well, she would not 
trespass. 

She began to hope very strenuously that 
this was Patrick. She looked doubtfully at 
Mr. Sandal. 


Carcnine the appeal in her glance, Mr. 
Sandal said, ‘Miss Ashby is no doubt pre- 
pared to vouch for you, but you will under- 
stand that the matter needs more clarifica- 
tion. If it were a simple matter of a prodigal’s 
home-coming, your aunt’s acceptance of you 
would no doubt be sufficient to restore you 
to the bosom of your family. But in the pres- 
ent instance it is a matter of property.” 

“T understand perfectly. I shall, of course, 
stay here until you are satisfied.” 

“But you can’t stay here,” Bee said, look- 
ing with loathing at the room. 

“T’ll stay here, thanks.” 

“Are you just being independent?” 

“No. It’s quiet here. And handy. And 
bung full of privacy.” 

“Ts there anything else we can—can stake 
you to?” 

“T could do with another suit.” 

“Very well. Mr. Sandal will advance you 
whatever you need for that.” She suddenly 
remembered that if he went to the Ashby 
tailor there would be a sensation. So she 
added, ‘‘And he will give you the address 
of his tailor.” 

“Why not Walters?”’ said the boy. 

For a moment she could not speak. 

“‘Aren’t they there any more?” 

“Oh, yes; but there would be too many 
explanations if you went to Walters.”” She 
must keep a hold on herself. 

“Oh, yes. I see.” 

She fell back on small talk and began to 
take her leave. 

“We have not told the family about 
you,” she said as she prepared to go. 
“We thought it better not to, until things 
are—are what Mr. Sandal calls clarified.” 

A flash of amusement showed in his eyes 
at that. ‘I understand.” 

She turned at the door to say good-by. He 
was standing in the middle of the room 
watching her gc leaving Mr. Sandal to 
shepherd her out. He looked remote and 
lonely. And she thought, Jf this is Patrick, 
Patrick come home again, and I am leaving 
him like this, as if he were a casual acquaint- 
ance —— It was more than she could bear. 

She went back to him, took his face lightly 
in her gloved hand, and kissed his cheek. 
““Welcome back, my dear.” 


So Cosset, Thring and Noble began their 
investigations, and Bee went back to Latch- 
etts to deal with the problem of postponing 
the coming-of-age celebrations. & 

Was she to tell the children now, before 
the thing was certain? And if not, what ex- 
cuse could she possibly put forward for not 
celebrating at the proper time? 

The person who rescued her from this 
dilemma was Great-uncle Charles. He was on 
his way home from the Far East, and, since 
he refused to fly, his home-coming was likely 
to be a protracted one, but he hoped Simon 
would keep the champagne corked till he 
came. 

Great-uncles do not normally cut much ice 
in the families in which they survive, but to 
the Ashbys, Great-uncle Charles was much 
more than a great-uncle: he was a household 
word. Every birthday had been made irides- 
cent and every Christmas a tingling expecta- 
tion by the thought of Great-uncle Charles’ 
present. ; 

Simon might grumble and the others pro- 
test a little, but they would without doubt 
wait. So the postponement was taken by the 
family with resignation. 

(Continued on Page 88) 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 86) 

Bee was at odds with herself these days. 
She wanted this boy to be Patrick; but it 
would be so much better for all concerned, 
she felt, if he proved not to be Patrick. Seven 
eighths of her wanted Patrick back, warm 
and alive, and dear; wanted it passionately. 
The other eighth shrank from the upheaval 
of the happy Ashby world that his return 
would bring with it. 

Mr. Sandal reported from time to time on 
the progress of the investigations, and the re- 
ports were uniform and monotonous. Every- 
thing seemed to confirm the boy’s story. 

So the day came when Mr. Sandal an- 
nounced to Bee that Cosset, Thring and 
Noble were prepared to accept the claimant 
as Patrick Ashby, the eldest son of William 
Ashby of Latchetts, and to hand over to him 
everything that was due to him. 

Bee was faced with breaking the news to 
the family. Her instinct was to tell Simon 
first, privately; but she felt that anything 
that set him apart from the others in this 
matter of welcoming back his brother was 
to be avoided. 

It was after lunch on a Sunday that she 
told them. ‘‘I have something to tell you 
that will be rather a shock. But a nice kind 
of shock,” she said. And went on from there. 
Patrick had not committed suicide, as they 
had thought. He had merely run away. And 
now he had come back. He had been living 
for a little in London because, of course, he 
had to prove to the lawyers that he was Pat- 
rick. But he had had no difficulty in doing 
that. And now he was going to come home. 


Sue had avoided looking at their faces as 
she talked; but in the startled silence that 
followed her story she looked at Simon, 
and for a moment did not recognize him. 

“Does it mean that this new brother will 
get all the money that is Simon’s?”’ asked 
Jane. 

“Well, I think it was a horrible thing to 
do,” Eleanor said. 

“What was?” 

“Running away and leaving us all think- 
ing he was dead.” 

“He didn’t know that, of course. I mean 
that we would take his note to mean that he 
was going to kill himself.”’ 

“Even so. He left us all without a word 
for—for—how long is it? Nearly eight years. 
And then comes back one day and expects us 
to welcome him.” 

“Ts he nice?” asked Ruth. 

“What do you mean by nice?”’ Bee asked. 

“Ts he nice to look at? And does he talk 
nicely or has he a frightful accent?” 

“He is exceedingly nice to look at, and he 
has no accent whatsoever.” 

“Where has be been all this time?” 
Eleanor asked. 

“Mexico and the States, mostly.” 

“T don’t believe for one moment that it is 
Patrick,’ Simon said. in a tight, careful voice 
that was worse than shouting. 

“But, Simon!” Eleanor said. 

Bee sat in a dismayed silence. 

“But, Simon! Aunt Bee has seen him. She 
must know.” 

“Aunt Bee seems to have adopted him.” 

Much worse than she had anticipated. 

“The people who have adopted him, Simon, 
are Cosset, Thring and Noble. A not very 
emotional firm, I think you’ll agree. They 
have left no part of his life since he left Eng- 
land unaccounted for.” 

“Of course whoever it is has had a life that 
can be checked! What did they expect? But 
what possible reason can they have for be- 
lieving that he is Patrick!” 

“Well, for one thing, he is your double.”’ 

This was clearly unexpected. “My double?” 

“Yes. He is even more like you than when 
he went away.” , 

The color had come back to Simon’s face; 
but now he looked stupid. 

“Believe me, Simon dear,” she said, “‘it 7s 
Patrick!”’ ~ 

“Tt isn’t. I know it isn’t. You are all being 
fooled!” 

“But, Simon!”’ Eleanor said. “‘ Why should 
you think that? I know it won’t be easy for 
you to have Patrick back, but there’s no use 
making a fuss about it.” 


“How did this—this creature who says he 
is Patrick, how did he get to Mexico? How 
did he leave England?” 

“He left from Westover on a ship called 
the Ira Jones.” Since this seemed to leave 
Simon without speech, she went on: “And 
everything he did from then on has been 
checked. The hotel he worked at in Nor- 
mandy is no longer there, but they have found 
the ship he sailed from Havre in, and people 
have been shown photographs and identified 
him. And so on, all the way back to England. 
Till the day he walked into Mr. Sandal’s of- 
fice.” 

“Ts that how he came back?” Eleanor 
asked. “‘ Went to see old Mr. Sandal?” 

“Yes,” 

“Well, I should say that proves that he is 
Patrick, if anyone is in any doubt about it. 
When is he coming, Aunt Bee?” Eleanor 
asked. 

“On Tuesday. At least that is what we 
had arranged. But if you would like to put it 
off a little ”’ She glanced at Simon, who 
was looking sick and baffled. 

“Tf you flatter yourself that I shall grow 
used to the idea, you are wrong,”’ Simon said. 
“As far as I'm concerned he is not Patrick 
and he never will be.’’ And he walked out of 
the room. 

“T think it is horrid that someone can 
come and take Simon’s place, without warn- 
ing, like that,”’ Jane said. “Simply horrid. 
And I don’t wonder that Simon is angry.” 

“Aunt Bee,” said Ruth, “can I wear my 
blue on Tuesday when Patrick comes?” 





It was a beautiful day, the day that Brat 
Farrar came to Latchetts. 

Much too shiny! thought Bee, looking at 
the landscape from her bedroom window 
after breakfast. ‘‘Tears before night,” as 
nanny used to say of too exuberant children. 
However. ... 2 At least he will arrive in sun- 
shine. 

She had been greatly exercised in her mind 
over that arrival. It was to be as informal as 
possible; that was a thing that was agreed to 
by all concerned. She had been relieved when 
Eleanor offered to drive the four miles to the 
station at Guessgate and bring Patrick back. 

The present load on her mind was that 
family meal after his arrival. If Simon did 
not turn up, how was his absence to be ex- 
plained? And if he did turn up, what was that 
lunch going to be tike? 

She turned to go down for one more re- 
hearsal with the cook. Domestic worries 
closed once more over Bee’s head. She came 
to the surface in time to see Eleanor getting 
into her little two-seater. 

“‘Aren’t you taking the car?” she asked. 
“The car’’ was the family vehicle, Eleanor’s 
disreputable little conveyance being known 
as “the bug.” 


August, 1949 


“No. He'll have to take us as we are,” 

Bee noticed that she was wearing the 
breeches and gaiters in which she had begun 
the morning. 

“Oh, take me, take me!” Ruth said, pre- 
cipitating herself down the steps and on to 
the car, but taking good care, Bee noticed, to 
keep “her blue” away from “the bug’s” 
dusty metal. 

“No,” Eleanor said firmly. 

“I do think it is selfish of Eleanor,” Ruth 
said, dusting her palms as she watched the 
car grow small between the lime trees. ‘She 
just wants to keep the excitement to her- 
self.”’ 

“Nonsense, It was arranged that you and 
Jane should wait here.”’ 

“Is Simon going to be there, at lunch?” 

“T hope so.” 

“Do you think there will be a scene?” 
Ruth asked hopefully. 

“Of course not, Ruth. I wish you wouldn’t 
dramatize things.” 


But she wished, too, that she could count 
on there being no scene. And Eleanor, on her 
way to the station, was wishing the same 
thing. She was a little nervous at meeting this 
new brother, and annoyed at being nervous. 

Guessgate was a small wayside station 
with a fairly heavy goods business but little 
passenger traffic, so that when Brat climbed 
down from his carriage there was no one on 
the platform but the ticket collector and 
Eleanor. 

“Hullo,” she said. “You are very like 
Simon.” And she shook hands with him. He 
noticed that she wore no make-up. A little 
powdering of freckles went over her nose. 

“Eleanor,” he said, identifying her. 

“Yes. What about your luggage?”’ 

“T have just this,” he said, indicating his 
grip. 

“Is the rest coming later?” 

“No, this is all I possess.” 

“Oh,” she smiled just a little. “‘ No moss.”’ 

“No,” he said, “‘no moss,”’ and began to 
like her very much. 

Eleanor said as they got into the car, “ You 
couldn’t have come home at a better time of 
the year.” 

Home, he thought. Her hair was the color 
of corn so ripe that it was nearly white. Pale, 
silky stuff, brushed back into a knot. 

“The blossom is just beginning. And the 
first foals are here.”’ 

The knees in their worn whipcord were just 
like a boy’s. But the bare arms protruding 
from the jacket she wore slung over her 
shoulders were delicately round. 

“Honey has a filly foal that is going to 
make history. Wait till you see it. I hope you 
will be impressed with our horses.” 

“‘T expect to be,” he said. 

(Continued on Page 90) 


**On the other hand, wouldn’t it be more manly 
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It was after lunch on a Sunday that she 
told them. ‘“‘I have something to tell you 
that will be rather a shock. But a nice kind 
of shock,” she said. And went on from there. 
Patrick had not committed suicide, as they' 
had thought. He had merely run away. And’ 
now he had come back. He had been living, 
for a little in London because, of course, he 
had to prove to the lawyers that he was Pat- 
rick. But he had had no difficulty in doing 
that. And now he was going to come home, 






























Sue had avoided looking at their faces a? 
she talked; but in the startled silence that 
followed her story she looked at Simon, 
and for a moment did not recognize him. 

“Does it mean that this new brother wil! 
get all the money that is Simon’s?” askec 
Jane. 

“Well, I think it was a horrible thing tc 
do,” Eleanor said. 
“What was?” 

“Running away and leaving us all think 
ing he was dead.” 
sata didn’t know that, of course. 


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JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 8&8) 

“Aunt Bee says that you're still interested 
in them. Horses, I mean.” 

“T haven’t done much on the breeding 
side, of course.” 

They came to the village. So this was 
Clare. And up there behind, on its knoll, was 
the church where the Ashby tablets hung. 

“The village is looking nice, isn’t it?” 
Eleanor said. *‘ Not changed a bit since I can 
remember. The names of the people in the 
houses come in the same order down the 
street as they did in the time of Richard the 
Second. But of course you know that!”’ 

Beyond the village, he knew, were the 
great gates of Clare Park. He waited, mildly 
curious, to see the entrance to what had been 
Alec Loding’s home. It proved to be a sweep- 
ing curve of iron lace flanked by two enor- 
mous pillars bearing on each a lion passant. 

“Did you know that Clare was a school 
nowadays?” 

He had nearly said yes, when he remem- 
bered that this was merely one of the things 
Loding had told him. 

“What kind of school?” 

“A school for anyone who loathes hard 
work and has a parent with enough money 
to pay the fees. I teach some of them to ride. 
They like that. Riding, I mean. I think they 
are so bored with easy things that they find 
something a little difficult simply fascinating. 
But of course it has to be something out of 
the ordinary. If it was a difficulty that every- 
one was supposed to overcome they wouldn't 
be interested. That would bring them down 
to the common level of you and me.” 

‘Nice people.” 

“Very profitable to Latchetts, anyhow. 
And here is Latchetts.”’ 

Brat’s heart rose up into his throat. 
Eleanor turned slowly into the white gate- 
way between the limes. 

It was just as well that she was going 
slowly, for she had no sooner entered the 
green tunnel than something like a giant blue 
butterfly shot out from the boles of the trees. 

“Hullo! Hullo!” shouted the butterfly, 
dancing to Brat’s side of the car. 

“You little idiot,” Eleanor said. 
serve to be killed.” 

“Hullo! Hullo, Patrick! It’s me! Ruth. 
How d’you do. I came to ride up with you. 
Can I sit on your knee? I hope you like my 
dress. It is put on specially for you. You're 
very good-looking. Am I what you ex- 
pected?” 

She waited for an answer to that, so Brat 
said that he hadn’t really thought about it. 

“Oh,” said Ruth, much dashed. “We 
thought about you. No one has talked about 
anything else for days.” 

“Ah, well,’’ Brat said, ‘“when you have run 
away for years and years people will talk 
about you.” 

“T shouldn’t dream of doing anything so 
outré,”’ Ruth said, unforgiving. 

“Where did you get that word?” Eleanor 
asked. 

“It’s a very good word. Mrs. Peck uses it.” 


“You de- 


Brat felt that he ought to paint in a little 
local color by saying, ‘‘How are the Pecks, 
by the way?” But he had no mind to spare 
for artifice. He was waiting for the moment 
when the limes would thin out and he would 
see Latchetts. For the moment when he 
would be face to face with his ‘‘twin.” 

“Simon hasn’t come back yet,’”’ he heard 
Ruth say; and saw her sideways glance at 
Eleanor. 

So Simon wasn’t waiting on the doorstep 
for him. Simon was ‘‘away”’ somewhere and 
the family was uneasy about it. The ease of 
his meeting with Eleanor had fooled him. 

The car ran out of the thin spring green of 
the avenue into the wide sweep in front of 
the house, and there in the too-bright gusty 
sunlight stood Latchetts. As Eleanor swept 
round toward the house, Brat saw Beatrice 
Ashby come out on to the doorstep, and a 
sudden panic seized him. It was going to bea 
damnably difficult and awkward scene, and 
he had no idea how to play it. 

It was Ruth who saved him from the worst 
moment of awkwardness. “I met him after 
all, Aunt Bee! I met him after all. I came up 
from the gate with them. You don’t mind, do 


August 1049 


you?" She linked her arm through Brat’: 
and tumbled with him out of the car, drag- 
ging him behind her as if he were a find of 
her own. 

Jane came riding round the corner of the 
house on Fourposter on her way to the sta- 
bles. The instant check of her hands on the 
reins when she saw the group at the door 
made it obvious that she had not planned on 
being one of that group. But it was never 
possible to back away from anything that 
Fourposter might happen to be interested in 
So forward came the reluctant Jane on a 
highly interested pony. As Fourposter came 
to a halt she slid politely to the ground and 
stood there shy and defensive, 

“What is your pony’s name?” 
aware of her antagonism. 

“That's Fourposter,” 
priating Jane’s mount. 
the Equine Omnibus.” 


Brat asked, 


Ruth said, appro- 
“The rector calls him 


Brat put out his hand to the pony, who 
refused the advance by withdrawing a pac: 
and looking contemptuously down his Romar 
nose. As a gesture it was pure burlesque. 

“A comedian,” remarked Brat; and Bee, 
delighted with his perception, laughed. 

“He doesn’t like people,” Jane said, 

But Brat kept his hand out, and presently 
Fourposter’s curiosity overcame his stand- 
offishness and he dropped his head to the 
waiting hand. Brat made much of him, till 
Fourposter capitulated entirely and nuzzled 
him with elephantine playfulness. 

“Well!” said Ruth, watching. ‘‘ He never 
does that to anyone!"’ 

Brat looked down into the small tight face 
by his elbow. “I expect he does to Jane when 
no one is around.” 

“Jane, it is time you were cleaned up for 
lunch.”’ Bee turned to lead the way indoors. 

And Brat followed her, over the threshold. 


“T have put you in the old night nursery,”’ 
Bee said. “I hope you don’t mind. Simon 
has the room that he used to share with 
that you used to share with him.”’ Oh, dear, 
what a gaffe, she thought; shall I ever be able 
lo think of him as Patrick? ‘‘And to give you 
one of the spare rooms would be to treat 
you like a visitor.” 

Brat said that he would be glad to have 
the night nursery. 

“Will you go up now, or will you have a 
drink first?” 

“T’ll go up now,” Brat said, and turned to 
the stairway. 

He knew that she had been waiting for 
this moment. So he turned from her and led 
the way upstairs; up to the first landing and 
down the narrow corridor to the north wing. 
and to the children’s rooms facing west from 
it. He opened the third of the four doors and 
stood in the room that Nora had arranged for 
her children when they were small, very con- 
scious of Bee Ashby behind him. 

“Where is Simon?” he said, and turned 
to face her. 

“He is like Jane,” she said. “‘Late for 
lunch. But he’ll be in at any moment.” 

It was smoothly done, but he had seen her 
shy at his unheralded question, as if he had 
flicked a whip. Simon had not come to meet 
him. Simon was being difficult. 

Before he could pursue the subject she 
took the initiative from him. “‘ You can have 
the nursery bathroom all to yourself, but do 
go slow on the hot water, will you? Now wash 
and come down at once. The Pecks sent over 
some of the rectory sherry.” 

She watched him turn to the fourth door, 
which he knew to be the bathroom of the 
nursery wing, and went away looking com- 
forted. He knew why she was comforted: 
because he had known his way about the 
house. 

He washed absent-mindedly, turning the 
soap in his hands with his eyes on the line of 
the down. There was the turf he had wanted 
to ride on; the turf he had sold his soul for. 

He went back to his room and found a 
brassy blonde tweaking the wallflower in the 
bowl on the window sill. 

“Hullo,” said the blonde. 
home, and all that.” 

“‘Thanks,”’ Brat said. Was this someone 
that he should know? Surely not! 


“Welcome 


“You won’t know me, of course. I’m Lana 
Adams, from the village. I oblige because my 
boy friend works in the stables.” 

So that is what she was: the help. 

“You look a lot older than your brother, 
don’t you? I suppose it’s knocking about the 

_ world does it. Not being spoilt like your 

¢ brother. You'll excuse me saying it, but 
spoilt he is. That’s why he’s made all this 
to-do about you coming back. But you take 
my tip and stand up to him. He can’t stand 
being stood up to. Been humored all his life, 
I should say. Don’t let it get you down.” 

As Brat went silently on with his unpack- 
ing, she paused; and before she could resume, 
Eleanor’s cool voice said from the doorway: 

“Have you everything you want?” 

The blonde said hastily, “I was just wel- 
coming Mr. Patrick back,”’ and made a hip- 
swinging exit from the room. 

Brat wondered how much Eleanor had 
heard. 

“Tt’s a nice room, this,” Eleanor said, ‘‘ex- 
cept that it doesn’t get the morning sun.” 

“The old wallpaper, I notice.” 

“Robinson Crusoe and company. Yes. I 
had a great weakness for Hereward the 
Wake.” 

“Ts the nursery-rhyme paper still next 
door?” 

“Yes, of course. Come and see.” 

He went with her, but while she rehearsed 
the pictured tales his mind was busy with 
the village girl’s revelation about Simon. 

He followed Eleanor 
downstairs, still wonder- 
ing. 


Eleanor led him into a Happiness is not a horse: 
it does not run along a 


big sunny sitting room 
where Bee was pouring 
sherry, and Ruth was 
picking out a tune on a 
piano. 

“Would you like to hear me play?”’ Ruth 
asked inevitably. 

“No,” Eleanor said, ‘“he wouldn’t. We’ve 
been looking at the old wallpapers,’”’ she 
said to Bee. “I'd forgotten how in love with 

> Hereward I used to be.” 

“T never liked that baby stuff on the 
walls,” Ruth said. 

“We gave up using the nursery wing when 
the twins ceased to have a nanny,” Bee said. 

“Tt was a day’s march to call the twins in 
the morning,” Eleanor said, “‘and as Ruth 
always needed calling several times we had 
to move them into the normal family orbit.” 

“Delicate people need more sleep,’’ Ruth 
said. 

“Since when have you been delicate?” 
asked Eleanor. 

“It’s not that I’m delicate but that Jane’s 
more robust, aren’t you, Jane?” she said, 
appealing to Jane, who sidled into the room. 

But Jane’s eyes were on Bee. “Simon is 
here,”’ she said in a small voice. 


straight road. 


There was an instant of complete silence. 
Then Bee’s hand meved again and went on 
filling the glasses. “‘That is very nice. We 
needn’t keep luncheon back after all.” 

“Where is Simon?” Eleanor asked casu- 
ally. 

“‘He was coming downstairs,” Jane said, 
and her eyes went back to Bee. 

The door opened and Simon Ashby came 
in. He paused a moment, looking across at 
Brat, before closing the door behind him. 
““So you’ve come,” he said. 

He walked slowly across the room until he 
was standing face to face with Brat by the 
window. He had abnormally clear gray eyes 
with a darker rim to the iris, but they had 
no expression in them. He was so tightly 
strung, Brat thought, that if you plucked 
him with a finger he would twang. 

And then quite suddenly the tightness 
went. He stood for a moment searching 
Brat’s face; and his own was suddenly slack 

with relief. 

“They won’t have told you,” he said, 
drawling a little, “but I was prepared to 
deny with my last breath that you were Pat- 
rick. Now that I’ve seen you I take all that 
back.-Of course you are Patrick.” He put out 
his hand. ‘‘ Welcome home.” 

The stillness behind them broke in a flurry 
of movement and competing voices. There 


— RUSSIAN PROVERB. 
TS eae 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


was a babble of mutual congratulation, of 
chinking glasses and laughter. 

But Brat, drinking the golden liquid and 
thanking heaven that the moment was over, 
was puzzled. Why relief? he was thinking. 
What had Ashby expected? 

He took the small puzzle in to luncheon 
with him, and it lay at the back of his mind 
while he dealt with the problems of Ashby 
conversations. 

You’re in! gloated the voice inside him. 
You're sitling as of right at the Ashby table, 
and they’re all tickled to death about it. 


Wet, perhaps not all. Jane, loyal to Simon, 
was a small silent oasis in the bright talk. 
And it was not to be expected that Simon 
himself, for all his capitulation, was tickled 
to any great extent. But Bee was radiant; 
and Eleanor melted moment by moment 
from conversational politeness to a frank 
interest. 

“But a Comanche bridle is a kind of 
twitch, isn’t it?” 

“No; just a gag. The rope goes through 
the mouth the way a bit does.” 

One thing helped him enormously in this 
first difficult meeting with the Ashbys. The 
tale he had to tell, as Loding had pointed out 
during that meal at the Green Man, was, 
except for its beginnings, the tale of his own 
life. 

Nor was there any need for him to ‘‘mind 
his manners”’; and that, too, Alec Loding 
had given loud thanks for. 
It Seemed that, short of a 
first-class and very strict 
nanny, there was no more 
rigorous training in the 
civilized consumption of 
food than was to be 
had at a first-class 
orphanage. 

So Brat had no social habits to unlearn. 
Indeed, his orthodoxy slightly disappointed 
Ruth. “You don’t eat with your fork,’’ she 
said; and when he looked puzzled, added: 
“The way they do in American pictures; 
they cut things up with their knives and 
forks and then they change the fork over to 
their other hand and eat with it.” 

“T don’t chew gum either,” he pointed out. 

“Do you smoke?”’ Bee asked when she had 
poured the coffee. She pushed the cigarette 
box over to him. But Brat, who liked his own 
brand, took out his case and offered the con- 
tents to her. 

“T’ve given them up,” Bee said. “I have 
a bank balance instead.” 

So Brat offered the case to Eleanor. 

Eleanor paused with her fingers touching 
the cigarettes, and bent forward to read 
something engraved on the inside of the case. 
“Brat Farrar,” she said. ‘“‘Who is that?” 

“Me,” said Brat. 

“You? Oh, yes; Farrar, of course. But why 
Brat?” 

“T don’t know. Because I was small, I 
guess.” 

“Brat!’? Ruth said, delighted. ““Do you 
mind if I call you Brat? Do you?” 

“No. I haven’t been called anything else 
for a large part of my life.’’ 

The door opened and Lana appeared, to 
say that a young man had called to see Miss 
Ashby and she had put him in the library. 

“Oh, what a nuisance,”’ Bee said. ‘‘ What 
does he want, do you know?” 

““He says he’s areporter,” Lana said. “‘The 
Westover Times he says he is.” 

“Did he say why he had come?” 

“Come about Mr. Patrick, of course.” 

Bee drank the remains of her coffee. 
““Come on, Brat!” she said, putting out her 
hand and pulling him to his feet. ‘‘We might 
as well get it over. You too, Simon.” She led 
Brat out of the room, laughing at him, and 
still hand in hand with him. 

Later, in the library, as the voices of Bee 
and the reporter faded down the hall, there 
was silence. Brat, uncertain of the quality of 
that silence, turned to the shelves and began 
to consider the books. 

“‘Well,”’ said Simon, lounging in the win- 
dow, ‘‘another hazard safely negotiated.” 

Brat waited, trying to analyze the sound of 
the words while they still hung in the air. 
“Hazard?” he said at length. 





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“The snags and bunkers in the difficult 
business of coming back. It must have taken 
some nerve, all things considered, What 
moved you to it, Brat—homesickness?"’ 

This was the first frank question he had 
been asked, and he suddenly liked Ashby the 
better for it. 

“Not exactly. A realization that my-place 
was here, after all.”” He felt that that had a 
self-righteous sound, and added: ‘‘I mean, 
that my place in the world was here.” 

This was succeeded by another silence. 
Brat went on looking at books. 

It was Bee, coming in, who broke the 
silence. ‘‘ Let’s go and look at the horses, shall 
we? Have you any riding clothes with you, 
Brat?” 

“Not any that Latchetts would recognize 
as riding clothes,’’ Brat said, noticing how 
thankfully she seized the excuse not to call 
him Patrick. 

“Come up with me,” Simon said, “and 
I’ll find you something.”’ 

“Good,” said Bee, looking pleased with 
him. ‘I'll collect Eleanor.” 

“Did you like being given the old night 
nursery?’’ Simon 
asked, preceding Brat 
upstairs. 

“Very much.” 

“Same old paper, I 
suppose you noticed. 
Do you remember the 


x * oe Pe Re 


é Mended ; Vhings 


August, 194 


It was said absent-mindedly, but with cor 
fidence. 

“Do you remember the object that used t 
hang at the end of your bed?” Simon askec 
pushing the shirt drawer shut, 

“The little horse?"’ Brat said. “ Yes, c 
course. Trayesty,”’ he added, giving its nam 
and mock b ing, ‘by Irish Peasant out « 
Bog Oak.” 


He turned from the exhibits on the mar 
telpiece, meaning to collect the clothes the 
Ashby, had got out for him; but as h 
turned he saw Ashby’s face in the mirro: 
and the naked shock on that face stoppe 
him in his tracks. 

Simon turned slowly, the shirt hangin 
over his left forearm. “I think you'll fin 
that all right,” he said. His expression wa 
no longer shocked; he merely looked as if hi 
mind were elsewhere. 

Brat took the shirt, collected the rest c 
the clothes, expressed his thanks, and mad 
for the door. 

“‘Come down when you're ready,” Simo 
said, still staring at him in that blank way 
“We'll be waiting fe 
you.” 

And Brat, makin 
his way round th 
landing to his ow 
room in the opposit 
wing, was shocked i 


night we had an : his turn, Ashb 

Ivanhoe-Hereward By Bisine V. Duane hadn't expected hir 

battle?” Is it so strange that I love mended to know that. 
“No; I don’t re- 77 8 - ‘ — And that coul 


things: 


“No. Of course you 
wouldn't.” 

Again the words 
hung on the silence, 
teasing Brat’s ear. 

He followed young 
Ashby into the room 
he had shared with 
his brother, and 
noticed that there was 
no suggestion that it 
had ever been shared 
by another person. It 
was, on the contrary, 
very much Simon's 
own room, being fur- 
nished with his pos- 
sessions to an extent 
that made it as much 
of a sitting room asa 
bedroom. 

Brat moved over 
to the window while 
Simon rummaged 
among his clothes for 
appropriate gar- 
ments. The window 
looked over the 
stables, but a green 
hedge of lilac and laburnum trees hid the 
buildings from view. Above them, in the mid- 
dle distance, rose the tower of Clare church. 

Simon emerged from the cupboard with 
breeches and a tweed coat. ‘‘I think these 
ought to do,”’ he said, throwing them on the 
bed. ‘‘I’ll find you a shirt.” 

He opened a drawer of the chest and Brat, 
still uneasy in Ashby’s vicinity, moved over 
to the fireplace and began to look at the 
silver cups on the mantelpiece. All except 
one were of a date too late to have concerned 
Patrick Ashby; the exception being a small 
and humble chalice that had been awarded 
to Simon Ashby on Patience for being the 
winner of the juvenile jumping class at the 
Bures Agricultural Show. 


utmost Care 


of it, 


to love it, 


as stout 
out, 


human tie 


another try? 


not matter. 


Simon, looking round and seeing the small 
cup in Brat’s hand, smiled and said, ‘‘I took 
that from you, if you remember.” 

‘From me?’’ Brat said, unprepared. 

“You would have won on Old Harry if I 
hadn’t done you out of it by doing a perfect 
second round.” 

“Oh, yes,” Brat said. And to lay a new 
scent: “‘ You seem to have done well for your- 
self since.” 

“Not badly,” Simon said, his attention 
going back to his shirt drawer. “But I’m 
going to do a lot better.” 


A sock heel like a fine embroi- 
dered square, 

A chair to which another era clings, 

A plate so cherished that the 

Was taken to preserve the fragments 


A litle wagon nearly good as new 
Again for owners who have grown 


And always dolls with magic 
wrought by glue; 

Old garden walls, and fences twice 

Now as the day the cattle wandered 

And roads, and bridges, and each 

Of understanding, faith that 
seemed to shatter, 


And love that longed to have 


Nothing is mended well that does 


KOTAK OK IRS Ree 


mean only one thi 
It meant that youn 
Ashby had not be 
lieved for a momer 
that he was Patrick 
Brat shut the doo 
of the old night nur: 
ery behind him an 
stood leaning agains 
it, the clothes cascac 
ing slowly to th 
ground from his slack 
ened arm. Simon ha 
not been fooled. 
Why had Simo 
bothered to pretend 
Why had he not sai 
at once, “ You are no 
Patrick and nothin 
will make me believ 
that you are!’’? 
‘He could not hav 
known until the ac 
tual face-to-fac 
meeting that he, Brat 
was not Patrick. An 
he had apparentl 
known instantly tha 
the person he wa 
facing was not hi 
brother. Why then should he —— 

Brat stooped to pick up the clothes fror 
the floor and straightened himself abruptly 
He had remembered something. He had re 
membered that odd relaxing on Simon’s par 
the moment he had had a good look at him 
self. That suggestion of relief. 

So that was it! Simon had been afraid tha 
it was Patrick. 

When he found that he was faced with | 
mere impostor he must have had difficult 
in refraining from embracing him. And h 
must have looked forward with a delighte 
malice to baiting the pretender. 

Yes; all ready to pull the wings off flies wa 
young Mr. Ashby. The first tentative pul 
had been about the Ivanhoe-Herewar« 
battle. Something that only Patrick woul 
know about. But something that he migh 
easily have forgotten. The little wooder 
horse was something that only Patrick woulc 
know about and something that Patricl 
could in no circumstances have forgotten. 

Brat spared a kind thought for that mas 
ter tutor, Alec Loding. So far he had know: 
his lines. So far he was word perfect. 

Even to the point of Travesty. A littl 
object of black bog oak, it had been. It hac 
originally been yoked to a jaunting car, thi 
whole turnout being one of those bog-oal 

(Continued on Page 94) 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 92) 
souvenirs that tourists brought back from 
Ireland. 

It was Alec Loding who had been respon- 
sible for its naming. He and Nancy had 
looked in at Latchetts on their way home 
from some pony races, but finding no one at 
home except Nora, who was having tea up- 
stairs with her children, they had joined the 
nursery party. And there, while they made 
toast, they had sought a name for Patrick’s 
talisman. 

“What would you call it, Alec?” his 
mother asked. 

“Travesty,” Alec had said, eying the 
thing. ‘By Irish Peasant out of Bog Oak.” 

The grownups had laughed, but Patrick, 
who was too young to know the meaning of 
the word, thought that Travesty was a fine, 
proud-sounding name. 

Yes: not much wonder that Simon had 
been shaken to the core. No stranger to the 
Ashby family could have known about 
Travesty. 

Brat went downstairs buoyed up with a 
new anticipation. Through the wide-open 
door of the hall he could see the Ashbys 
grouped in the sunlight on the steps, and 
went forward to join them. Ruth, with her 
chronically roving eyes, was the first to see 
him. 

“Oh, doesn’t he look nice,”’ 
paying court. 

Simon was draped against the wall by the 
doorway, relaxed and apparently at peace 
with the world. 

“Well,” he said, pushing himself off the 
wall, “let’s go and look at some horses.” 

“We'll show you the stables this after- 
noon,” Bee said, “‘and leave the mares until 
after tea.” 

She ran an arm through Brat’s and gath- 
ered Simon in with her other one, so that 
they went toward the stables arm in arm. 

“Gregg is all agog to see you,” she said. 
“Not that you’ll notice any agogness, of 
course. His face doesn’t permit anything like 
that.” 

“What happened to old Malpas?”’ Brat 
asked. 

“He became very astigmatic,’’ Bee said. 
“Figuratively speaking. We could never see 
eye to eye. He didn’t really like taking orders 
from a woman. So he retired about eighteen 
months after I took over, and we’ve had 
Gregg ever since.” 

Why doesn’t he relax? she was thinking, 
feeling the boy’s arm rigid under her fingers. 
The ordeal is over now, surely. Why doesn’t he 
relax? 

And Brat for his part was conscious of her 
fingers clasping his forearm as he had never 
been conscious before of a woman’s hand. 

But his first sight of the stables distracted 
his attention from both emotion and ethical 
problems. 


said Ruth, still 


The little building on the left of the yard 
entrance was the saddle room, and in the 
saddle-room door was the stud groom, Gregg. 
He took two paces forward and waited for 
them to come up to him. The waiting em- 
phasized the fact that he was receiving 
them on his own ground. He gave Brat a 
conventional welcome and a crushing hand- 
clasp. 

“T hear you’ve been riding horses in Amer- 
ica.” 

“Only Western ones,” Brat said. “‘ Work- 
ing horses.” 

“Oh, these work,’”’ Gregg said, inclining 
his head toward the boxes. Don’t be in any 
doubt about it, the tone said. It was as if he 
had understood Brat’s distrust of the spit 
and polish. 

Brat’s tendency to be patronizing about 
spit and polish died painlessly and perma- 
nently somewhere between the fourth and 
fifth boxes. The pampered darlings that he 
had beer prepared to find in these boxes did 
not exist. Thoroughbred, half-bred, cob or 
pony, the shine on their ceats came from 
-condition and grooming and not from cod- 
dling in warm stables. 

Bee did the honors, with Gregg as assist- 
ant; but the occasion soon lost the slight for- 
mality of its beginnings and degenerated into 
a friendly free-for-all. 


Simon behaved as if he had not a care in 
the world. Brat, coming to the surface every 
now and then from his beguilement with the 
horses, would watch the cool, untroubled pro- 
file, and wonder. “A bit light in front,” the 
cool voice would be saying. 

It was Bee who ran Latchetts, but the 
various interests involved were divided be- 
tween the three Ashbys. Eleanor’s chief con- 
cerns were the hacks and hunters; Simon's 
were hunters and show jumpers; and Bee's 
were the mares and the Shetland ponies. 
During Bill Ashby’s lifetime, when Latchetts 
was purely a breeding establishment, the 
hacks and hunters in the stables had been 
there for family use and amusement. Nowa- 
days'the younger Ashbys, under Bee’s super- 
vision, had turned the stables into a profit- 
able rival to the brood mares. 

“Mr. Gates is asking if he can speak to 
you, sir,” said the stableman to Gregg. And 
Gregg excused himself and went back to the 
saddle room. 


Fourposter came to the door of his box, 
stared coldly at Brat for a moment, and then 
nudged him jocosely with his Roman nose. 

Gregg came back to say that it was Miss 
Ashby that Gates wanted to see. It was about 
the fencing. 

“All right, I’ll come,” Bee said. ‘‘ What he 
really wants to see is Brat, but he’ll just wait 
till tomorrow like the rest of the countryside. 
If you two go trying out any of the horses, 
do be back for tea. I want to go round the 
paddocks with Brat before it gets dark.” 

““Do you remember Gates?”’ Simon asked, 
opening the door of another box. 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“He's the tenant of Wigsell.” 

““What became of Vidler, then?” 

“He died. This man was married to his 
daughter.” 

Well, Simon had dealt him the cards he 
needed that time. He looked at Simon to see 
how he had taken it, but Simon’s whole in- 
terest seemed to be in the horse he was lead- 
ing out of the box. 

“These last three boxes are all new acqui- 
sitions, bought with an eye on the show ring. 
But this is the pick of the bunch. His name 
is Timber.” 

‘Timber was a black without a brown hair 
in him. He had a rudimentary white star, 
and a ring of white on each coronet. He came 
out of his box with an air of benevolent con- 
descension. There was something oddly de- 
mure about him, Brat thought. Whatever it 
was, it didn’t go with the self-confident, con- 
sidering eye. 

“Difficult to fault, isn’t he?’’ Simon said. 
“And a sweet mover too.” 

Brat went on looking in silence, admiring 
and puzzled. 

“‘Well?”’ Simon said, waiting for Brat’s 
comment. 

“‘Isn’t he concetted!”’ said Brat. 

Simon laughed. ** Yes, I suppose he is. But 
not without cause.” 

“No. He’s a good looker all right.” 

“‘He is more than that. He’s a lovely ride.” 

Brat moved forward to the horse and 
made friendly overtures. Timber looked 
gratified but faintly bored. 

“He should have been a tenor,” Brat said. 

“A tenor?” Simon said. ‘Oh, I see. The 
conceit.’’ He considered the horse afresh. “I 
hadn’t thought about it before. Would you 
like to try him out, by the way?” 

“T certainly would.” 

“He ought to have some exercise today 
and he hasn’t had it so far.’’ He hailed a 
stableman. “Arthur, bring a saddle for 
Timber.” 

“Yes, sir. A double bridle, sir?” 

“No; a snaffle.”” And, as the man went, to 
Brat: “‘He has a mouth like a glove.” 

“What are you riding?” Brat asked. 

Simon turned to face him. “‘I thought you 
might like to have a look round by yourself,” 
he said. And as Brat, surprised by this piece 
of luck, was momentarily wordless: “Don’t 
let him get lit-up too much, will you?” 

*“No, I’ll bring him back cool,’’ Brat said; 
and flung his leg across his first English horse. 

He took one of the two whips that Arthur 
was holding out for his choosing, and began 
to walk Timber to the corner of the yard. 


Auguet, 1949 





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“He has his tricks, so look out for him,” 
Simon said, as an afterthought. 

“T'll look out for him,”’ Brat said, and rode 
away to the inner gate which Arthur was 
waiting to open for him. 

Arthur grinned in a friendly fashion and 
said admiringly, ‘*He’s a fly one, that, sir.” 

A fly one, Timber was. 

The fly one walked composedly up the 
track between the green banks netted with 
violets, his ears erect in anticipation of the 
turf ahead of them. As they came in sight 
of the gate at the far end he danced a little. 
No, said Brat’s hands, and he desisted at 
once. Never before had Brat had so delicate 
and so well-oiled a mechanism under him. 

“You wonder!” said Brat softly. 

The ears flicked at him. 

“You perishing marvel,” he said, and 
closed his knees as he turned to face the down. 

Timber broke into a slow canter, headed 
for the clumps of gorse and juniper bushes 
that marked the sky line. 

So this was what riding a good English 
horse was like, he thought. This communion, 
this being one half of a whole. This effortless- 
ness. This comfort. This magic. 

I don’t care, he thought, J don’t care. I’m a 
criminal, and a heel, but I’ve got what I wanted, 
and it’s worth it. By heaven, it’s worth it. If I 
died tomorrow, it’s worth tt. 

Down below him, a little to his left, were 
the crimson roofs of Latchetts, set in the 
neat squares of paddock. Farther to the left 
was the church, and left of it again, the vil- 
* lage of Clare, a huddle of roofs in pale green 
trees. Where the lane sloped up from the vil- 
lage to make the south side of the small 
valley stood Clare Park. 

Directly opposite him 
that slope rose into a 
low green hill called Tan- 
bitches. It was an open 
stretch of grazing, marked 
halfway up with the green 
scar of an old quarry, and crowned by the 
beeches that had given it its name. 

The other side of the Tanbitches hill, as 
, he knew from the maps, ran away in a gentle 
slope for a mile and a half to the cliffs where 
Patrick Ashby had put an end to his life. 
In the slight hollow that marked the Clare 
Park slope from Tanbitches hill was a path 
that led to the coast. The path that Patrick 
Ashby had taken on that day eight years ago. 

It was suddenly more real to him than it 
had ever been so far: this tragedy which he 
was using to his advantage. More real even 
than it had been in the rooms that Patrick 
had lived in. Out here in the open and alone 
it had a reality that it had never had before. 

For the first time in his detached exist- 
ence Brat was personally aware of another’s 
tragedy. When Loding had first told him the 
story, he had had nothing but contempt for 
the boy who had had so much and could not 
do without that little extra. Then Loding 
had brought those photographs to Kew and 
had shown him Patrick, and he had had that 
odd feeling of identification, of partisanship. 

It was not, however, until this moment of 
quiet above Latchetts that he had been 
moved to sorrow for him. 

Clink—clink! came the faint sound from 
the valley; and Brat’s eyes traveled down 
from Tanbitches to the cottage at its foot. 
The blacksmith’s, that was. A tiny black 
square by the roadside, it had been on the 
map; now it was a small building with a black 
chimney and an occupant who made musical 
sounds with a hammer. 


» 


Brat slid from Timber’s back, from long 
habit loosened the girth as if he had saddled 
up hours ago, and sat down with his back 
to the gorse and juniper to feast his eyes on 
this primer of the English countryside. 

He was roused by the swift upfling of 
Timber’s head, and almost at the same mo- 
ment a female voice behind him said, as if 
it were a chant and rhymed: 


“Don't look, 
Don’t move, 
Shut your eyes 
And guess who.” 


It was a slightly cockney voice, and it 
dripped with archness. 


The truth never hurts—un- 
less it ought to. 


LADIES’ HOME 


Like anyone else in the circumstances, 
Brat disobeyed the injunction automati- 
cally. He looked round into the face of a 
large, plumpish girl with bright auburn hair. 

“Oh!” said the girl, in a half shriek. “I 
thought you were Simon. You’re not!”’ 

“No,” agreed Brat, beginning to get to 
his feet. But before he could move she had 
dropped to the grass beside him. 

“My, you gave me a shock. You’re the 
long-lost brother, aren’t you? You must be; 
you’re so like Simon. That’s who you are, 
Sitters 

Brat said that it was. 

“You even wear the same kind of clothes.” 


Brat said that they were Simon’s clothes. 
“You know Simon?”’ 

“Of course I know Simon. I’m Sheila 
Parslow. I’m a boarder at Clare Park.” 

~Ohe? 

“T’m doing my best to have an affaire 
with Simon, but it’s uphill work.” 

Brat did not know the correct rejoinder to 
this, but she did not need conversational en- 
couragement. 

“T flapped father’s millions in front of 
Simon; I hoped it would weight my charms, 
so to speak; but he’s a frightful snob.”’ 

“Ts he?”’ 

“Don’t you know?” 

“T’ve only met him today.” 

“Oh, of course. You’ve just come back. 
How exciting for you. I can understand 
Simon not being overjoyed, but it must be 
exciting for you to put his nose out of joint.” 

Brat wondered if she, too, pulled the wings 
off flies. “‘I’m afraid I must go,”’ he said, get- 
ting up and putting the 
reins over Timber’s head. 

“T wish you didn’t have 
to,’’ she said. “‘ You are the 
nicest person I have talked 
to since I came to Clare. 
You might cut Simon 
out with the Gates girl, and then I’d have 
more chance. Do you know the Gates girl?”’ 

“No,” Brat said, getting up on Timber’s 
back. 

“Now that you’re home, I’ll be running 
across you in the stables, I suppose.” 

“I expect so.” 

“Do you know, I don’t know your name. 
Someone told me, of course, but I forget. 
What is it?” 

“Patrick.”’ And as he said the word his 
mind went back to the path across the valley, 
and he forgot Miss Parslow almost instantly. 

He cantered back along the top of the 
down until he came level with Latchetts, and 
then began to walk Timber down. Below him, 
a green ride led through the paddocks to the 
west of the house and so to the sweep of 
gravel in front of it. Brat rode down until the 
steepness of the down gave way to a gentle 
slope and then pressed Timber into a canter. 
The green tunnel of the ride with its soft floor 
was open before them. 

It was due to no good riding on Brat’s part 
that his left leg was still whole five seconds 
later. It was due entirely to the years of 
roughriding. The swerve was so sudden and 
so wholehearted that the white rail was scrap- 
ing along the saddle where his leg should have 
been, before he realized that he had taken it 
away before he had had time to think 
about it. 

As Timber came away from the rails he 
settled back into the saddle and pulled the 
horse to a stop. Timber stopped obediently. 

““Whew!”’ said Brat, expelling his pent 
breath. “‘I know men who’d beat you for 
that,’”’ Brat said, and turned the horse’s nose 
to the down again. 

When he was far enough away from the 
gate Brat took him into a canter once more 
and down to the opening. He had neither 
spurs nor curb, but he was curious to see 
what Timber would do this time. Timber, as 
he had expected, swept good-manneredly 
into the ride, bisecting the distance between 
the rails with mathematical precision. 

What, me! he seemed to be saying. Do a 
thing like that on purpose? Me with my perfect 
manners. Of course not. I just lost my balance 
for a moment. 

Well, well, thought Brat, pulling him to a 
walk. ‘Think you’re smart, don’t you,” he 


—B. C. FORBES. 





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said aloud. ‘‘Far smarter horses than you 
have tried to brush me off, take it from me.”’ 

The black ears flickered, listening, analyz- 
ing the sound of his voice, its tone; puzzled. 

Brat rode on to the stables and found 
Eleanor just riding in with a led horse. 

“Hullo!” she said. ‘‘ Have you been out on 
Timber?”’ She sounded surprised. “I hope 
Simon warned you about him.” 

“Yes, thank you, he warned me.” 

“One of my bad buys,” she said ruefully, 
eying Timber. ‘‘I bought him at the Lerridge 
Hunt sale. It was Timber who killed old 
Felix. Old Felix Hunstanton, the master, you 
know. Did Simon tell you?” 

“No. He just told me about his tricks.” 

“Old Felix had some good horses, and when 
they were being sold I went over to see what 
I could pick up. I wondered why I was get- 
ting Timber so cheap. It was only afterward 
that we found that he had done the same 
thing to the huntsman a few days later.” 

“T see,” said Brat, who was beginning to. 

“Not that anyone needed convincing, ap- 
parently. No one who was there when Felix 
was killed believed it was an accident. It was 
a Lerridge Castle meet. Good open galloping 
country with the trees isolated. And yet 
Timber took Felix under an oak, going an 
awful bat, and he was dead before he hit the 
ground.” 

“Did anyone actually see it happen?” 

“No, I don’t think so. Everyone just knew 
that with the whole park to choose from 
Felix wouldn’t have ridden under the oak. 
And when he tried the same thing on Samms, 
the huntsman, there was no doubt. So he is 
put into the sale with the rest of the lot and 
all the Lerridge regulars watch Eleanor Ashby 
from over Clare way buying a pup.” 

““He’s a very elegant pup, there’s no deny- 
ing,’ Brat said, rubbing Timber’s neck. 

“He’s beautiful,”” Eleanor said. “And a 
faultless jumper. He is safest jumping be- 
cause his mind is distracted. He hasn’t time 
to think up mischief. It’s odd, isn’t it; he 
doesn’t look untrustworthy.” 

“No.” 

She caught the tone. ‘‘ You don’t sound too 
sure.” 

“Well, he is the most conceited animal I’ve 
ever met.” 


Tus seemed to be as new an idea to 
Eleanor as it had been to Simon. “Vain, is 
he? Yes, I suppose he is. Did he try any 
tricks today?” 

“He swerved at the entrance to the ride, 
but that was all.”” He did not say, He took ad- 
vantage of the first good stout piece of timber to 
smash my leg against. That was something 
between the horse and himself. 

“He behaves like an angel miost of the 
time,” Eleanor said. ‘“‘That is what is so 
lethal about him. We have all ridden him; 
and he has only twice played up. But of 
course,”” she added with a grin, ““we have 
always given trees a wide berth.” 

““He’d be a great success in the desert. 
Not a rail or a limb in a day’s journey.” 

Eleanor looked sadly at the black horse. 
““He’d think up something else, I expect.” 

And Brat, thinking it over, agreed with 
her. There was nothing small-time about 
Timber. Nor was Simon exactly small-time. 
Simon had sent him out on a notorious 
rogue, with a light remark about the horse 
“having its tricks.” 


Beatrice Ashby looked down the dining 
table at her nephew Patrick and thought 
how well he was doing it. He had great dig- 
nity, this Patrick Ashby, she thought, watch- 
ing him dealing with the rector. 

It was she who had brought Simon up, and 
she was pleased with the result. But this boy 
had brought himself up, and the result was 
even better, it seemed. 

Simon was being particularly gay tonight, 
and Bee’s heart ached for him. He was abdi- 
cating, and doing it with a grace that she 
would not have believed possible. 

They were choosing a name for Honey’s 
filly foal, and the conversation was growing 
ribald. Nancy was insisting that ““Honey” 
was an endearment, and should be trans- 
lated as ‘‘Poppet,” and Eleanor said that no 
Thoroughbred as good as Honey’s present 


August, 1949 


foal should be damned by a name'like Poppet. 
If Eleanor had refused to dress for Patrick's 
arrival, she had now made up for it. 

“Brat is in love with Honey,” Eleanor 
said. 

“T suppose Bee dragged you round the 
paddocks before you were well over the door- 
step,’”’ said» Nancy. ‘‘Were you impressed, 
Brat?” She, too, had adopted the nickname 
Only the rector called him Patrick. 

“T’m in love with the whole bunch,” Brat 
said, 

Simon was drinking a great deal more than 
usual, but it seemed to be having little effect 
on him. Bee thought that the rector looked 
at him with pity in his eyes. 


Anp Brat, too, at the other end of the 
table, was watching Simon, but without pity. 
Like everyone who despises self-pity, he did 
not readily pity others; but it was not be- 
cause of this that he withheld sympathy from 
Simon Ashby. It was not even because Simon 
was his declared enemy; he had admired 
enemies before. It was because something 
about Simon Ashby repelled him, 

Watching him as he displayed his graces, 
Brat felt that Simon reminded him of some- 
one whom he had met quite lately. Someone 
who had just that air of breeding, and that. +. 
enaccountability. Who could that have been? 

“Don’t you think so, Patrick?” 

It was the rector again. He must be careful 
with the old boy. There would be a score of 
small things that George Peck would know 
about Patrick Ashby that not even Patrick 
Ashby’s mother would know. 

But the meeting had gone off very well. 
Nancy Peck had kissed him on both cheeks 
and said, ‘Oh, dear, you've got very grown 
up and serious, haven’t you!” 

“Patrick always was,”’ the rector had said, 
and had shaken hands. 

He had looked consideringly at Brat, but 
no more consideringly than was normal in a 
man examining an old pupil met after a 
decade of absence. And Brat, who had no 
love for the cloth, found himself liking the 
rector. : 

As for Alec Loding’s sister, she was the 
most beautiful woman that Brat had ever 
seen. He had been shown Nancy in every 
kind of garment, from a swimming suit to 
her court presentation gown, but none of the 
photographs had done justice to her serene 
gaiety, her general niceness. He felt that 
George Peck must be all right if Nancy had 
married him. 

The move from the dining room to the 
living room produced an anticlimax. The 
talk ceased to flow and ran into aimless 
trickles. Brat was suddenly so tired that he 
could hardly stand up. He hoped that no one 
would spring anything on him now; his nor- 
mally hard head was muzzy with unaccus- 
tomed wine. The twins said good night and 
went upstairs. 

Simon, too, fell silent, as if the effort h: 
had been making seemed suddenly not worth 
while. Only Eleanor seemed to have brought 
from the dining room the warmth and happi- 
ness that had made dinner a success. In the 
moments of silence between the slow spurts 
of talk the rain fell against the tall windows. 

“You were right about the weather, Aunt 
Bee,” Eleanor said. “She said this morning 
that it was that too bright kind that would 
bring rain before night.” 

“Bee is perennially right,” the rector said, 
giving her a look that was half a smile, half a 
benediction. 

“Tt sounds loathsome,” Bee said. 

Nancy waited until they had lingered 
properly over their coffee and then said, “It 
has been a very full day for Brat, Bee; and I 
expect you are all tired. We won’t stay now, 
but you’ll come over and see us, won’t you?” 

Simon fetched her wraps, and they all went 
out to the doorstep to see their guests off. 

“T think Nan is right,” Bee said. “It iSq 
time we all went to bed. It has been an ex- 
citing day.” 

“Oh, yes, let’s go to bed,” Eleanor said 
with a wide, happy yawn. “It’s been a won- 
derful day.’’ She turned to Brat to say good 
night, became suddenly shy, gave him her 
hand and said, ‘Good night, Brat. Sleep 
well,” and went away upstairs 


Brat turned to Bee, but she said, ‘I shall 
come in to see you on my way up.” So he 
turned back to face Simon. “Good night, 
Simon.” He met the clear, cold eyes levelly. 

“Good night to you. . . Patrick.” Simon 
managed to make the name sound like a 
provocation. 

“Are you coming up now?” Brat heard 
, Bee ask him as he climbed the stairs. 

“Not quite yet.” ; 

“Will you see that the lights are out, then? 
And make sure of the locks?” 

“Yes, of course. Good night, Bee, darling.” 

As Brat turned onto the landing he saw 
Bee’s arms go round Simon. And he was 
stabbed by a hot despairing jealousy that 
shocked him. What had it to do with him? 

Bee followed him into the old night nurs- 
ery in a few moments. She kissed him lightly. 
“T wish you hadn’t stayed away from us for 
so long, but we are glad to have you back. 
Good night, my dear.” 

“Good night,’’ he said. 

She stood for a moment outside his room, 
the doorknob still in her hand, and then 
moved away to Eleanor’s door. She knocked 
and went in. 

“Hullo, Bee,” Eleanor said, looking up 
through the hair she was brushing. She was 
beginning to drop the ‘‘aunt”’ as Simon did. 

Bee dropped into a chair and said, ‘‘ Well, 
that’s over.” i 

“Tt turned out to be quite a success, didn’t 
it?’’ Eleanor said. ‘‘Simon behaved beauti- 
fulfy. Poor Simon.” 

“Yes. Poor Simon.” 

“D’you know, Bee, I must confess I have 
the greatest difficulty in 


LAVIES HOME JOURNAL 


wallpaper looked friendly and alive. He 
turned his head to look for the one Eleanor 
had been in love with. He wondered if she was 
in love with anyone now. 


He wondered whether it was Eleanor or | 


Bee who had put the flowers in the bowl. 

Latchetts, he said to himself. This 7s Latch- 
etts. I’m here. This is Latchetts. 

As sleep drew him under he had an odd 
feeling of reassurance. A feeling that Pat 
Ashby didn’t mind his being there; that he 
was, on the contrary, pleased about it. 

The unlikeliness of this roused him a little, 
and his thoughts, running on approval and 
disapproval, went to Bee. What was it that 
he had felt when Bee took his hand to lead 
him to the interview this afternoon? Why 
the surge of warmth under his heart, and what 
kind of emotion was it anyway? He had suf- 
fered the same obscure gratification when 
Bee had thrust her arm through his on the 
way to the stables. 


He went on thinking of Bee as he fell 
asleep. Her sidelong glance when she was 
considering something; her courage; the way 
she had kissed him before she was sure, just 
in case he was Patrick. She was a lovely 
woman, Beatrice Ashby, and he loved her. 

He had reached the toppling-over place of 
sleep when he remembered something. He 
knew now who it was that Simon Ashby re- 
minded him of. It was Timber. 


On Wednesday morning Bee took him to 
call on the tenants of the three farms: 
Frenchland, Upacres and Wigsell. Now he 

must keep his wits alive 


connecting the two.” efor the visits to French- 

“The two? Simon and land and Upacres. He was 

~ Patrick?” & When something stylish supposed to know these 
“No. Patrick and Brat.” quits looking queer, they people. 

a ee een ute ails eneiland wa gre 

, filled wi e so y a tall, y old man 

sound of the rain and the and his tall, sallow sister. 


strokes of Eleanor’s brush. 

“You mean you... don’t think he is Pat- 
rick?” 

Eleanor stopped brushing and looked up, 
} her eyes wide with surprise. ‘Of course he’s 
Patrick,” she said, astonished. ‘‘Who else 
would he be?” She began to tie up her hair 
in a blue ribbon. “It’s just that I have no 
feeling of ever having met him before. Odd, 
isn’t it? When we spent nearly twelve years 
of our lives together. I like him; don’t you?” 

“Yes,” Bee said. ‘‘I like him.” She, too, 
had no feeling of ever having met him, be- 
fore, and she, too, did not see who else he 
could be. 

“Did he tell you why he didn’t write to 
us all those years?” 

““No. There wasn’t much opportunity for 
confidences.” 

“Yes. I suppose so. But he was such a kind 
person: Pat. And so fond of us all. You would 
have thought he’d want to let us know that 
he was safe.” 

Since this was her own private stumbling 
block, Bee had no help to offer. 

“It must have beén difficult to come back,” 
Eleanor said, running the comb through her 
brush. ‘‘ You don’t think he’ll want to sheer 
off again once the excitement of coming 
home has worn off?” 

“Oh, no, I’m quite sure he won’t.” 

But Brat, standing in the dark before the 
open window of his room and looking at the 
curve of the down in the wet starlight, was 
wondering about that very matter. Where 
did he go from here? How long would it be 
before Simon had him cold? How long could 
he go on living a life where at any moment 
someone might spring a mine? 


He turned from the window and switched 
the lamp on. His landlady in Pimlico used 
to say that she was so tired that she felt as if 
she’d been through a mangle. That was ex- 
actly how he felt. Wrung out and empty. He 
peeled off his underclothes, stumbled into his 
faded old pajamas and got into bed. 

He lay for a long time listening to the 
quiet sound of the rain and looking at the 
room. Now was the time for Pat Ashby’s 
ghost to come and chill that room. He waited 
for the ghost, but it did not come. The room 
was warm and welcoming. The figures on the 


“Everyone was terrified 
of Miss Hassell,’”’ Loding had said. ‘‘She 
had a face like a witch, and a tongue that 
took the skin off you.” 

“Well, this is an honor,” old Mr. Hassell 
said, coming to the garden gate and seeing 
whom Bee had with her. “Mr. Patrick, I’m 
glad to see you.”’ He took Brat’s hand in his 
gnarled old fist and closed on it with his 
other one. 

It was difficult to know whether Miss Has- 
sell was glad or not. She eyed Brat while she 
shook hands with him and said, ‘Foreign 
parts don’t seem to have changed you much,” 
as she set out glasses in the crowded little 
parlor. 

“T’ve changed in one way,” Brat said. 

“You have?”’ 

“T’m not frightened of you any more,” he 
told her. 

Old Mr. Hassell laughed. ‘‘ You beat me 
there, son. She still puts the fear of God in 
me. If I’m half an hour late getting home 
from market I creep up the lane like I was a 
sheepstealer.” 

Miss Hassell said nothing, but Brat 
thought there was a new interest in her 
glance. And she fetched some shortbread 
from the kitchen, which she had obviously 
had no intention of producing before. 

At Upacres there was only Mrs. Docket, 
and she was busy making butter in the 
dairy at the back. 

“Come in, whoever you are!”’ she called, 
and they went down the cool, tiled passage 
from the open front door, and turned into the 
chill of the dairy. “I can’t stop this,’’ she 
said, looking round at them. “The butter is 
just —— Oh, goodness, I didn’t know!”’ 

Bee automatically took her place at the 
churn while she shook hands with Brat. 

“Well, well, well,” said kind, plump 
Mrs. Docket, “‘a fine, good-looking Ashby 
you are. You’re more like Mr. Simon than 
ever you were.” 

Brat thought that Bee looked up with in- 
terest when she said that. 

“It’s a happy day for us all, Miss Ashby, 
isn’t it? I could hardly believe it. And yet 
here you are and it’s really happened. My, 
Mr. Patrick, it’s nice to see you again, and 
looking so well and bonny.” 

(Continued on Page 99) 


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(Continued from Page 97) 

“Can I have a shot at that?” Brat asked, 
ndicating the churn. “I’ve never handled 
ne of those things.” 

“But of course you have!” Mrs. Docket 
id, looking taken aback. ‘‘You used to 
ome in special on Saturday mornings to 
e a go at it.” 

rat’s heart missed a beat. “ ‘Did I?” he 
id. “I’ve forgotten that.’ 

“Always say quite frankly that you don’t 
remember,”’ Loding had advised. ‘No one 
can deny that you don’t remember.” 

They drank hot black tea and ate light 
floury scones and discussed the children’s 
schooling. 

But Brat was thoughtful. He must stop 
himself from volunteering remarks. It was 
not important about the churn, but it quite 
easily might have been something vital. 

“About Friday, Brat,” Bee said, as they 
made their way back to Clare and to Wigsell. 

“What is on Friday?” said Brat. 

Bee looked round and smiled at him. 
“Your birthday. Had you forgotten?” 

“T had, almost.”” He caught her sidelong 
look at him. 

After a pause she said, ‘‘ You came of age a 
long time ago, didn’t you?” She said it with- 
out smiling. “About Friday,’”’ she went on. 
“T thought that since we have postponed the 
celebrations for Uncle Charles’ benefit, we 
wouldn’t have a party. Mr. Sandal will be 
coming down with the papers he wants you 
to sign.” 

Papers to sign. Yes, he had known that 
there would be papers to sign sooner or later. 
He had even learned to make his capital let- 
ters the way Patrick did, thanks to an old 
exercise book that Loding had unearthed. 

They were coming back to the village now, 
the white rails of the south paddocks on their 
left. 

Halfway through the village they turned 
into the lane that led to Wigsell. They swung 
into the farm entrance and came to rest on 
the small old cobbles of the yard. Two dogs 
rushed at them. The clamor brought Mrs. 
Mates to the front door. She was a faded and 
‘ ued little woman. 

“Glen! Joy! Be quiet!” she called ineffec- 
tually, and came forward to greet them. But 
before she reached them Gates came round 
the corner of the house, and his pompous 
welcome drowned her more genuine pleasure. 

“They tell me that you’ve been making 
money in horses over there,”’ he said to Brat: 

“T’ve earned my living from them.” 

“You come and see what I’ve got in my 
stable.’ He began to lead the way to the back 
of the house. 


Mrs. GATES, tailing along behind, found 
herself side by side with Brat. “I am so 
happy about this,’”’ she said quietly. “I re- 
member you when you were little; when I 
lived here in my father’s day.” 

“Now then, Mr. Patrick, have a look at 
this here, have a look at this! Tell me if that 
doesn’t fill the eye for you.”’ Gates swept his 
great limb of an armat the stable door, where 
Alfred was leading out a brown horse. There 
was no denying it, the brown horse was some- 
thing exceptional. 

Bee said, ‘But that, surely, is the horse 
that Dick Pope won the jumping on at the 
Bath Show last year.” 

“That’s the horse,” Gates said compla- 
cently. ‘And not only the jumping. The cup 
for the best riding horse in the show. Cost 
me a pretty penny, but I can afford it and 
nothing’s too good for my girl. There’s no 
one in the county deserves a good horse 
better than my Peggy, and I don’t grudge 
the money for it.” 

“You’ve certainly got a good horse, Mr. 
Gates,”’ Bee said, with an enthusiasm in her 
voice that surprised Brat. 

“Got a vet’s certificate with it, I need 

dly say.” 
Bis Peggy going to show it this year?” 
Bee asked. 

“Of course she is. What did I buy it for 
but for her to show?” 

Bee’s face was positively blissful. ‘‘How 
nice!’’ She sounded rapturous. 

“Do you like it, Miss Ashby?” Peggy 
Gates said, appearing at Brat’s side. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Peggy was a very pretty creature. Pink 
and white and gold. She accepted her iatro- 
duction to Brat with composure, accepted 
Bee’s congratulations on her possession of 
the horse, and then, with an admirable dis- 
play of social dexterity, lifted the whole 
family from the yard into the drawing room 
of the house, where they drank a very good 
Madeira and talked about the Bures Agri- 
cultural Show. 

And they drove home with Bee still look- 
ing as if someone had left her a fortune. She 
caught Brat’s considering look at her and 
said, “Well?” 

“You look like a cat that has been given 
cream.” 

She gave him her sideways, amused glance. 
“Cream and fish and liver,’’ she said, but did 
not tell him the translation. 


Eleanor came into the sitting room as Bee 
was opening the midday post. ‘How did it 
go, Brat?” Eleanor asked, pouring herself 
some sherry. 

“Not as badly as I’d been prepared for,” 
Brat said, watching her thin, capable hand 
manipulating the glasses. 


NEXT MONTH 


RE U. S. men becoming over- 
domesticated? In educating 
boys and girls alike, teaching women 
to look for a job instead of the 
touch of a child’s hand, teaching 
men to do work once done by 
women, is our society doing some- 
thing disastrous to both? Margaret 
Mead, anthropologist renowned for 
her studies of primitive societies of 


the South Pacific, makes some open- 


minded, scientific comparisons and 
a provocative analysis of the sexual 
patterns at work in contemporary 
United States in 


Male and Female 


complete in the 
September JoURNAL, condensed 
from the book soon to be published 
by William Morrow and Company. 





“Did Docket tell you how he got his 
wound?” 

“Docket was at market,” Bee said. ‘‘ But 
we had hot buttered scones from Mrs. 
Docket.” 

“Dear Mrs. Docket. What did Miss Has- 
sell give you?” 

“Shortbread. She wasn’t going to give us 
that, but she succumbed to Brat’s charms.” 

“T’m not surprised,”’ Eleanor said, looking 
at Brat over her glass. “And Wigsell?”’ 

“Do you remember that brown horse of 
Dick Pope’s?”’ Beeasked. “Gates has bought 
it for Peggy.” 

“For Peggy to show?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, well!’ said Eleanor slowly; and 
she looked amused and thoughtful. She looked 
at Bee, met Bee’s glance, and looked away 
again. ‘‘Well, well!’’ she said again, and 
went on sipping sherry. 

The twins came in from lessons at the 
rectory, and Simon from the stables, and 
they went in to lunch. 

Simon seemed amiable and relaxed, and 
inquired with what appeared to be genuine 
interest about the success of the morning. 
Bee provided an account, with periodic con- 
firmation from Brat. When she came to 
Wigsell, Eleanor interrupted her to say: 

“Did you know that Gates has bought 
Peggy a new horse?”’ 

“No,” Simon said, looking up with mild 
interest. 

“He has bought her that brown horse of 
Dick Pope’s.”’ 

“Riding Light?” 

“Yes. She is going to show it this year,” 
Eleanor told him. 


99 


For the first time since he had met him, 
Brat saw Simon Ashby flush. He paused for a 
moment, and then went on with his lunch. 

And Brat studied him with his mind. 
Simon Ashby was reputedly crazy about the 
Gates girl. But was he glad that the girl had 
been given a good horse? No. He was furious. 
And what is more, his womenfolk had known 
that he would be furious. What kind of crea- 
ture was this Simon Ashby, who could not 
bear to be beaten by the girl he was in love 
with? 





























Just 
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Waar is Brat going to ride at the Bures 
Show?” he heard Eleanor say, and brought 
his attention back to the lunch table. 

“All of them,” Simon said. And as Elea- 
nor looked her question: ‘‘They are his 
horses.” 

“Tm not going to ‘show’ any horses,”’ 
Brat said. ‘‘That requires technique, and I 
haven’t got it.” 

“But you used to be very good,” Bee 
said. 

“Did I? Oh, well, that is a long time ago. 
I certainly don’t want to show any horses in 
the ring at Bures.” 

“The show isn’t for nearly three weeks,” 
Eleanor said. “Bee could coach you, and 
you'd be as good as ever.” 

But Brat was not to be moved. 

“Brat could ride in the races,’”’ Ruth said. 
“The races they end up with. He could beat 
everyone on Timber.” 

“Timber is not going to be knocked about 
in any country bumpkins’ race if I still have 
any say in the matter,” Simon said, speaking 
into his plate. 

“T agree,” Brat said. And the atmosphere 
ceased to be tense. 

Before lunch was over the first of the visi- 
tors arrived; and the steady stream went on, 
from after-luncheon coffee, through tea, to 
six-o’clock drinks. They had all come to 
inspect Brat, but he noticed that those who 
had known Patrick Ashby came with a genu- 
ine pleasure in welcoming him back. Each of 
them had some small memory of him to re- 
count, and all of them had kept the memory 
green because they had liked Pat Ashby and 
grieved for him. 

About the time when teacups were being 
mixed up with cocktail glasses the local doc- 
tor appeared, and Brat ceased to be gratified, 
and became interested in Eleanor’s reactions. 
Doctor Spence was young and red-haired 
and bony, and he had freckles and a friendly 
manner. He was the successor of the old 
country doctor who had brought the whole 
Ashby family up, and he was, so Bee con- 
fided in an interval of tea pouring, ‘“much 
too brilliant to stay in a country practice.” 
Brat wondered if he stayed for Eleanor’s 
sake; he seemed to liked Eleanor very much. 

They were all tired by dinnertime, and 
it was a quiet meal. The excitement of hav- 
ing Brat there had died into acceptance, 
and they no longer treated him as a new- 
comer. 

But as he got ready for bed he puzzled 
over the. problem of Simon. Simon, who was 
quite sure that he was not Patrick, but had 
no intention of saying so. 

He stood again at the open window in the 
dark, looking at the curve of the down 
against the sky. If Simon so resented Peggy 
Gates’ owning a better horse than his, what, 
wondered Brat, could have been his re- 
action to Patrick’s sudden succession to 
Latchetts? 

He considered this a long time, staring into 
the dark, and as he turned at last to put the 
light on, a voice in his mind said, J wonder 
where Simon was when Patrick went over the 
cliff. 

But he noticed the heinousness of this at 
once, of course. What was he suggesting? 
Murder? In Latchetts? By a boy of thirteen? 
He was letting his antipathy to Simon run 
away with his common sense. 

The suicide of Patrick Ashby had been a 
police affair. An affair of inquest and evi- 
dence. The thing had been investigated, and 
the policé had been satisfied. 

Satisfied? Or just without a case? Where 
would that coroner’s report be now? The 
thing must have been reported in the local 
press. Somewhere in the files there would be 





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JOURNAL 


an account of that inquest, and he would un- 
earth it at the first opportunity. 


Mr. Sandal was to come on Thursday 
night and stay over till after luncheon on 
Friday. On Thursday morning, Bee said 
that she was going into Westover to do some 
special shopping for Mr. Sandal’s meals, and 
what would Brat like to do with his day? 

Brat said that he would like to come with 
her and see Westover again, and Bee looked 
pleased, 

As she turned into the car park she said, 
“You don’t want to tail round looking at sea 
food for Mr. Sandal’s consumption, Go away 
and amuse yourself, and we’ll meet for lunch 
at the Angel about a quarter to one.” 

He went first to the harbor to see the place 
that he was supposed to have set out from 
eight years ago. It was filled with coastwise 
shipping and fishing boats, very gay in the 
dancing light. He leaned against the warm 
stones of the breakwater and contemplated 
it. It was here that Alec Loding had sat 
painting his “‘old scow”’ on the last day of 
Pat Ashby’s life. It was over cliffs 
that Pat Ashby had 
fallen to his death. 

He pushed himself 
off the breakwater and 
went to look for the 
office of the Westover 
Its home was 
a stone’s throw from 
the harbor, in a small 
old house in a small 
old street which still 
had its original cob- 
bles. 

Twice a week the 
Westover Times ap- 
peared: on Wednes- 
days and Saturdays. 
Patrick Ashby’sdeath 
had occurred on a 
Saturday, so that a 
single Wednesday 


those 


Blacklorr vy 


By Bettie © ne Liddell 


In Dorset and Jericho 
And Horn o’ the Moon, 

The blackberries dangle 
As big as a spoon. 


The hill-folded thickets 
Hide many a girl and boy; 
A purple stain upon their lips, 
A pail full of joy. 


In Cornwall and Eden 


August, 1949 


Q. You have seen the note found in the 
boy’s coat, and you recognize it as the hand- 
writing of your nephew? 

A, Oh, yes. Patrick had a very individual 
way of making his capital letters. And he wag 
the only person I know who wrote with a 
stylograph. 


Sue explained the nature of a stylograyh4 
The one Patrick owned had been black vul- 
canite with a thin yellow spiral down the 
barrel. Yes, it was missing. He carried it al- 
ways with him; it was one of his pet posses- 
sions. 

Q. Can you think of any reason why thie 
sudden desire to take his own life should 
overcome him? 

A. I can only suggest that when it was time 
to turn homeward the thought of going back 
to a house which was now empty of so much 
that had made life fine for him was suddenly 
too much. 

And that was the verdict of the court too. 
That the boy had succumbed to a passing 
impulse at a moment when the balance of his 
mind had been somehow disturbed. 

That was the end 
of the column and 
that was the end o! 
Patrick Ashby. 
7 When he joined Bec 
U, WO for lunch at the Ange! 

: 7 he longed to ask her 
bluntly where Simor 
had been that after. 
noon. He must think 
up some way of bring: 
ing the subject intc 
the conversation. 

“What have you 
been doing with your 
morning?” Beeasked 

“Reading my obit- 
uary.” 

“How morbid o! 
you. Or, no, of cours 
it isn’t. It is what we 


issue of the paper And Londonderry, all want to do.” 
carried both the an- You can hear the laughter ‘‘Bee, what weg 
nouncement of his Of pickers making merry. Simon’s ‘mechanica 
death and the report interests’?”’ 
of the inquest. Just follow gypsy rivers “Simon never hac 
There was a whole Where road signs show the way any mechanical in 
column on the in- To Dummerston and Dorset, terests as far as | 
quest. All the salient To Jericho and Jay. know.” 


facts were there, and 

now and then a piece ——— 
of evidence was re- 
ported verbatim. 

Saturday afternoon was a holiday for the 
Ashby children and they were accustomed 
in the summer to take a “‘piece’’ with them 
and pursue their various interests in the 
countryside. No alarm had been raised 
about Patrick’s nonappearance until he 
had been missing for several hours. When 
inquiries proved barren, a search party was 
organized to beat all the likely places for the 
missing boy. 

In the first light of early morning the boy’s 
jacket was found by a coast guard patrolling 
along the cliffs. It was lying a few yards off 
the path on the side nearer the cliff, and was 
weighted in its place by a stone. The pockets 
were empty except for a note written in thin 
ink. He telephoned the news to the police 
and at once instituted a search for a body 
on the beach. No body was found. 

The last person to see Patrick Ashby 
turned out to be Abel Tusk, the shepherd. 

Q. What was he doing? 

A. Waiting for a lark. 

Q. Ah, you mean he was bird watching. 
Did he appear his normal self? 


Yes, Abel said, as far as he could judge Pat 
Ashby had looked much as usual. A nice 
quiet boy. They discussed birds for a little 
and then parted. 

Bee gave evidence that his parents’ deaths 
had been a great shock to the boy, but she 
had no reason to think that he contemplated 
taking his own life. The children separated on 


| Saturday afternoons because their interests 


were different. 

Q. His twin did not accompany him? 

A. No, Patrick was fascinated by birds, 
but Simon’s tastes are mechanical. 


“You said at the 

inquest that he had.’ 

= “T did? What wa: 
it apropos of?” 

“To explain why we didn’t do thing: 
together on a Saturday afternoon. Wha 
did Simon do when I went bird watching?’ 

“‘Pottered about, I expect. Simon was al 
ways a potterer. His hobbies never lastec 
longer than a fortnight.” 

“So you don’t remember what Simon wa: 
using for a hobby the day I ran away?” 

“It’s absurd of me, my dear, but I don’t 
I do remember that he spent all night out or 
his pony looking frantically for you. Poo 
Simon. You did him a bad turn, Brat. Simor 
changed after you went.” 

Since Brat had no answer to this he ate i 
silence, and presently she said: 

“And you did me a bad. turn in neve! 
writing to me. Why didn’t you, Brat?” 

This was the weak spot in the whol 
structure, as Loding had continually pointec 
out. 

“T don’t know,” he said. ‘Honestly, | 
don’t know!’ The exasperation and despera 
tion of his tone had an appropriateness tha’ 
he had not foreseen. 

“All right,” she said, ““I won’t worry you 
my dear. It is just that I was so very fond o 
you when you were small, and we were sucl 
very good friends. It was not like you to live 
a life of your own without once glancin; 
back.” 


Brat had not been prepared to find bird 
day presents by his plate on Friday morning 
“All celebration has been postponed unti 
Mr. Charles Ashby comes back to this coun 
try,’ Mr. Sandal had said to him in London 
and it was not until Bee had drawn his atten 
tion to it that he had remembered that, cele 

(Continued on Page 102) 


- LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 101 


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JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 100) 
bration apart, there would inevitably be a 
day on which he would become twenty-one, 
He was dismayed by the pile of parcels. 

‘Happy birthday, Brat!” they said, as 
they came in. 

He wished he didn’t feel so bad about it, 

“Are you an opener-before-breakfast or 
an opener-after, Brat?’’ Eleanor asked. 

“After,” he said promptly, and won a 
breathing space. 

When, eventually, he could no longer post- 
pone the opening of his parcels, his task was 
made easier by the fact that his presents were 
for the most part replicas of those Simon was 
pulling out of his own pile. Only the present 
from the rectory was individual. It was a 
small wooden box that played a tune when 
the lid was opened. 

“That came from Clare Park,” Bee said. 

And at that reminder of Loding he came 
back to reality and shut down the lid on the 
sweet, frail melody. This morning he was go- 
ing to sign his soul away. It was no time for 
tinkling little tunes. 

This signing away was also the subject of 
surprise. He had imagined that various pa- 
pers would be put in front of him and he 
would sign them, and that would be that. A 
matter of twenty minutes at the most. But 
it proved to be a matter of hours. He and 
Mr. Sandal sat side by side at the big table 
in the library, and the whole economic 
history of Latchetts was laid open for his 
inspection. 

Brat, a little bewildered but interested, 
toiled after Mr. Sandal in his progress through 
the years and admired the way the old man 
handled this legal and mathematical ex- 
ploration. Eventually he came to the matter 
of personal income. 

““Now about the future. It is the bank’s 
advice that the money left you by your 
mother should stay invested as it is now. 
Have you any objection to that?” 

‘I don’t want any lump sum,” Loding had 
said. ** I should only blue it, in the first place. 
And in the second place, it would cause a 
shocking amount of heart searching at the 
bank. All I want is a cozy little weekly allow- 
ance for the rest of my life, so that I can 
thumb my nose at Equity, and managements, 
and producers who say that I’m always late 
for rehearsal. And landladies.”’ 

‘*“What income would that bring me, as it 
is?” Brat asked Mr. Sandal, and Mr. Sandal 
told him. 

That was all right. He could peel Loding’s 
cut off that and still have enough to meet his 
obligations at Latchetts. 

“These are the children’s present allow- 
ances. The twins, of course, will be going 
away to school presently, and I would sug- 
gest that Eleanor be given a slightly in- 
creased allowance while she lives at Latch- 
etts, or until she marries.” 

“Oh. And Simon?” 

““Simon’s case is difficult. He is not likely 
to remain long at Latchetts now, but a 
slightly increased allowance could be paid to 
him while he gives you his services here.”’ 

“T don’t think that is good enough,” said 
Brat. “I suggest that if Simon wants to go 
away and begin somewhere on his own, the 
money to start should be lent to him out of 
the estate at a nominal rate of interest. I sup- 
pose if I say without interest you'll jump 
down my throat.” 


Tue old man smiled quite kindly. “I think 
there is nothing against that. Iam looking for- 
ward to a period of great prosperity for 
Latchetts now that the lean years are over. I 
don’t suppose a loan to Simon would greatly 
incommode the estate. Now, about the in- 
crease in the present allowances is 

They settled the amounts, and then Simon 
was called in to do his share of signing. It 
pleased Brat, who had found it a depressing 
morning, to notice the sudden widening of 
Simon’s eye as it lighted on his own signa- 
ture. It was nearly a decade since Simon 
had set eyes on those capital letters of 
Patrick’s. 

Then Bee came in, and Mr. Sandal ex- 
plained the increased provisions in the matter 
of allowances and the plan for providing for 
Simon’s future. When Simon heard of the 





Auguet, 1919 


plan he eyed Brat thoughtfully; and Brat 
could read quite plainly what the look said: 
Bribery, is that it? Well, it won't work. What- 
ever plans Simon had, they centered round 
Latchetts. 


Simon took Mr. Sandal to the station in 
the afternoon, and when they had gone, Bee 
said, ‘If you want to avoid the social life this 
afternoon I'll hold the fort for you. Perhaps 
you would like to take out one of the horses 
with Eleanor.” 

There were few things in life that Brat 
would have liked so much as to go riding with 
Eleanor, but there was one thing that he 
wanted to do more. He wanted to walk over 
Tanbitches hill by the path that Pat had 
taken on the last day of his life, 


He avoided the avenue, in case he might 
meet visitors bound for the house, and went 
down through the paddocks to the road. In 
one of the paddocks that bordered the avenue 
Eleanor was lunging a bay colt. He stood un- 
der the trees and watched her. 

The turf on Tanbitches delighted him. He 
had not had turf like that underfoot since he 
was a child. He walked slowly upward, smell- 
ing the grassy smell and watching the great 
cloud shadows flying before the wind. 

As he came down the north slope to the 
road, a familiar clink-clink came up to him on 
the wind. Then he remembered where the 
forge was: in that cottage at the foot of the 
hill. He would go and see what an English 
smithy looked like. 

The smith was alone, his mate being no 
doubt an employee and subject to a rationing 
of labor, and he was fashioning horseshoes. 
He looked up as Brat darkened the doorway, 
and gave him a greeting without pausing in 
his work. Brat watched him for a little in a 
companionable quiet, and then moved over 
to work the bellows for him. 

The man smiled and then said, “I didn’t 
know you against the light. I'm unaccount- 
able glad to see you again, Mr. Patrick.” 

“Thanks, Mr. Pilbeam.” 

“You're handier with that thing than you 
used to be.” 

“I’ve earned my living at it since I saw you 
last. a 

“You have? Well, I'll be 

He took a half-made shoe red-hot from the 
furnace and held it out with a grin to Brat. 
Brat accepted the challenge and made a good 
job of it, Mr. Pilbeam acting as mate with 
critical approval. 

“Funny,” he said, as Brat plunged the 
shoe into the water. “If any Ashby was to 
earn his living at this job it ought to have 
been your brother.” 

“Why?” 

“You never showed much interest.” 

“And did Simon?” 

“There was a time when I couldn’t keep 
him out of this place. There wasn’t anything 
he wasn’t going to make, from a candlestick 
to gates for the avenue at Latchetts. Far as I 
remember, all he ever made was a sheep 
crook, and that not overwell. But he was al- 
ways round the place. It was a craze of his for 
the whole of a summer.” 

““Which summer was that?” 

“‘Summer you left us, it was,”’ the smith 
told him. “I’d misremember about it, only 
he was here seeing us put an iron on a cart 
wheel the day you ran away. I had to shoo 
him home for his supper.” 

So Simon had an alibi. Simon had been no- 
where near the cliffs that afternoon. He had 
never been out of the Clare valley. 





Brat took possession of Latchetts and of 
everyone in it, with the exception of Simon. 
He settled down to exercising the horses in 
the mornings, or schooling them over the 
jumps in the paddock. He rode out with El- 
eanor and the children from Clare Park; and 
watched while she taught. Nearly all his days 
were spent with Eleanor, and when they 
came in in the evenings it was to plan for to- 
morrow’s task. 

Bee watched this companionship with 
pleasure, but wished that Simon had more 
share in it. Simon found more and more ex- 
cuses to be away from home from breakfast 
to dinner. Occasionally when he came home 


) 


+ 


for dinner after being out all day Bee won- 
dered whether he was quite sober. 

Because it was Simon who would show 

| Timber and jump him, Brat left his schooling 
entirely to him, and shared his attentions be- 
tween the other horses. But there were days, 
| especially now that Simon absented himself 
more and more, when someone else had to 
ise Timber, and Brat looked forward to 
days more than he acknowledged even 

to himself. 

He planned to cure Timber of brushing 
people off his back, but he would do nothing 
yet awhile. It was important, if he was going 
to be jumped at Bures, that nothing should 
be done to damage his self-confidence. So 
Brat exercised him mildly, and as he rode 
round the countryside kept his eyes open for 

_ alikely curing place when the time came. But 

_ one day when he and Eleanor returned from 
a canter, they walked out of the saddle-room 
door and came face to face with Simon. 

“Who had Timber out?”’ he said, furious. 

“T had,” Brat said. 

“Timber is my business and you have no 
right to have him out when my back is 
turned.” 

“Someone had to exercise him today,” 
Brat said mildly. 

“No one exercises Timber but me. No one. 
If I’m going to be responsible for jumping 
him, then I say when he is to be exercised, 
and J do the exercising.” 

“But, Simon,” Eleanor said, “that is ab- 
surd. There are ——” 

“Shut up!” he said through his teeth. 

“T will not shut up! The 
horses are Brat’s; if any- 
one says who does what, 
and when, then it is ——” 

“Shut up, I tell you. I 
won't have a ham-handed 
lout from the backwoods 
interfering in the stables 
as if he had lived here all 
his life!” 

“You must be drunk, Simon, to talk like 
that about your own brother.” 

“My brother! That! Why, you poor little 
Dol, he isn’t even an Ashby. God knows 
what he is. Somebody’s groom, I have no 
doubt.” 

His chin was sticking out about two feet 
from Brat’s face, and Brat could have 
brought one from the ground that would 
have lifted him half over the saddle room. 
He longed to do it, but not with Eleanor 
there. 

“Well? Did you hear me?” shouted Simon, 
maddened by his silence. 

“T heard you,” Brat said. 

“Well, see that you remember what I said. 
Timber is my business, and you don’t put a 
leg across him again.” He flung away from 
them toward the house. 


Eeanor looked stricken. ‘Oh, Brat, I’m 
sorry. I’m so sorry. He had that mad notion 
about your not being Patrick before he ever 
saw you, and now that he has been drinking 
I suppose it came from the back of his 
mind. He always did say a lot of things he 
didn’t mean when he was in a temper, you 
know.” 

It was Brat’s experience that, on the con- 
trary, it was only when a person was in a 
temper he said exactly what he did mean. 
But he refrained from telling Eleanor that 
and said that everyone made a fool of them- 
selves sometime or other when they had 
“drink taken.” He thought that if the cracks 
that were showing in Simon widened suffi- 
ciently he might one day show his hand, and 
he would find out what Simon’s plans for him 
were. 


Bures was a little market town, set north of 
Westover and almost in the middle of the 
county. It was like almost every other little 
market town in the south of England, except 

t it stood in slightly richer and more un- 
ric country than most. For which reason 
the Bures Agricultural Show, although a 
small country affair, had a standing and rep- 
utation considerably greater than its size 
would warrant. 

The annual show, in the early summer, was 
a social reunion as well as a business affair, 


The years that a woman 
subtracts from her age are 
not lost. They are added to 


the ages of other women. 
—COMTESSE DIANE. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


and the day ended with a ball in the assembly 
room of the Chequers, at which farmers’ 
wives who hadn’t seen one another since New 
Year swapped gossip, and young blades who 
had not met since the Combined Hunts Ball 
swapped horses. 


Grecc took the Ashby entries over to Bures 
on Tuesday evening. Arthur followed 
Wednesday morning with the ponies and E]- 
eanor’s hack, Buster. Simon and the twins 
went in the car with Bee; and Brat shared the 
bug with Eleanor. 

“It’s going to be perfect weather,” she 
said, looking at the high arch of the sky with 
no cloud in it. ‘‘I can remember only one real 
soaker at Bures, and that’s years ago. Did I 
put my string gloves in the locker, did you 
notice?” 

“Yes.” 

“What are you going to do all the morn- 
ing? Did Bee remember to give you your 
stand ticket?”’ 

“Yes2 

“T sound a fusser this morning, don’t I? 
You are a nice reassuring person to be with. 
Do you never get excited, Brat?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“‘That’s interesting. It just doesn’t show, I 
suppose.” 

“T suppose not.” 

“Tt’s an extraordinarily useful sort of face 
to have. Mine goes a dull unhealthy pink, as 
you can see.” 

He thought the flush on her normally cool 
features touching and endearing. 

“T hear that Peggy 
Gates has a new outfit 
for the occasion,’’ Eleanor 
said. ‘“‘ Have you ever seen 
her on a horse?”’ 

“No.” 

“She looks nice,” El- 
eanor said approvingly. 
“T think she will do 
justice to that horse of 
Dick Pope’s—she can really ride.” 


“T think I’m going to be sick,’’ Ruth said, 
when she and Brat were left alone in the 
stand to watch the preliminary classes. 

“T don’t wonder,” said Brat. ‘“‘ Three ices 
on top of dressed crab.” 

“Tt is not anything I ate,” she said, re- 
pressive. “It’s that I have a delicate nervous 
system. Excitement makes me feel ill. I get 
sick with it.” 

Ruth was feeling her lack of importance 
today. She avoided horses too consistently 
for the rest of the year to claim any right to 
exhibit any on this one day at Bures, so she 
sat in the stand in her neat gray flannel and 
looked on. 

“There’s Roger Clint with Eleanor.” 

Brat looked for the couple and found 
them. ‘‘ Who is Roger Clint?”’ 

“He has a big farm near here.” 

Roger Clint was a black-browed young 
man, and he was being old-friendly with 
Eleanor. 

“He’s in love with Eleanor,” said Ruth. 

“A very good person to be in love with,” 
Brat said, but his heart contracted. 

“It would be a very good thing if she 
married him. He has lots of money and 
a lovely big house and simply scads of 
horses.” ‘ 

Against his will Brat asked if Eleanor were 
thinking of it. 

Ruth considered the pros and cons of this. 
“She is making him serve his seven years 
for her. You know: like Jacob.”’ 

They watched Jane take the Fifteen-and- 
Under Class and Simon the next on Timber, 
but it was when the Open Jumping Class be- 
gan that the real excitement of the day was 
reached, and Bee and Jane came to sit in the 
stand and share it with them. 

“Number One, please,”’ said the loud- 


-speaker, and Eleanor came into the ring on 


Scapa. 

Scapa was a careful and unemotional 
jumper, but could never be persuaded into 
standing away from her fences. By dint of 
patient schooling with a guard rail, Elea- 
nor hoped that she had now persuaded her 
into better ways. For half a round it worked, 

(Continued on Page 105) 


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(Continued from Page 103) 
until Scapa jumped “‘fit to hit the moon,” 
but came down in the wrong place, and the 
little battens of white-painted wood came 
down with her. 

“Poor Nell,’ said Bee. “After all her 
schooling.” 

Number Two and Number Three did not 
appear to have been schooled at all. 

“Number Four, please,’’ said the loud- 
speaker, and Riding Light appeared. 

He was a finished jumper who took the 
obstacles in his stride, propelling himself into 
the air in a long effortless curve and tucking 
his hind feet after him like a cat. He went 
out having done a perfect round. 

“Number Five, please,” said the loud- 
speaker. 

Number Five was Roger Clint’s mount 
with the long white stockings. ‘“‘Do you 
know what he calls it?”” Bee said. ‘‘Opera- 
tion Stockings.” 

“It’s very ugly,” Brat said. ‘Looks as if he 
had walked through a trough of whitewash.” 

“He can jump, though.” 

He could certainly jump, but he had a 
phobia about water. 

Numbers Six and Seven had one fault 
each. Number Eight was Simon on Timber. 

The black horse came into the ring exactly 
as he had come out of his box on the day 
Brat first saw him, pleased with himself and 
ready for homage. Simon took him into a 
canter and moved down to the first one. 
Even from where he was sitting, Brat could 
feel the smoothness of that action. Smoothly 
the black horse rose into the air and came 
down on the far side of the jump. A great 
silence settled on the crowd as one by one 
the jumps fled away behind Timber. It 
would be monstrous if this beauty were to 
fail or be faulted. It was so quiet when he 
faced the water jump that the voice of a paper 
seller far away at the main gate was the only 
sound to be heard. When he landed smoothly 
and neatly on the far bank, a great sigh 
went up from them. 

The last three entries had been scratched, 
and Simon was the final performer, so the 
second round began as soon as he had left. 

Eleanor came back on Scapa, and by dint 
of voice and spur managed to make the 
unwilling mare take off at the proper place, 
and so did something to retrieve her self- 
respect. 

Number Two did a wild but lucky round, 
and Number Three a wild and unlucky. one; 
and then came Peggy again, still flushed from 
the pleasure of her perfect round. 


Acain she had the sense to sit still while 
Riding Light heaved her into the air with the 
thrust of his tremendous quarters, sailed over 
the jump, and made for'the next one with his 
ears erect and confident. He was coming up 
to the wall now, and they waited to see if he 
would treat that, too, like a hurdle. 

Thump! Thump! Thump! said the drum 
of the Bures Silver Band, as the preliminary 
to Colonel Bogey and their entry into the 
front gate of the show for their afternoon 
performance. Riding Light’s ears flickered in 
question, in doubt. His mind was distracted 
from that rapidly nearing wall. His ears shot 
forward again in alarm as he saw it almost 
upon him. He shortened his stride, trying to 
fit it into the remaining space, but he had 
misjudged it. The shoe of his near fore had 
touched the wall as he rose to it, anda billet 
slid out of place and then dropped to the 
ground. ‘ 

**A-a-ah!” said the crowd in quick sympa- 
thy, and Peggy looked back to see what had 
happened. She saw the little gap in the top of 
the wall, but it did not rattle her. She col- 

ected Riding Light, patted him encourag- 
ingly on the neck, and headed for the next. 

“Good girl, Peggy!’ murmured Bee. 

The distant band was now playing Colonel 
Bogey, and Riding Light settled down again 
to his routine, and finished by taking the wa- 
ter jump with a margin that made the crowd 
gasp. ' 

“Simon will never beat that,” Bee said. 
“That perfect round of Timber’s was a mira- 
cle in the first place.” 

“Number Eight, please,” said the loud- 
speaker finally. 


re ee br ba ee 


Timber had neither the experience nor the 
machinelike power of Riding Light. He had 
to be ridden. It rested as much on Simon’s 
judgment as on Timber’s powers whether 
they could beat the almost faultless perform- 
ance of Peggy Gates’ horse. Brat thought 
that Simon looked very white about the 
mouth. There was more in this for Sitfion 
than winning a cup at a small country show. 
He had to take that prize from the girl who 
had tried to be upsides with him. 

Timber came in looking puzzled. It was as 
if he said, “I’ve done this.” His ears pricked 
at the sight of the jumps and then flickered in 
question. But he went good-manneredly down 
to the first and cleared it in his effortless fluid 
fashion. 

Brat thought that he could hear the 
Ashby hearts thumping alongside him. Simon 
was halfway round. Ruth had shut her mouth 
and her eyes and looked as if she were pray- 
ing.'She opened her eyes in time to see Tim- 
ber clear the gate, a smooth river of black 
pouring over the white barrier. ‘“Oh, thank 
you, God,” said Ruth. There were only the 
wall and the water left. 

He had started his canter to the wall when 
a shrieking white terrier shot out from the 
stand, streaking in front of the advancing 
Timber like a hard-kicked ball, and yelling 
its excitement as only a terrier can. 

Timber swerved from this terror and broke 
into a sweat. Ruth shut her eyes again and 
resorted to further prayer. Simon soothed 
Timber patiently, cantering him round and 
making much of him while someone retrieved 
the dog and brought it back to its owner. Pa- 
tiently, while the unforgiving seconds ticked 
on, Simon worked to reassure Timber. 

Brat had marveled often at Simon’s pow- 
ers of self-control, but he had never seen a 
more remarkable sample of it. The tempta- 
tion to take Timber to the jump as he was 
must be enormous. 

And then, having apparently calculated 
his time to the nearest possible margin, he 
brought Timber, still sweating but collected, 
to the wall again. Just before he came to the 
fence Timber hesitated a little. And Simon 
sat still. 

If it had been possible for Brat to like 
Simon Ashby, he would have liked him at 
that moment. 

The horse, undistracted from the task in 
front of him, gathered himself together and 
catapulted himself over the hated obstacle. 
Then, relieved to have it behind him, he raced 


ae NS SNE NESS 


on delightedly to the water and rocketed 
across it like a blackbird. 
Simon had done it. 


Brat had expected that Simon’s success 
would have shored up his disintegrating spir- 
itual structure and that the cracks would 
have disappeared. But it seemed that the 
very opposite had happened. The strain of 
the afternoon, followed by the triumph of 
having beaten a performer like Riding Light, 
had eaten away a little more of the founda- 
tion and shaken his equilibrium still further. 

““T’ve never seen Simon so cock-a-hoop,”’ 
Eleanor said, watching Simon over Brat’s 
shoulder as they danced together that night. 

Brat said that it was probably the cham- 
pagne, and turned her away from her view of 
Simon. 

“T haven’t seen much of you this after- 
noon,” Eleanor said. 

Brat said that he had wanted to talk to 
her, but that she was in deep conversation 
with Roger Clint. 

“Oh, yes. I remember. His uncle is Tim 
Connell, you know, who has the Kilbarty 
stud. Tim wants to retire, and would lease 
the place to Roger, but Roger doesn’t want 
to leave England.” 

Understandably, Brat thought. England 


and Eleanor together was heaven enough. “I - 


don’t see him here tonight.”’ 

“No, he didn’t stay for the dance,’’ Eleanor 
told him. 

“No?” said Brat, surprised. 

“He just came to get a silver cup to take 
home to his wife.” 

“His wife!” 

“Yes, she had their first baby last week, 
and sent him to the show to get a christening 
mug for it. What is the matter?”’ 

“Remind me sometime to break Ruth’s 
neck,” he said, beginning to dance again. 

She looked amused. “‘Has Ruth been ro- 
mancing?” 

“She said he wanted to marry you.” 

“Oh, well, he did have an idea like that, 
but it’s a long time ago. Are you going to be 
all patriarchal and supervise my marriage 
plans?” 

“Have you any?” 

“None at all.” 

As the night wore on and he danced more 
and more with Eleanor, she said, ‘‘ You really 
must dance with someone else, Brat.” 

“T have.” 

“Only with Peggy Gates.” 


Kw kw we we ek we we ke KK Kw kw kk kk 


We ey ey Wife fy Meunere((eruber 


I wish I knew what the sea is like, 
where my man is out with the 
drifters, 

And I wish I knew what the sky 
is like; whether it’s clear and 
high 

With the full moon drawing her 
train of stars, or whether it’s 
dark and wicked, 

With the storm wrack flying 
adown the wind, and the 
spindrift scudding by. 


I tucked the children into their bed, 
and I sat me down with my 
knitting, 

And the fear of the sea was a dull 
pain, like an ache that one 
forgets, : 

Till I heard the breakers along the 
beach; and the sound of them 
was a sword thrust— 

Oh, I wish I knew what the sea is 
like, where the drifters are 
drawing their nets! 


“For those in peril on the sea” —we 
sing that hymn every Sunday, 
And while we’re singing I’m 
comforted, but the comfort 
doesn’t stay, 


For I get to thinking of storms and 
wrecks, and the frail boats out 
on the billows, 

Until at the end my fears are 
stilled, when the vicar says “‘Let 
us pray!” 


I’ve turned the heel, so I’ll stop my 
knitting, and get my supper 
ready, 

And read a chapter—the one that 
tells how Christ calmed the 
raging sea— 

Then I'll say my prayers and I'll go 
to bed, and hope that I sleep till 
morning, 

For morning means that my man is 
another day nearer to home and 
to me. 


But I wish I knew what the sea is 
like, where my man is out with 
the drifters, 

Whether the billows are riding 
high, or whether it’s calm 
and still, 

And I wish—but what is the good of 
wishing? Saying a prayer would be, 
better: 

O God, be kind to the little boats, 
and guard chem from all ill! 


ivVu 


“So you’ve been keeping track of me. Am 
I keeping you from dancing with someone 
you want to dance with?” 

“No. I love dancing with you.” 

“All right, then.” 

This was the first and perhaps the last 
night he would ever dance with Eleanor. 

A little before midnight they went up to- 
gether to the buffet, filled their plates, and 
took them to one of the little tables in the 
balcony. 

“T’m too happy to eat,’’ Eleanor said, 
and drank her champagne in a dreamy si- 
lence. ‘You look very nice in your evening 
things, Brat.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Do you like my frock?” 

“Tt’s the most beautiful frock I ever saw.” 

“I did hope you would like it.” 

She ate in an uninterested fashion that 
was new in Eleanor. 


Tr has been an Ashby occasion, hasn’t 
it, the Seventy-fourth Annual Show of the 
Bures Agricultural. . . . Stay still for a mo- 
ment, you have a gnat crawling down your 
collar.’”’ She leaned over and struck the back 
of his neck lightly. ‘‘Oh, it’s going down!” 
In a rough sisterly fashion she bent his head 
aside with one hand. 

“Got it?” he said. 

But she was silent, and he looked up at 
her. ““You’re not my brother!” she said. “I 
couldn’t feel the way I ——” She stopped, 
horrified. 

In the silence the beat of the distant 
drums came up from the assembly room. 

“Oh, Brat, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that! 
I think I must have drunk too much.” 
She began to sob. “Oh, Brat, I’m sorry!” 
She gathered up her bag from the table and 
stumbled from the dim balcony into the 
buffet room. 

Brat let her go and sought counsel in the 
bar. There was some sort of stunt in the 
assembly room at midnight, and the bar was 
deserted except for Simon, all by himself with 
a bottle of champagne at a table in the far 
corner. 

“Ah! My big brother,” said Simon. “Are 
you not interested in the lottery drawing? 
Have a drink.” 

“Thanks. I'll buy my own.” 

He bought a drink at the bar and carried 
it down the long room to Simon’s table. 

“T suppose lottery cdds are too long for 
you,” Simon said. ““You want the table 
rigged before you bet.” 

Brat ignored that. “I haven’t had 2 
chance of congratulating you on your win 
with Timber.” 

“T don’t need praise from you.’”’ Simon 
was certainly drunk. “You don’t like me, do 
you?” He looked pleased by Brat’s dislike. 

“Not much.” 

“Why not?” 

““T suppose because you are the only one 
who doesn’t believe that I am Patrick.” 

“You mean, don’t you, that I’m the only 
one who knows you’re not?” 

There was a long silence while Brat 
searched the shining eyes with their odd 
dark rim. “ You killed him,”’ he said, suddenly 
sure of it. 

“Of course I did.’”’ Simon leaned forward 
and looked delightedly at Brat. “But you'll 
never be able to say so, will you? Because 
of course Patrick isn’t dead. He’s alive, and 
I’m talking to him.” 

“How did you do it?” 

“You'd like to know, wouldn’t you? Well, 
I'll tell you. It’s very simple.” He leaned still 
closer. ‘“You see, I’m a witch. I can be in 
two places at once.” He sat back and en- 
joyed Brat’s discomfiture. ‘You must think 
that I’m a lot drunker than I am, friend,”’ he 
said. ‘‘I’ve told you about Patrick because 
you are my posthumous accomplice. But if 
you think that I am going to make you free 
of the details, you are mistaken.” 

“Then, why did you do it?” 

“He was a very stupid little boy.” Then 
he added, “I hated him, if you want to 
know.” He poured another glass and drank 
it. “It’s a wonderful spiritual twinship, 
isn’t it? I can’t tell about you and you can’t 
tell about me!”’ 

(Continued on Page 107) 


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(Continued from Page 105) 

“You have the advantage of me, though.” 

“T have? How?” 

“You have no scruples.” 

“Yes, I suppose it is an advantage.” 

“T have to put up with you, but you have 
no intention of putting up with me, have 
you? You did your best to kill me once.” 

é “Not my best.” 

“You'll improve on it, I take it?” 

“T’ll improve.” 

“T expect you will.” 

“TI suppose you wouldn’t like, in return 
for my confidences, to tell me something?” 

“Tell you what?” 

“Who you are?” 

Brat sat looking at him for a long time. 
“Don’t you recognize me?” he said. 

“No. Who are you?” 

“Retribution,” said Brat, and finished his 
drink. 

He walked out of the bar and hung for a 
little over the banisters until his insides 
settled down and his breath came more easily. 

He had been right about Simon. He had 
been right in seeing the resemblance to 
Timber: the well-bred creature with the beau- 
tiful manners who was also a rogue. They 
said all killers wanted to boast about their 
killings; Simon must have longed often to 
tell someone how clever he had been. But 
he could never tell until now, when he had a 
“‘safe”’ listener. 

He, Brat Farrar, was the ‘‘safe’’ listener. 
He, Brat Farrar, owned Latchetts, and 
Simon took it for granted that he would 
keep what he had taken. That he would keep 
it as Simon’s accessory. 

But that, of course, was not possible. The 
alliance that Simon took so mockingly for 
granted was monstrous. Unthinkable. 


It was Thursday morning and on Sunday 
Charles Ashby would come sailing up South- 
ampton Water, and nothing would stop the 
subsequent celebrations. Brat followed Bee 
into the hall at Latchetts, feeling desperate. 

“Do you mind if I desert you and go into 

pestover? a 

“No, I think you are due a little rest from 
the family.” 

So he took the bus into Westover and read 
the report of the inquest all over again, and 
went away as empty of suggestion as he had 
come. He went down to the harbor and hung 


**Sure there’s nothing else we need, dear: 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


over the wall, staring westward at the cliffs. 
He had a fixed point, anyhow. A fixed point 
that could not be altered. Simon Ashby 
was in Clare that day. That was held to by a 
man who had no reason for lying. Simon had 
never been long enough away from Mr. 
Pilbeam’s vicinity to make his absence felt. 

Pat Ashby must have been killed between 
the time that old Abel met him in the early 
afternoon and the moment when Mr. Pil- 
beam had to chase Simon home for supper. 

He was stumped by the coat on the cliff 
top. It was Simon who had written that note, 
but Simon was never out of Clare. 

He went back to Latchetts and without 
going to the house went to the stables and 
took out one of the horses that had not been 
at Bures. He turned up to the down as he 
had that first morning when he took out 
Timber, and did again what he had done on 
Timber’s back. But all the glory was gone. 
The whole world looked sick. Life itself 
tasted bad. 

He dismounted and sat down where he had 
sat that morning a month ago, looking out 
over the small green valley. It had seemed 
paradise then. Even that silly girl who had 
come and talked to him had not sufficed to 
spoil it for him. He remembered how her 
eyes had popped when she found he was not 
Simon. She had come there sure of seeing 
Simon because it was his favorite place for 
exercising the horses. Because he —— 

The horse by his side threw up his head as 
Brat’s sudden movement jerked the bit in 
his mouth. 

Because he —— 

He listened to the girl’s voice in his mind. 
Then he got slowly to his feet. He knew now 
how Simon had done it. And he also knew 
why Simon had been afraid that by some 
miracle it was the real Patrick who had come 
back. 

He got on the horse and went back to the 
stables. The great clouds were racing up from 
the southwest and it was beginning to rain. 
In the saddle room he took a sheet of writing 
paper from the desk and wrote on it, “Out 
for dinner. Leave the front door on the latch 
for me, and don’t worry if I am late.’’ He put 
it in an envelope, addressed it to Bee, and 
asked Arthur to hand it in at the house when 
he was passing. He took his burberry from 
the back of the saddle-room door, and went 
out into the rain. 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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He walked up the path to Tanbitches and 
up the hill over the wet grass to the crown 
of beeches, and walked there to and fro 
among the great boles of the trees. 

How could he bring this thing on Bee? On 
Eleanor? On Latchetts? 

But was he to make good Simon's mon- 
strous supposition that he would do noth- 
ing? Was Simon to spend a long life as the 
owner of Latchetts? Who could advise him? 
Decide for him? 

“T am retribution,” he had said to Simon, 
and meant it. But that was before he had the 
weapon of retribution in his hand. 

What was he to do?” 

It was late that night that George Peck, 
sitting in his study, heard a tapping at the 
window, and went to the front door. In the 
light from the hall he saw one of the Ashbys. 

“Rector, may I come in and talk to you?” 

“Of course, Patrick. Come in.” 

The rector led the way into his study and 
put a kettle on an electric ring. “I often make 
tea for myself when I sit up late. What was 
it you wanted to talk to me about?” 

“T’m sorry. My mind has stopped working. 
Have you a drink of any kind?” 

The rector had meant to put the whisky 
in the tea as a toddy, but he poured a stiff 
one now and Brat drank it. 

“Thank you. I am sorry to come and 
worry you like this, but I had to talk to you. 
I hope you don’t mind.” 

“T am here to be talked to.” 

“Rector, I want your advice about some- 
thing very important, but can I talk to you 
without your feeling that you must do some- 
thing about it?” 

“Whatever you say I shall treat as con- 
fession, certainly.” 

“Well, first I have to tell you something. 
I am not Patrick Ashby.” 

“No,” agreed the rector. “I rather thought 
you weren't.” 

“Why?” 

“There is more to any person than a physi- 
cal presence; there is an aura, a personality, 
a being. And I was almost sure the first time 
I met you that I had never met you before.” 

“And you did nothing about it!” 

““What do you suggest that I should have 
done? It did not seem to me that it would be 
long before the situation resolved itself with- 
out my interference.” 

“You mean, that I should be found out.” 

“No. I mean that you did not seem to me 
someone who would be happy in the life you 
had chosen. Judging by your visit tonight, I 
was right.” 

‘But I didn’t come here just to confess to 
not being Patrick.” 

“No?” 

““No. I had to tell you because of some- 
thing I found out. Patrick didn’t commit 
suicide. He was murdered.” 

The rector set down the cup he was hold- 
ing. For the first time he looked startled. 
*“Murdered? By whom?” 

“His brother.” 

“Simon?” 

ees.” 

“But that is absurd. What evidence have 
you of anything so incredible?” 

“T have Simon’s word for it.” 

“Simon told you?” 

“He boasted about it. He said that I could 
never do anything about it because it would 
mean giving myself away.” 


““Wuen did this extraordinary conversa- 
tion take place?” 

“Last night, at the Bures ball. It wasn’t 
as sudden as it sounds. I began to wonder 
about Simon long before that, and I chal- 
lenged him about it because of something he 
said about knowing I wasn’t Patrick, and he 
laughed and boasted about it. Simon killed 
him. Deliberately. And what is more, I know 
how he did it.”” He told him. 

“But, Brat, you have no evidence even 
now. That is theory, what you have just told 
me. You have no evidence whatsoever.” 

“We can get the evidence, if the police 
once know the truth. But that isn’t what I 
want to know. What I want advice about is— 
well, whether to let sleeping dogs lie.”’ 

But the rector, rather surprisingly in view 
of his silence about his doubts of Brat’s 


Auguet, 1949 


identity, had 10 doubts on the subject at all 
If murder had been done, then the law must 
be invoked, Anything else was anarchy. 

His point was that Brat had no case against 
Simon. His mind had run on murder, he had 
taunted Simon with it, Simon had one of his 
well-known impish moments and confessed, 
and Brat after long thought had found a 
theory to fit the alleged confession. 0 

“And you think that I’ve been walking 
about in the rain since four o'clock because of 
a little joke of Simon's?” 

The rector was silent. 

“Tell me, rector, were you surprised when 
Pat committed suicide?” 

*Exceedingly.” 

“Do you know anyone who wasn’t sur- 
prised?” 

“No, But suicide is a surprising thing.” 

“T give up,” Brat said. 

He drank down the rest of his tea and 
looked quizzically at the rector. 

“Another of Simon's little jokes was to 
send me out that first day on Timber, with- 
out telling me he was a rogue. But I suppose 
that was just one of his ‘well-known impish 
moments.” 


Tue rector’s deep eyes considered Brat. 
“T wish I could convince you that this is a 
figment of your imagination.” 

“You must have a great respect for my 
imaginative powers.” 

“Tf you look back, critically and honestly, 
you must see how the thing grew in your 
mind from quite small beginnings. An edifice 
of your own making.” 

And that, when Brat took his leave to- 
ward two o'clock in the morning, was still 
the rector’s opinion. 

“Come and see me again before you de- 
cide anything,”’ the rector had said; but he 
had answered Brat’s main question. If it was 
a choice between love and justice, the choice 
had to be justice. 


Friday morning Simon came bright and 
cheerful to breakfast and greeted Brat with 
pleasure. Except for an occasional gleam in 
his eye he showed no awareness of their 
changed relationship. He was taking their 
“‘spiritual twinship” for granted. 

Eleanor, too, seemed to be back on the old 
footing, although she seemed shy, like some- 
one who has made a social gaffe. She sug- 
gested that in the afternoon they should take 
the silver cups into Westover and give in- 
structions for their engraving. 

When Eleanor and Brat were setting off 
for Westover in the afternoon, Simon ap- 
peared and insisted on making a third in the 
bug’s scanty space. One of the cups was his 
own unaided work, he said, and he had a 
right to say what was to go on it. 

So powerful was Simon’s indifferent charm 
that even Brat found himself on the verge of 
wondering whether the rector had been 
right and he had built his story out of whole 
cloth. But he had decided what he had to do 
in the present impasse. He proposed to pro- 
vide them with the evidence. 

He went down to the harbor and sought 
a chandler’s, and there, after some consulta- 
tion and a deal of choosing, bought two 
hundred feet of rope. He asked them to pack 
it in a cardboard box and deliver it to the 
Angel garage, where the bug was. He received 
it at the garage and packed it away in the 
luggage compartment. 

When the others arrived to go home he was 
waiting innocently in the car with an 
evening paper. 

They had packed themselves into the bug 
and were preparing to go when Simon said, 
“Whoa! We’ve forgotten to leave that old 
tire with them,” and he got out and opened 
the rear compartment to get the tire. ‘“ What 
is in the box, Nell?” 

“*T didn’t put any box there,” Eleanor said. 

“It’s mine,” Brat said. ¥ 

“What is it?” 

If Simon wanted to find out what was in 
the box he most certainly would, by one 
method or another. Far better to be appar- 
ently frank about it. 

“If you must know, I’m afraid I'll lose the 
knack of spinning a rope, so I’ve bought 
some to practice on.” 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Eleanor was delighted. Brat must show 
them some spinning that very evening. 
“You'll teach me how, won’t you?” 

Yes, he would teach her how to throw a 
rope. She was going to hate him one day 
soon, if that rope did what it was bought for. 

When they arrived back at Latchetts he 
took the rope out and left it openly in the 
hall. Bee asked about it, and accepted the 
explanation of its presence, and no one 
took any more notice of it. He wished that 
his last short time at Latchetts did not have 
to be spent in lying. 

The household went early to bed, still 
tired from their excitements at Bures, and 
he gave them till half past twelve, and then 
prospected. There seemed to be no light 
anywhere. There was certainly no sound. He 
went downstairs and took the rope from its 
corner. He unlatched the dining-room win- 
dow, stepped over the sill into the night, and 
drew it gently down again behind him. 

He made his way softly over the gravel to 
the grass, sat down in the shelter of the first 
paddock trees, out of the range of the win- 
dows and, without need of any light, deftly 
knotted footholds at intervals down the 
length of rope. It was a well-bred rope and 
answered sweetly to his demands. 

The gray light of the coming moon greeted 
him as he came toward the foot of Tan- 
bitches, and he found 
the path to Westover 
without having to flick 
a torch. He followed it 
up a little and then, 
when he could see the 
beech crown of the hill 
against the sky, he 
struck off it until he 
reached the thicket on 
the upper side of the 
old quarry. 

He tied the rope 
round the bole of the 
largest of the young 
beeches that had seeded 
themselves there, and 
let it uncoil itself until 
it fell over the edge of 
the quarry into the 
green thickness below. 
He slid over the edge 
and felt for his first toe hold. Now that he was 
level with the ground he was more aware of 
the brightness of the sky. 

He had found his first foothold in the rope 
now, but his hands were still on the rope 
where it lay taut on the turf. 

“‘T should hate,’ said Simon’s voice in its 
most ‘“‘Simon”’ drawl, “‘to let you go without 
an appropriate farewell. I mean, I could just 
cut the rope and let you think, if you had 
time to think at all, that it had broken. But 
that wouldn’t be any fun, would it?”’ 

Brat could see his bulk against the sky. 
From the shape of it, he was half kneeling on 
the edge, by the rope. Brat could touch him 
by putting out a hand. 

Simon hadn’t even taken the chance of fol- 
lowing Brat. He had come first and waited 
for him. 

“Cutting the rope won’t do much good,” 
he said. “‘I’ll only land in the branches of 
some tree farther down, and yell my head off 
until someone comes.” 

“I know better than that. A personal ac- 
quaintance of mine, this quarry is.’’ He 
whispered a laugh. ““A sheer drop to the 
ground, half a hillside away.” 


cost, was told, 


late the price. 


- | Brarwondered if he had time to slide down 
the rope in one swift rush before Simon cut 
it. Would he be near enough the bottom 
before Simon realized what he had done? Or 
would it be better Yes. His hand tight- 
ened on the rope and he pressed on his toe 
hold and lifted himself until he had almost 
got one knee on the turf again. But Simon 
had felt the movement. 

“Oh, no, you don’t!”’ he said, and brought 
his heel down on Brat’s hand. 

Brat grabbed the foot with his other hand 
and hung on, his fingers in the opening in the 
shoe. Simon brought his knife down on Brat’s 
wrist and Brat yelled, but continued to 
hang on. He dragged his right hand from 
under Simon’s shoe and caught him round 





GETTING DOWN TO 
BRASS TACKS 


When I was a boy 
merchants usually had a system 
of brass tacks in one corner edge of 
the counter for measuring purposes. 
Any customer who wondered how 
much material there was in a bolt 
remnant, or who ordered some and 
wanted to know how much it would 
"Now, 
to brass tacks.’’ The merchant would 
then measure the cloth and calcu- 
Thus the 
come to mean getting the exact facts 

in a given situation. 
—DAVID T. ARMSTRONG. 


the back of the ankle. He was covering with 
his body the rope in front of Simon. 

“Let go!” said Simon, stabbing frantically. 

“Tf you don’t stop that,’’ panted Brat, 
“Tl drag you over with me.” 

“Let go! Let’ go!” Simon said, hitting 
wildly in blind panic and not listening. 

Brat removed the hand that was holding 
on to the edge of the shoe and caught the 
knife hard as it came down. He now had his 
right hand round Simon’s left ankle, and his 
left hand was clutching Simon’s right wrist. 

Simon screamed and pulled away, but 
Brat hung his weight on the wrist. He had the 
confidence of a toe hold, but Simon had 
nothing to brace himself against. Simon tore 
at the hand that was hanging on to his knife 
wrist, and Brat, with a great heave, took his 
right hand from Simon’s foot and caught 
Simon’s left hand with it. He had now got 
Simon by both wrists, and Simon was bent 
over like a bow above him. 


“Drop that knife!’’ he said. 

As he said it he felt the turf at the quarry 
edge settle a little and slide forward. It made 
no difference to him, except to press him 
out a little farther from the face of the cliff. 
But to Simon, already bent over by the 
weight of Brat’s arms and body, it was fatal. 
Horrified, Brat saw the dark mass come 
forward on top of him. 
It struck him from his 
toe hold, and he fell 
down with it into dark- 
ness. A great light ex- 
ploded in his head, and 
he ceased to know any- 
thing. 


yard-goods 


Bee sat in the dingy 
little café with a cup of 
slopped coffee in front 
of her and read the sign 
on the other side of the 
road for the hundredth 
time in the last forty- 
eight hours. The sign 
said: MOTORISTS. 
PLEASE REFRAIN FROM 
USING YOUR HORN. THIS 
IS A HOSPITAL. She was 
an old inhabitant of the 
café by now. “Better go out and have a 
meal,” they would say kindly, and she would 
cross the road and sit for a little with a cup 
of coffee in front of her. 

MorToRISTS. PLEASE REFRAIN FROM US- 
ING She must stop reading that thing. 
Must look at something else. 

The door opened and Doctor Spence came 
in, his red hair tumbled and his chin un- 
shaved. He said ‘‘Coffee!’’ to the girl, and 
slid into the seat beside her. 

“Well?” she said. 

“Still alive.” 

“Conscious?” 

“No. But there are better indications. I 
mean, a chance of his living.” 

= Iseex! 

Spence gulped down his coffee and paid for 
it. He hesitated a moment as if reluctant to 
leave her. “‘I have to go back to Clare now. 
You know I shouldn’t leave him if he wasn’t 
in good hands, don’t you? They’ll do more 
for him than ever I could.” 

“You’ve done wonders for all of us,” 
said. “I shall never forget it.” 

Now that she had begun drinking the cof- 
fee she went on drinking it, and did not look 
up when the door opened again. She was 
surprised when George Peck sat down beside 
her. 

“Spence told me I should find you here.”’ 

“George! What are you doing in Westover 
at this hour of the morning?” 

“T have come to bring you comfort that 
Simon is dead.” 

“Comfort?” 

“Yes.”’ He took something from an enve- 
lope and laid it in front of her on the table. It 
was weather-worn but recognizable. It was a 
slender black stylograph with a decoration 
consisting of a thin yellow spiral. 

She looked at it without touching it, then 
looked up at the rector. ““Then they have 
foundiees tue. 

“Yes. It was there.” 


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BAREZERLD EEN VER, SSF EN NORE 


“What—what 7s there? I mean what— 
what is left?” 

“Just bones, my dear. A skeleton. I don’t 
know whether you will find it comforting or 
not—I think it is—but the police surgeon is 
of the opinion that he was not conscious 
when he ff 

‘*When he was thrown over,” Bee said for 
him. 

“Yes. The nature of the skull injury, I 
understand, leads to that conclusion.” 

“Yes. Yes, I am glad, of course. He prob- 
ably knew nothing about it. Just ended quite 
happy on a summer afternoon.” 

“What news from the hospital? Spence 
was driving away when I saw him.” 

“None. He is not conscious.” 

“T blame myself greatly, you know,” the 
rector said. “If I had listened with under- 
standing he would not have been driven to 
that crazy nighttime search.” 

“George, we must do something to find 
out who he is.” 

“T’ll speak to Colonel Smollett about it. 
He’ll know how to go about it. I talked to 
him about the inquest, and he thinks it may 
be possible to manage without your appear- 
ing. Nancy told me to ask you if you would 
like her to come in to Westover to be with 
you?” 

“Dear Nan. Say it is easier alone, will 
you? But thank her. Tell her to stand by 
Eleanor, rather. Did you break the news to 
her, as you promised? The news that Brat 
was not Patrick?” 

“Yes. I dreaded it, Bee, I confess frankly. 
But the event was surprising.” 

“What did she do?” 

““She kissed me.” 

The door opened, and a probationer stood 
in the dim opening. She saw Bee and came 
over to her. 

““Are you Miss Ashby, please?” 

“Yes,” said Bee, half rising. 

“Miss Beatrice Ashby ? Your nephew iscon- 
scious now. He keeps talking about someone 
called Bee, and we thought it might be you. 
I’m sorry to interrupt you, and you haven't 
finished your coffee, have you, but you 
see ——”’ 

“Yes, yes,”’ said Bee, already at the door. 

‘‘He may be quieter, you see, if you are 
there,’”’ the probationer said, following her 
out. “‘They often are, when someone they 
know is there, even if they don’t actually 
recognize them. It’s very strange.” 

What really was strange was to hear that 
steady stream of words from the lips of the 
normally silent Brat. For a day and a night 
and a day again she sat by his bed and lis- 
tened to that restless torrent of talk. ** Bee?” 
he would say, just as the little probationer 
had recounted to her. And she would say, 
“Yes. I’m here,” and he would go back reas- 
sured to whatever world he was wandering in. 

On Wednesday morning Charles Ashby 
arrived at the hospital. Bee went down to re- 
ceive him and took him up to Brat’s room. 
He had hugged her as he used to when she 
was a little girl, and she felt warm and com- 
forted. 

“‘He’s asleep just now,” she said, pausing 
outside Brat’s room, “‘so you'll be very 
quiet, won’t you?” 


Cares took one look at the young face 
with the slack jaw, the blue shadows under 
the closed eyes, and the gray haze of stub- 
ble, and said, ‘‘ Walter.”’ 

“His name is Brat.” 

“T know. I wasn’t addressing him. I was 
merely pointing out the resemblance. That 
is exactly what Walter used to look like, at 
his age, when he had a hang-over.”’ 

Bee came nearer and looked. ‘‘ Walter’s 
son?” 

“Undoubtedly.” 

“T don’t see any resemblance, somehow,” 
Bee said. 

“You never saw Walter sleeping it off.” 
He looked at the boy a little longer. “A 
better face than Walter’s, though? A good 
face.”” And he followed her into the corridor. 
“T hear you all liked him.” 

“We loved him,” she said. 

“Well, it’s all very sad, very sad. What 
are we going to do about the boy? For the 
future, I mean.”’ 


“We don’t know yet if he has a future,” 
she said. 


Only the rector, Bee, Charles, Eleanor 
and the firm of Cossett, Thring and Noble 
knew, so far, that Brat was not Patrick 
Ashby. And the police. The police, that is, at 
what is known as “the highest level.”” The 
police had been told everything, and they 
were now engaged in smoothing out the mess 
to the best of their ability without breaking 
any of the laws which they were engaged to 
uphold. Simon Ashby was dead. It was to 
no one’s advantage to uncover the story of 
his crime. 

The coroner sat on the poor bones found 
in the quarry and adjourned the inquest 
sine die. No one in the neighborhood had 
ever been reported missing. Tanbitches, on 
the other hand, was a favorite camping 
ground for gypsies, who were not given to 
reporting accidents to the police. Nothing 
remained of the clothing but a few scraps of 


- Jo dW - Black Cal 
Uy Beatrice Haw 


You are no native of this daytime 
world, 

You are an alien to this place of 
men; - 

Aloof, uncanny, you lie loosely 
curled, 

Waiting until the night is here 
again. 

Yours is a strange world of 
enchanted things, 

An eerie country where old thorn 
trees lean 

Against lopsided moons, where 
phantom wings 

Haunt old, abandoned parks, and 
stars are green. 


You dream, through sunlit hours, 
ofan old street 

That CWists past haunted walls 
where phantoms croon; 

Or of old alleys staggering on bent 
feet 

Past broken halls abandoned to 
the moon, 

Where, once again released from 
foreign walls, 

You greet your comrades with 
weird goblin calls. 


unrecognizable cloth. The objects which had 
been found in the vicinity of the bones were 
unidentifiable. 

The inquest on Simon Ashby had been 
postponed until Brat was capable of being 
interviewed in the hospital. The policeman 
who had interviewed him reported that Mr. 
Ashby could remember nothing about the 
accident, or why he should have gone there 
with his brother at that hour to climb down 
into the quarry. He had an idea that it was 
the result of a bet. The verdict was death by 
misadventure, and the coroner expressed his 
sympathy with the family on the loss of this 
high-spirited young man. So the problem of 
Simon was settled. 

The problem of Brat remained. Not the 
problem of who he was, but the problem of 
his future. The doctors had decided that, 
having against all probability lived so long, 
he was likely to go on living. He would need 
long care, however, and a peaceful life if he 
was to recover properly. 

“Uncle Charles came to see you one day 
when you were ill,’ Bee said to him when he 
was well enough to keep his attention on a 
subject. ““He was astonished by your resem- 
blance to Walter Ashby. My cousin.” 

““Yes?’’ said Brat. He was not interested. 
What did it matter now? 

“We began inquiries about you.” 


POMBUP, Per 


“The police did that,”” he said wearily. 
“Years ago.” 

“Yes, but they had very little to come 
and go on. We started at the other end 
Walter's end. We went back to where Walter 
was about twenty-two years ago, and began 
from there. Walter was a rolling stone, so it 
wasn't easy, but we did find out that, among 
his other jobs, he was in charge of a stable in 
Gloucestershire for a couple of months while 
the owner was away having an operation, 
The household was a housekeeper and a 
young girl who cooked, She was a very good 
cook, but her real ambition was to be a hos- 
pital nurse. The housekeeper liked her and 
so did the owner, and when they found she 
was going to have a baby they let her stay 
on, and she had her baby in the local mater- 
nity home. The housekeeper always believed 
that it was Walter's child, but the girl would 
not say. The housekeeper had a letter from 
her long afterward, thanking ber for her 
goodness and telling her that the girl had 
realized her ambition and was a nurse. ‘No 
one knows about my baby,’ she said, ‘but I 
have seen that he is well looked after,’”’ 


Sue glanced at Brat. He was lying with his 
eyes on the ceiling, but he appeared to be 
listening. 

Her name was Mary Woodward. She was 
an even better nurse than she was a cook. 
She was killed during the war, taking pa- 
tients out of a ward to safety in a shelter.” 

There was a long silence. She had another 
look at Brat. Perhaps she had told him all 
this too soon; before he was strong enough. 
But she had hoped that it would give him an 
interest in life. 

“I'm afraid that is as near as we can get, 
Brat. But none of us have any doubt about 
it. Charles took one look at you and said, 
‘Walter.’ And I think myself you look a little 
like your mother. That is Mary Woodward 
It was taken in her second year at St. Luke’s.”’ 
She gave him the photograph. 

A week or two later she said to Eleanor, 
“Nell, I’m going to leave you. I've taken a 
lease of Tim Connell’s stud at Kilbarty.” 

“Oh, Bee!” 

“Not immediately, but when Brat is able 
to travel.” 

“You're taking Brat there? Oh, that is a 
wonderful idea, Bee. It solves such a lot of* 
problems, doesn’t it? But can you afford it? 
Shall I lend you money for it?’’ 

““No, Uncle Charles is doing that. Mr. 
Sandal has broken it to the bank that the 
place belonged to Simon all the time.” 

‘*“What shall we do about letting people 
know about Brat? I mean, about his not be- 
ing Patrick.” 

“T don’t think we’ll have to do anything 
about it. The facts will inevitably ooze. I 
think we just do nothing to prevent the leak. 
The fact that we are making him part of the 
family instead of starting prosecutions and 
things will take a lot of the fun out of it for 
the scandalmongers. We’ll survive, Nell. And 
so will he.” 

“Of course we will. And the first time some- 
one mentions it boldly to me, I shall say, 
“My cousin? Yes, he did pretend to be my 
brother. He ts very like Patrick, isn’t he?’ 
As if we were discussing cream cakes.’’ She 
paused a moment and then added, “But I 
should like the news to get round before I’m 
too old to marry him.” 

“Are you thinking of it?”’ 

“T’m set on it.” 

“Don’t worry. It will get round.” é 

““Now that Uncle Charles is here, and is 
going to settle down at Latchetts,” she said 
later to Brat, “I can go back to having a 
life of my own somewhere else.” 

His eyes came away from the ceiling and 
watched her. 

“There’s a place in Ulster I have my eye 
on. Tim Connell’s place at Kilbarty.” 

She saw his fingers begin to play with the 
sheet, unhappily. ““Are you going away to 
Ulster, then?”’ he asked. 

“Only if you will come with me, and run 
the stable for me.” 

The easy tears of the newly convalescent 
ran down his cheek. ‘‘Oh, Bee!”’ he said. 

“TI take it that means that my offer is 
accepted,” she said. THE END 


t 


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EN ome ia eers Se mold, 3 inches deep, filling mold 
half full. 
Bake.....- in moderate oven (375° F.) for 30 


to 35 minutes. 


LAYER CAKE Pour batter into two greased and 
floured 8-inch layer cake pans. Bake 
at 350° F. for 30 to 35 minutes. 


Here in our kitchen, we devote our time to developing 


COCOA BUTTER FROSTING 













g things—and novel things—for yON to bake. fi Measure 2% cups sifted confectioners’ sugar, and 
The Chocolate Wishing Ring Cake is one of them. i sift with 74 cup cocoa and 1 teaspoon salt. Cream 
. ett ee, 1 cup butter. Blend in sugar-cocoa mixture alter- 
Really an elegant cake . . . but so simple to make our ' owen t fees é nately with 3 tablespoons hot cream. Add 1 egg 
i i imi i i yolk, if desired. Blend thoroughly. Add 1 teaspoon 
Quick-Mix way. You eliminate the beating of eggs... . the ; Isby vanilla. Frost cooled cake. Fill ring with scoops of 
creaming of shortening. You use only one mixing bowl. es B trys a variety of ice creams. 
: * 
Of course, you'll like Pillsbury’s Best for your pies, $3 EST 3 : 
bread, rolls, and cookies, too. In fact, this famous all- % XXxx 3 
purpose flour is wonderful for everything you bake. : “So, "7 s 
, . eoe our ce 
m : e%e e i. at 
We hope you'll plan to make this fine Chocolate | Senenesgee” This may help you win 


Wishing Ring Cake—soon. It’s simple. It’s delicious! 


Ris Rss | 


DIRECTOR 
PILLSBURY’S HOME SERVICE CENTER 


$50,000 


Be sure to get a free 
token like this from 
your grocer. It may help 
you win $50,000 in a 
Pillsbury contest to be 
announced soon. 





© P.M.1. 






Whats Your 1. 
on Infants ? 





1. Is a baby’s “soft spot” 
a matter for worry? 


No—almost every newborn baby has two 
‘‘soft spots’ on top of his head. In time, 
the bones will grow together. Be careful 
ot these spots, but include baby’s scalp in 
the daily smooth-over with pure, gentle 
Johnson’s Baby Oil. Use oil, too, at every 
diaper change, to help prevent ‘‘urine irri- 
tation.” 











& | ‘2. Should mother or baby 
3 set his schedule? 











Many experts today believe baby knows 
best—that feeding, sleeping and playing 
f times should come when baby indicates" 
. he’s ready. Any time is a good time for 
cool, soothing sprinkles of Johnson’s Baby 
Powder. Babies love the gentle comfort 
this silky Powder brings... helping keep 
them free from chafes and prickles. 


3. Is it good for a baby to 
“ery it out’’? 


No, say modern baby doctors. Check your 
baby to make sure nothing is hurting him, 
and if he still cries, give him a little love 
and affection—it won’t spoil him. A baby 
whose skin is kept smooth and free from —~—* 
irritation with Johnson’s Baby Oil and 
Johnson’s Baby Powder is likely to be a 
happy baby! 

Recommended by more doctors—used by more mothers 








feos | A 
ee ve — } Gofuiser> 
ae p " BABY 

S ol 4 QWDER 











PHOTO BY HH. ARMSTRONG hOnEKTS 


hae 


To give proper care and to be spared needless worry, parents 
should become acquainted with the nature of children’s diseases. 


lnlectious Mononucleosis, 


\ot So Bad i 


18 It Sounds 


By Dr. Herman N. Bundesen 


President, Chicago Board of Health 


HAT on earth is that?” is the com- 

mon reaction of parents when I tell 

them that infectious mononucleosis 

is a disease to watch out for. “‘Is it 
as awful as it sounds?” 

It is usually comforting to learn that this 
illness with the alarming name is what used 
to be called glandular fever (and still is, in 
many quarters) because it affects the lymph 
glands, causing lumps to appear in the neck 
just below the jawbone. In the past it was 
considered a minor ailment, or frequently 
was mistaken for some other disease. In 
mild cases, it often went unrecognized al- 
together. 

Recent researches, which have endowed 
this ailment with its present rather porten- 


Grarerut young mothers from 
Maine to California tell us that 
Doctor Bundesen’s baby booklets 
have been of the greatest help to 
them in caring for their own babies. 
The first eight booklets cover your 
baby’s first eight months. They sell 
for 50 cents. The second series of 
booklets covers the baby’s health 
from nine months to two years— 
seven booklets for 50 cents. The 
booklets will be sent monthly: be 
sure to tell us when you want the 
first booklet. A complete book on 
the care of the baby, a necessary 
supplement to the monthly book- 
lets, Our Basres, No. 1345, is 
25 cents. A booklet on breast feed- 
ing, A Doctor’s First Duty To 
THE Moruer, No. 1346, sells for 6 
cents. Address all requests to the 
Reference Library, LaprEs’ HomE 
JourNaL, Phila. 5, Pa. 





tous title, indicate that it is deserving of 
more respect and attention than it has 
hitherto been accorded. Not dangerous 
when it is understood and managed prop- 
erly, infectious mononucleosis can, it has 
been found, linger on for weeks or months, 


becoming a serious drain on a child's healt). 
if care is not taken to keep the small suf- 
ferer in bed while the infection lasts. 

But another very interesting feature of 
infectious mononucleosis is its ability to 
take on guises which make it appear to be 
some far more serious illness. Even experi- 
enced doctors have been fooled into think- 
ing a child had measles, meningitis, typhoid 
fever, even the dreaded leukemia, until tests 
showed that comparatively harmless infec- 
tious mononucleosis was producing the 
symptoms. 

A disease which affects the lymph 
glands and may also involve other parts 
of the body, infectious mononucleosis 
takes its name from a particular type of 
white blood cell called the mononuclear 
leucocyte. When the infection occurs, this 
type of cell multiplies and other types tend 
to decrease. Definite diagnosis can only be 
made, in fact, after careful microscopic 
study of the blood, where the primary 
changes brought about by the ailment oc- 
cur in every case, no matter what other 
symptoms may appear. 

I remember one case in which a seven- 
year-old boy with persistent fever and 
lethargy was finally referred to the hospital 
for examination by a blood specialist, or 
hematologist. 

For several anxious days we awaited the 
reports which would tell us whether or 
not the child had leukemia, another disease 
in which the white blood cells multiply dis- 
proportionately. Repeated examinations 
were needed to establish the diagnosis be- 
yond any doubt. Since leukemia is often a 
fatal disease, it was an extremely distress- 
ing period for all of us. I shall always re- 
member the feeling of relief I shared with 
the boy’s parents when the hematologist re- 
ported infectious mononucleosis. 

Both to give proper care, therefore, and 
to be spared needless worry about more se- 
rious ailments, parents should be acquainted 
with this disease with the impressive name. 
More cases are being reported now than 
formerly. And while it is found most fre- 
quently among adolescents and young 
adults, it is (Continued on Page 114) 


4 


% 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


needs Real Meat! 


Your doctor knows meat has the complete high quality 
proteins even tiny babies need every day. 


So, because our only business is providing the right 
foods for babies, we’ve rounded out the famous 
Gerber’s line with meats! 


eI Special cuts of Armour beef, veal and 
liver are carefully prepared to retain 


their tempting true-meat color and flavor. 











Easy on tiny digestive organs. Like all Gerber’s—from 
baby’s very first Cereal through Fruits, Vegetables 
and Desserts—the new Meats have Perfected-Texture. 
No wonder babies signal for “seconds.” 


Easy for busy mommies. Just heat and serve. No tire- 
some, wasteful scraping. Yet Gerber’s Strained and 
Junior Meats are one modest price. Far easier on 
your budget than home-prepared meats! 


erber’s 


BABY FOODS 
Fremont, Mich. 


a eae 

Ge ee 
eS as 
At, Aw BS 





Babies are our business... our only business! 


113 







~Mothers 


Reported by 


(Mother of 5) 





SUGGESTION BOx: It’s all ready for your 
brightideas on baby care. Yousee, Mothers 
Club News is really a country-wide “swap- 
ping center” for hints that can help all us 
mothers. Send yours to me—Box 45, 
Fremont, Mich. 






Mich Gan. 


3 HEAT-BEATERS: How-to-be-happy-in-sum- 
mer hints for you and Baby. And all are 
so easy to follow. 





1. Sponge Baby with tepid water several 
times a day. More refreshing and safer 
than cold water, doctors say. 


2. Do less cooking! Top some leftover 
cake with.some of Baby’s ready-to-serve 
fruit. Fine “cookless” dessert for you and 
daddy. 


3. You'll stay calmer, cooler if you serve 
Baby Gerber’s Fruits, Vegetables, Meats 
and Desserts. Their pleasing True-Flavor 
cuts down mealtime coaxing. Mothers 
everywhere say so. 











Tempting, nourishing, 
well-varied summer 
meals for baby are 
easy with Gerber’s, All, 
ready to serve. 





3 CEREALS 
21 STRAINED FOODS 
15 JUNIOR FOODS 
3 STRAINED MEATS 
3 JUNIOR MEATS 


MID-SUMMER GIFT 
= eee 


Samples of 3 good-tasting Baby Cereals. 
Write Gerber’s, Dept.88-9, Fremont, Mich. 
In Canada, write Gerber’s, Toronto. 





Accepted by the Council on <7, 
Foods and Nutrition of the | Fy = 


American Medical Assos. “Stn 







LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


LILLE yj 


\Clhafiss Gln / 


' Abe your Baby and fo J 
<A UU A 


By Louise Zabriskie, RN. 


Director, Maternity Consultation Service, New York 


DO YOUR SHOPPING EARLY! It’s a good idea to get most of your 
layette essentials ahead of time. You might find that, a month or 
two before baby arrives, you tire easily and shopping may become a 
chore instead of the pleasant experience it should be. If what to get— 
and how much—is a problem that’s puzzling you, take advantage of 


the willing and helpful advice 
available at any store selling 
famous CHIX layette essentials. 





BABIES ARE CHANGEABLE! 12 
to 15 diaper changes a day for several 
months, in fact! So here’s a work- 
saving tip. CHIX Gauze Diapers are 
easier washing, quicker drying because 
they’re made of double layers of airy, 
woven fabric. They're best for baby, 
too! CHIX Diapers are softer, more 
absorbent ... and the pinked edges 
mean noirritating, soil-eatching hems. 


BABY, MEET FATHER! Help 
them get acquainted. Encourage 
Father to make an occasional diaper 
change or take over a bottle feeding 
schedule. He’ll enjoy taking an ac- 
tive part in bringing up baby. And 
what a wonderful help he’ll be! 


WORK-SAVING WONDERS! 
CHIX Cottoned Diaper Liners will 
save hours of washing. You put a soft, 













DR eee me ae 


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sturdy CHIX Diaper Liner inside of 
baby’s diaper to keep baby’s bowel 
movement from touching and stain- 
ing the diaper. Soiled liners are just 
flushed away! No fuss! No muss! 


IT’S A GOOD BEGINNING when 
you have CHUX 100% Disposable 
Diapers handy. When baby’s uncer- 
tain requirements catch you short 
of regular diapers, CHUX comes to 
the rescue. Wonderful, too, when 
you aren’t feeling up to the washing 
chore. CHUX are completely dispos- 
able—need no water-proof pantie! 


BABY’S DREAM CASTLE IS THE 
CRIB! Encourage pleasant dreams 
with comfortable CHIX Fitted Crib 
Sheets of smooth, fine percale. They 
can’t crawl or wrinkle. And, to make 
it easier to keep baby’s crib sweet and 





fresh, use CHIX Crib Pads. They’re 
made with double layers of highly ab- 
sorbent knit fabric .. . easier to wash 
—dry hours faster than quilted pads. 


Send for a free copy of 
Louise Zabriskie’s help- 
ful booklet—“‘Cominon 
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—and free samples of 
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Liners. Write CHIX, 
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This advertisement read and approved 
by a well-known Professor of Pediatrics. 


(Continued from Page 112) 
also seen many times in younger children, 
and there is evidence to indicate that the in- 
cidence among children of five or six years is 
growing rapidly. 

The exact cause is unknown, but appar- 
ently it is a virus or a bacterium which can be 
transmitted from person to person by direct 
contact, though not so easily as measles, 
colds and other common infections. Until the 
organism that causes the disease can be iden- 
tified and studied, we can only guess at the 
method of transmission, nature of exposure, 
incubation period and other details. Mean- 
while, it is a good idea to isolate from others 
in the family the child who displays any of 
the symptoms noted below. 

The first sign of the infection is usually a 
fever. This may mount to 103 or 104 degrees 
and is often accompanied by chills, headache 
and sore throat. In severe cases, the throat 
may become so inflamed and swollen for a 
few days that eating and even breathing are 
difficult. As the lymph glands become af- 
fected, the characteristic lumps appear just 
below the corners of the jawbone. 

Later on in the course of the disease, lymph 
nodes often can also be felt in the groin and 
armpit. Depending on what other organs are 
attacked, still other signs may appear. Usu- 
ally, for example, the spleen is enlarged, al- 
though this can be detected only by a medi- 
cal examination. When the liver is involved, 
the skin becomes jaundiced (yellow). Insome 
cases, the lungs are affected and painful 
breathing, as in pneumonia, follows. The 
child may have spells of dopiness or lethargy; 
this means that the infection has touched the 
meninges, or membrane enclosing the brain 
and spinal cord. Sometimes, too, a skin rash 
like that of measles or early scarlet fever may 
appear. In most cases, the nervous system is 
involved to some extent, and the child is 
likely to be irritable and easily upset. With 
all these possibilities, it is not surprising that 
mononucleosis is often mistaken for some- 


August, 1949 


thing else. Naturally the doctor should be 
called at once, whether this is infectious mon- 
onucleosis or one of the more dangerous dis- 
eases it simulates. 

One unfortunate feature is that as yet the 
infection does not respond to any specific 
treatment. In a few cases where the throat 
was severely swollen, I have known ae 
to bring apparent relief. Generally speaking 
however, none of the new drugs is effective i in 
combating the infection, which must be al- 
lowed to run its gradual course and wear out 
over a period of several weeks. Throughout 
this time it is important to keep the child in 
bed, maintaining a nourishing diet, with spe- 
cial emphasis on fluids. Water and fruit juices 
should be given at regular intervals between 
meals to make certain the fluid intake is high. 
If the child suffers severe throat distress, 
gargles may be helpful, and aspirin aids in 
reducing fever and discomfort. Prolonged, 
serious infections sometimes call for blood 
transfusion; this should be done without 
hesitation if the doctor recommends it. 

As in other diseases in which symptoms 
may stretch out over a long period, it is im- 
portant to keep the child's spirits up. All the 
usual diversions of convalescence are needed 
in abundance and, as the weeks pass, mother 
must be on guard against boredom and dis- 
couragement. In many cases the child will go 
for a week or more with only a slight fever 
and little or no discomfort, then experience a 
few days of rising fever, sore throat, headache 
and general distress. This may be repeated 
several times before the infection runs its full 
course. 

Even after the child is apparently well and 
has resumed normal activity, mother must 
be watchful for signs of returning fever. With 
proper management and care, however, this 
disease will remain a lingering annoyance 
rather than a real threat to health. And cer- 
tainly it is a relief to know that what your 
child has is infectious mononucleosis, instead 
of a more deadly disease! 


COLLEGE MEN ARE FUNNY % 


(Continued from Page 50) 


College Man on his way to class. If you're in 
the West, he’s doubtless wearing Levis and a 
plaid shirt. The Levis are carefully rolled to 
within an inch of the top of his heavy white 
socks. His white bucks are casually scuffed 
and soiled. He has a pencil over one ear, a 
notebook tucked casually under his arm. If 
you’re in the East, replace the Levis with 
cords, the plaid shirt with a rumpled wool 
jacket. The man inside will be much the same. 

He’ll point out the library and give you 
the impression he’s never set foot inside the 
door. Actually he probably has—many times. 
College Womenoccasionally admit they worry 
about their studies; a College Man—never. 
‘Study habits,” says a Mississippi State sen- 
ior, “remain constant. Any chance to “goof 
off’ at athletics or the flicks is grabbed in- 
stantly. Special occasions—like exams— 
sometimes warrant the use of the library.” 
For work is a minor, but demanding, con- 
dition of college life, treated with bitterness, 
irony—and resignation. His classes are long, 
his textbooks are heavy, and he faces final 
grades with the casual bravado of a man go- 
ing to his execution with a cigarette in his 
mouth. There is the tragedy of having to 
make an 8-o’clock class after a 3 A.M. date, 
or studying for final exams after a semester 
spent on bridge and dates; the heartbreak 
of skipping a college prom for a term paper. 

A College Man has dreams about college 
the way it could be—no work, no exams, 
plenty of women—the college where, when the 
professor asks the men in the backof the room 
to stop exchanging! notes, they can reply, 
““They’re not notes, sir, they’re cards. We’re 
playing bridge.”’ And his understanding com- 
ment will be merely, “Oh, I beg your par- 
don.”’ (New Mexico Pue Blah) 

The College Man smiles—longingly—at 
the story of Joe Speeber, who hires a private 
secretary for term papers, a home-economics 
major for manicures and meals. Most 
ideally—“‘ Realizing that study may injure 
the optic nerve, Joe forsakes the classroom 


for the golf course. While Joe insures physical 
fitness through competitive sports, a kindly 
English professor records his lectures on 
Joe’s wire recorder. Afterward, Joe picks up 
the recordings for home study.” Joe, com- 
ments Ohio State’s Sundial, where his life 
story originated, is a “simple collegiate.” 

Farther along the campus, the College 
Man may point out a short, stout man hurry- 
ing along with a briefcase almost as big as 
he is. “A professor,” he’ll say, shying away. 
For while a College Man admits privately, in 
hushed tones, that “‘some professors are 
really good guys,” he assumes quite another 
air for his public. In college humor maga- 
zines (whose bold-faced gibes are not always 
intelligible to the outsider, but hilarious to 
the undergraduate), professors appear either 
as small thin men with spindly noses and 
pince-nez glasses, or as massive hulks with 
widely separated teeth and pugnacious leers. 
They are scarcely human, of course. When 
they speak, they growl. They spend their 
time inventing subjects with as many un- 
necessary complications as possible, involved 
quizzes demanding factual details, and so 
much strenuous homework that a conscien- 
tious college lad has time for naught but 
work—it says in college humor magazines. 
When a guy finally does break away for a 
big week end, the professor, either not know- 
ing or not caring, invariably schedules an 
hour exam covering “the course to date’”’ for 
the following Monday morning. Professors 
seem to feel that a College Man is in college 
for an education. 


Said an ape as he swung by his tail, iQ 
To his children, both male and female, 
“From your offspring, my dears, 
In a couple of years, 
May evolve a professor at Yale.” 
—Yale Record. 


In a quiet moment again, a Wyoming 
freshman says, “‘I wish I could see more of 


my professors so I could at least understand 
their idiosyncrasies.” An Arkansas sopho- 
more bravely admits, “I like professors as I 
like people”; an Iowa junior is grateful for 
“being able to talk to them as I talk to nor- 
mal people.” 

Talking to a College Man himself is not 


@ always easy these days. For slang is where 


3 


the ’49 College Man and Woman really excel 
over their predecessors. When a College Man 
likes something, he says, ‘‘That’s a sweet 
treat.”” When he’s irritated, he says, “I’m 
buggy,” or “I’ve got the botts”” (animal 
disease). A good date, who was a “fluff” in 
the ’20’s, now “‘ain’t no bad chick.” “Hep” 
is now “hip”; something old (like alumni) is 
an “‘upper plate.” Or try this one for size: 
F.F.F.F.T.O.Y.F.F.—which, when trans- 
lated, means “‘Fall fatally flat five times on 
your fat face.’’ When you’ve said something 
he likes, he may startle you by saying em- 
phatically, “Bong!” And if he wants to give 
you high praise, he’! answer, “‘ That vibrates 
me’”’; “That has a large charte”’; or “‘That’s 
oogley.”” A wolf is a “make-out artist’; an 


REPRODUCED BY PERMISSION OF 
MICHIGAN STATE SPARTAN 





Within the fraternity houses is found 
a cross section of typical Amer- 
ican boys from every walk of life. 


obvious person is a “cheesecloth.” Tell a 
funny story which doesn’t amuse him, and 
he’ll remark dryly, ‘One, two, three, giggle.’ 


~ When he’s having a good time, which is al- 


most always, he’ll tell you gaily, “I’m mak- 
ing out like ten men,”’ but when things go 
wrong, he’ll switch it around this way: “I’m 
making out like ten men—nine dead and one 
dying.” Instead of saying good-by, he’ll 
mutter, “‘The current is pushing me,’ or 
“I’m cutting off,’’ and saunter casually on 
his way to bigger and better things. 

His women are a College Man’s piéce de 
résistance. He plasters his walls with pic- 
tures of Betty Grable’s legs, Valli’s face and 
Lana Turner’s contour; talks grandly about 
“the blonde I was out with last night’’; says 
positively, ‘“Go steady? Not me—got to give 
them ail a break.” But then, since he con- 
siders himself a man of taste and discrimi- 
nation, and since he couldn’t possibly get 
around as much as he’d like you to think, 
he’ll turn right back to Smith and Wellesley, 
where he has a sophomore apiece, and before 
his college career is over, chances are he'll 
have gone steady at least once. (One out of 
five does each year.) The advantages are 
strictly practical: ‘‘ You can get a date with- 
out much trouble,” says a Missouri man. 
“At least you won’t get stuck,” explains a 
Harvard man. But at the University of 
Florida (9000 men to 1500 girls), ‘““a man 
fool enough to go steady finds himself ex- 
pected to play the part of a lap dog.” The 
girl who lets the College Man think he’s as 
smart as he thinks he is, becomes the girl 
with the most dates. 


Man’s interest 
In a woman’s knees 
Rises and falls 
With the breeze. 
—Texas Ranger. 


3 A College Man’s most definite ideas con- 


cern ‘‘the woman I could love.” In general, 
she must be good-looking, not overly sophis- 
ticated but with a certain amount of know- 
how, and have enough intelligence to grasp 
what he’s talking about, but not enough to 
overshadow him. Pressed further, he will un- 
hesitatingly come down to the most minute 
details, a selection of which we print here for 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


the edification of any girls who fit and can 
pick their college accordingly: 

Indiana U.—‘“‘Blonde, 5’ 4”, 115 pounds, 
with flashing eyes. She looks cute in a sweater 
and skirt, and prefers beer to whisky.” 

Duke U.—“‘Brunette, 5’ 214”, with a rep- 
utation as a party girl, although,” says this 
Duke sophomore sadly, “they all get to look 
pretty much alike after two years.” 

Michigan State—‘“‘5’ 8’; 120 pounds, 
blonde, with good conformation. Naturally a 
guy wants to be able to introduce the lady 
with a straight face.’ 

Dartmouth—‘“5’ 8’’; 36’’ bust, 28” waist, 
36” hips; good posture; must be mature 
both mentally and physically.” 

Washington—‘“‘Sex appeal, fairly intelli- 
gent, likes to do what you like to do.” 

Virginia—“‘5’ 714”, athletic (but not an 
athlete), witty, sparkling, tactful, rather 
mysterious, and one who knows how to smoke 
and drink, but can leave both alone.” 

An established College Woman, however, 
has ways of attracting a man about which 
he’s never even heard. A Cornell girl, hoping 
for a call from a special man, hangs her 
brassiére on her telephone. Superstitious 
Mount Holyoke girls walk the man of their 
choice around Upper Lake three times—if he 
doesn’t propose by the end of the third trip, 
she can toss him in. At Oregon State, a Col- 
lege Man gets as many dances with his date 
as the lines of poetry he writes in her dance 
program. If he fills them all, that’s good! 
And foolish the girl who doesn’t hang it over 
the bureau for luck. 

Where the College Man feels himself to be 
a real authority is in the art of making love. 
He smiles knowingly at passionate love 
scenes in movies, enjoys stories in humor 
magazine which discuss, along obvious lines, 
prominent features of female anatomy, de- 
fines making love as ‘‘anything from light 
necking on, depending on the girl.’ 

“For most College Men,’ an Amherst 
sophomore explains, “necking seldom occurs 
onthe first date, although some couplesexpect 
it. If you’re going steady or know a girl well, 
there is usually a good-night kiss and certain 
smooching on the ride back to the girl’s 
house. Neckingon the campuscenters around 
cars or the fraternity house. A girl doesn’t 
have to make love to be popular, but it helps, 
and some dates expect it as an attribute of 
popularity. Personality and looks—a prestige 
date, one to be shown off—doesn’t have to 
make love. A man doesn’t have to make love 
either, but most do when the chance arises.” 

College Men talk freely about their sex ex- 
periences. College Women are more reticent. 


ANTHROPOLOGY PROF. (lecturing): “And 
the women of the tribe wear nothing.” 
STUDENT (waking up): “Where is that 
place, professor?” 
And upon receiving the reply he took the 
first lecture note in four years. 
Wampus (U. of So. Calif.). 


Just as it should be, a College Man’s and 
Woman’s ambitions for the future concern— 
each other. ‘‘Probably the biggest ambition 
of all the students here,’’ says a Wisconsin 


REPRODUCED BY PERMISSION OF 
VIRGINIA SPECTATOR 





““You know the passing grade here.” 


“ce 


man, “‘is to have a car, and a girl madly in 
love with him. College could also be more fun 
with fewer studies and an unlimited supply 
of money.” A worldly Pasadena College Man 
concludes: “The girl’s ambition is to get mar- 
ried; the man’s ambition, to stay uwnmar- 
ried.”’ As for the University of Florida, all a 
College Man down there asks ‘“‘is to gradu- 
ate, marry a beautiful woman, and make a 
mint of money.” THE END 


kid 
‘ala a 


IN TOM SAWYER’S BIG 
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areata thie De 
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LADIES’ HOME 


ONCE UPON A TIME 


(Continued from Page 53) 


One of the puppies was tugging at her 
shoestring furiously, but she didn’t even 
notice him. She just sat down on the rambling 
stone wall as if she were out of breath. For 
she felt puzzled—bewildered even—just as 
she had one day last week when she had 
asked Geoffrey why he didn’t carry mother 
downstairs to her wheel chair any more. He 
hadn’t answered, only picked up the grass 
clippers and walked quietly away. Now, 
again, she felt that strange, tight fear, with- 
out a name, but very real. 

She got up and tucked the catalogue out 
of sight between two fat magazines. She 
gathered up the mail. Then she started back 
toward the white, spacious house which was 
half hidden on the point, walking slowly, not 
heeding the puppies’ frantic demands. 


Miss Penny was in the library, waiting. 

“Tl take the mail up to mummie,” 
Kathie called, hoping to escape her accurate 
eye a moment longer. “‘ Don’t let Geoffrey go 
without me,” she reminded Lena, who was 
checking the weekly shopping list with Miss 
Penny. “I'll hurry, really.” 

The door to her mother’s room was half 
open. Kathie could see that her breakfast 
tray, practically untouched, had been pushed 
toward the bottom of the bed. 

“Oh, mother,”’ Kathie protested softly, 
“you're supposed to eat.” 

For that was what daddy had said Kathie 
must coax mother to do. ‘‘There’ll be lots of 
little ways to be helpful,” he had carefully 
explained, ‘“‘now that you’re older. Read to 
her sometimes, sit with her occasionally at 
meals so that she won’t get too lonesome. 
For you know how you like that, Kathie. 
Besides, the doctors say there’s no need for 
a nurse constantly, and mother says they 
are often bossy.” 

So’s Miss Penny—sometimes, Kathie had 
thought, knowing how often in the past two 
years she had been shooed away from her 
mother’s room. But, “I'll try, daddy,”’ was 
all she said. 

She peeked again quietly into the room. 
Her mother was propped up against the pil- 
lows, but her eyes were still closed as if 
she were asleep. She looks so pretty, Kathie 
thought, im her new bed jacket with the little 
yellow pansies. 

“T’ve brought you the mail, mummie,”’ 
Kathie spoke in a low voice out of habit. 

Her mother’s blue eyes opened instantly. 
““Oh—hello, darling. My, you look good 
enough to eat in that plaid skirt and jacket 
Miss Penny made you. How did she ever 
pry you out of your jeans?” she teased. 
“Portland today?” 

“Um-m-m-m.” Kathie nodded happily. 
“‘“There’s a card from daddy. I peeked,’’ she 
confessed. “‘He’s coming this week end on 
Friday.”’ Then the laughing look ebbed from 
her face, and she laid the magazines down 
quickly on the bed beside her. ““I—I think 
Miss Penny’s waiting,” she finished lamely, 
not certain whether she wanted to go or stay. 

Her mother picked up the Journal almost 
immediately, and the catalogue slid out into 
plain sight on the bed. “Oh, it came. Look, 
Kathie—it’s Camp Chick Wauk. Why, how 
nice—they addressed it to you.” 

“Did—did you send for it?’’ Kathie asked, 
a sudden throbbing in her throat. 

“Yes, darling.” 

“But why? Why did you?” 

“Oh, I went there, lambie—I went there 
the summer I was just as old as you. I got 
to thinking maybe you’d like to go.” 

“You went away from /ere—when you had 
Uncle Chippie and everything?”’ 

Mother didn’t answer. She just turned 
her dark-red head on the pillows and shut her 
eyes. When she opened them, they were 
mistier and bluer than Kathie had ever re- 
membered seeing them.~Deep in swimming 
color like the ocean on a blue day! 

“That was the summer, darling, that 
Chips—your Uncle Chippie—had been very 
sick. And I got into a great deal of mischief 
because I was lonely with no one to play 
with. So mother thought camp a good idea.” 


JOURNAL 


“Oh,” said Kathie in a tight voice, and 
her face grew still. 

Her mother reached for her hand. 
“Lambie,” she began, and Kathie noticed 
mother didn’t speak in her clear half-whisper 
she used so often of late, “‘wouldn’t you like 
to go to camp this summer? It is on a lovely 
lake, deep in the pine woods of the Adiron- 
dacks. There’d be lots of girls your own age 
to play with—sailboats, horses, overnight 
trips; everything.” 

Kathie had to struggle to get her breath, 
just as she did on the days when the bay was 
too cold for swimming. She felt the same 
tight pains in her chest. “‘ No”’—she finally 
shook her head—‘'no. Besides,’’ she added 
hopefully, ‘‘we have a boat.” 

“Yes, I know, but this would be different. 
At camp you would have something to do 
every minute. So many new and exciting 
plans to look forward to. You could write 
me about it, darling,’’ and Kathie felt mother 
squeeze her hand coaxingly. “‘I’d have such 
fun seeing you where I was a little girl.” 

“Oh—oh, mummie, why are you going to 
make me go?” 

**Darling, I didn’t say I was going to make 
you. I merely asked if you would like to.” 

“T wouldn’t like it at all,’’ Kathie said 
quite abruptly for Kathie. Ever since her 
mother’s accident she had learned to be re- 
sponsive to her mother’s moods. “I think it 
is a simply horrid idea; I can’t imagine how 
you ever thought of it.’’ She pulled her hand 
away quickly. 

“Don’t be cross, Kathie.” 

Then there was an unaccustomed shyness 
between them. 

“Darling” —it was her mother who broke 
it—“‘are—are you ever lonely?” 

“Lonely?” Kathie echoed—bewildered, 
puzzling over it a little. For she remembered 
very clearly being asked that same question 
before. Last Christmastime—when she and 
daddy were trimming a large evergreen on 
the lawn for mother to see at night from her 
bed. Daddy had been explaining that they 
wouldn’t be living in Boston any longer, but 
at Spruce Acres, because it made mother 
happy—that he had arranged his business 
so that he could come down on week ends. 
For no reason at all, he had stopped wiring 
the star to the tree and had come over to 
her in the snow. He had cupped her chin so | 
firmly in his cold leather glove that she could | 
still remember how her neck had ached. 

“Are you ever lonely, Kathie?” Yes— 
that was just what daddy had said. 

“Lonely, pooh,” she had scoffed aloud 
then at the idea. But now she surprised her- 
self by saying, “I guess—I guess I was when 
you were in the hospital. Everything seemed 
sort of—of empty. But now you’re home I 
like it fine. I like it here better than Boston. 
Why, I don’t even mind your being all the 
time in bed.” She felt relieved that she had 
stumbled onto the proper thing to say. 

“Don’t you, lambie?” Mother spoke in 
such a low whisper that Kathie had to bend 
forward to hear her. “‘I’m glad—oh, so very 
glad,”’ mother said. 


Tuen mother shut her eyes as if she were 
very sleepy. Kathie felt that she should tip- 
toe away. But the catalogue lay like an un- 
finished page in her arithmetic workbook be- 
tween them. She wanted to throw it into the 
wastebasket or fireplace—never see it again. 
But she didn’t. She picked it up instead and 
pretended to study a picture of two girls 
building a campfire. 

“Tt looks okay,” she finally said politely, 
“but, mummie, I’m sure it isn’t half as nice 
as when you were there.” 

“Are you?” 

“Yes. I don’t want to go—thank you,” 
she added, in case it might help. 

“TI see.” Mother waited a moment. 
“Maybe if you thought it over ——” 

““No—no,” Kathie interrupted tensely, 
for she recognized in mother’s voice Miss 
Penny’s patient manner which said so 
plainly, I’m waiting for you to be good. All at 
once her eyes felt close to tears. 


August, 1949 


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“Oh, come, Kathie, I didn’t mean to up- 
set you so. It is nothing to be that distressed 
about. Look, we won’t talk about it any 
more,” and with her free hand her mother 
shoved the catalogue under the covers. Then 
she held out her arms. “Give me a kiss and 

yun along, sweet.” 

“Mummie.” Kathie nuzzled her fair, 
pigtailed head lightly against’ her mother’s 
breast. 

“There, Kathie, there,” and she felt her 
mother tweak one of her braids gently. 
“Um-m-m-m. You smell of . . . gardenia 
soap and—and strawberry jelly.” 

They laughed, both of them, and Kathie 
felt the tension vanish between them. 

“Now,” mother said in her brisk whisper, 
“run along to Miss Penny. I know Geoffrey 
will be impatient.” 

Portland was fun: not even the subject of 
camp clouded the rest of the day. Kathie 
came home at dusk with Geoffrey, hungry, 
sleepy and content. Miss Penny tucked her 
into bed almost immediately after supper. 
Kathie looked into her mother’s room just 
long enough to say, “It was a super day.” 

But the next morning she woke toa drench- 
ing rain, hammering gustily against the win- 
dows. The world was closed in with mist and 
fog. Outside she could hear the sea pound 
against the rocky shore—yet it was strangely 
lost to view. Lessons were over earlier, it 
seemed, than usual, with nothing active to 
do the rest of the long day. She wasn’t even 
allowed to put on her yellow fisherman’s 
mackintosh and plod up to the corner for the 
mail. Geoffrey went up in the station wagon 
and brought it down instead. 

.. She tried to persuade Miss Penny to stop 
her mending to read to her. Finally, after 
everal unsuccessful attempts, she took the 
cockers into the kitchen, a look of lonesome- 
ness on her face, and wheedled Lena instead. 
But by noon she was tired of Lena’s slow 
reading. She leaned her head against Lena’s 
ample shoulder. 

“May I have lunch upstairs with mother— 

lease?”’ she asked. 

It felt very cozy and special eating with 
mother at a card table by her bed. But when 
Kathie was halfway through her dessert she 
put down her teaspoon very deliberately. 

*“Mummie—mummie,” she burst out with 
it, “whatever made you think of camp?” 

At first she didn’t think mother had heard 
her. She kept right on turning. the pages of 
her magazine. Then she put it down quite 
quickly. 

“T’d very much like you to know some 
girls your own age, Kathie. Miss Penny is so 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


much older than you, darling—she just can’t 
do certain things with you that you should 
be learning. And”—she smiled a little 
gravely—“I’m afraid daddy can’t always 
come as often.” 

“T see,” said Kathie, but she really didn’t. 
It was grownup talk and sounded like no 
answer at all. When she looked at mother 
she was dismayed. Mother’s face looked 
so pained—as on “the bad days” when 
Kathie wasn’t allowed in her room. ‘‘Can 
I get you something, mother?” 

But her mother didn’t answer. 

“Would—would you like to tell me about 
when you went to camp?’ It was the first 
thought that popped into her head, and she 
felt she needed mother to smile. 

“You are a good child, Kathie.’ A hint of 
one did creep back into her face. “* Would you 
like to hear—really?” 

“Yes.” Kathie lifted earnest eyes. 

“Well—let’s see. Where shall I begin? I 
remember very clearly the first day I ar- 
rived at camp. I was met at the station by 
my counselor—she’s the girl who looks after 
you. Her name was Bobbie Babbock. She 
had such a gay smile. Her whole face lit up; 
it was contagious. Anyway, she took me to 
our cabin, called “The Bridge.’”’ 

“What a funny name for a cabin!” 

“That was because it was the middle 
one—between the cabins on the hill and those 
by the lake. There I met another girl who 
was to sleep in the bunk above me. Oh, she 
had such beautiful yellow curls, much, much 
prettier than my red pigtails, I thought. Her 
eyes—her eyes ——” 

“What color were her eyes?” 

“T don’t remember. I only remember 
they were . vulnerable.” 

Mother looked away toward the window 
and Kathie said, ‘““What’s ‘vulnerable’?”’ 
But mother didn’t answer and Kathie said 
quickly, ‘“What was her name?” 

Then mother spread out her hands in a 
meaningless gesture. “Gracious, I don’t even 
remember. Isn’t that odd? But I do know 
she was from St. Louis. It seemed so far 
away.”’ Mother looked out the window again 
as if she, too, were far away 

“Go on,” urged Kathie, unaware that 
mother’s voice was getting very whispery. 
“What are you thinking about, mummie?”’ 
she persisted. 

“T was thinking how lucky I was to have 
Chips to be with,” and mother shut her eyes 
quickly, but not before Kathie saw they were 
full of tears. 

Kathie looked at her uncertainly. It was 
all so dreadfully puzzling. They had been 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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talking about camp; it had even sounded a 
little fun—just as mother had promised 
Then mother had thought of Uncle Chippie, 
who hadn't even gone to camp, and that was 
making mother cry. 

Kathie gulped to get around the sudden 
lump in her throat. She slid hesitantly off 
the window seat and edged her way to the 
bed. 

““Mummie—mummie—are you crying?” 
Her voice sounded lost in the room. ‘‘ Don’t 
oh, please don’t. I'll go get Miss Penny,” 
she finally said. 

““No—no, Kathie.’’ Mother moved her 
hand as if to stop her. She opened her eyes, 
which were steamy, but her voice was al- 
most all right again. ‘‘I’m being very silly,” 
and mother blinked her eyes once or twice as 
if trying to smile. 


That night, as Miss Penny was putting 
her to bed, Kathie asked gravely, ‘‘ Why does 
mother want me to go to camp?” 

“Hmph,” Miss Penny almost snorted 
Then, ‘Run along and brush your teeth.’ 

“But why?” 

“Because she thinks it would teach you to 
be a good girl and have nice manners,”’ Miss 
Penny said abruptly, turning down the bed 
and giving the pillows a thumping shake 

That's not it at all, Kathie said knowingly 
to herself, as she brushed her teeth and came 
out of the bathroom to climb dutifully into 
bed. ‘‘You didn’t give me the real reason,” 
she announced doggedly to Miss Penny’s 
neat back as she opened the windows and 
started to close the door behind her. 

There was no answer 

Pooh, I don't / 


care! Kathie announced 
scornfully to the dark. The entire day seemed 
full of unanswered questions and reasons 
that were no reasons at all. Maybe I'd better 
not mention camp again. Having for the mo- 
ment made a truce with her bewilderment, 
she put it out of her head. 

It rained all the next day and Thursday. 

“It’s the tail end of a nor’easter,’’ Geoffrey 
announced at breakfast. 

Kathie played ball with Mr. Waffles and 
Butter in the library until she was told to 
stop because the noise might disturb mother. 
She teased Lena to play Chinese checkers, 
but after a while she was shooed out of the 
kitchen. She stared gloomily out the window 
for several minutes. Then an inspiration 
struck her. A playhouse! She peeked to be 
sure Miss Penny was still busy. Then she 
scampered down the back stairs, dragging 
some heavy blankets after her, and draped 
them intricately about three overturned 
chairs in the living room. 

But after a while it became tiresome, sit- 
ting in the dark under the smothering blan- 
kets, struggling to keep Mr. Waffles wrapped 
up in an old pink sweater. She didn’t pro- 
test for “‘just a few minutes longer” when 
Miss Penny discovered her. Miss Penny read 
to her until dinner. 

But when she awoke on Friday the sun 
was shining; the world looked scrubbed and 
clean. Outside her window Kathie could see 
the old doryman in the cove setting out his 
traps. 

“Daddy is coming tonight,” she shouted 
as she burst pell-mell into the kitchen and 
drank her orange juice in one rapid gulp. 

“You'd better not let Miss Pendleton see 
such manners,”’ Lena scolded. 

Kathie retaliated with a tight squeeze. 
“T don’t care, I don’t care,’”’ she said in a 
singsong rhythm as she waltzed around the 
room. The menacing threat of camp had 
vanished with yesterday’s fog and rain. 
Perhaps Geoffrey would take her out in the 
boat, the Falcon, before daddy came. She 
felt whole again, all of one piece. 

After lessons she went upstairs to speak to 
mother. Yesterday had been one of her “‘bad 
days’”’ and Kathie had not been allowed in 
her room. To her delight mother was awake, 
though her face looked pale. 

“Hi—are you better? Could I get you 
anything? I’m not supposed to bother you,” 
Kathie said all in one breath. 

““Much better, lambie,’’ mother smiled. 
“And what are you going to do today, Miss 
Flyaway? Miss Penny said you were like a 
caged bear all day yesterday.” 


August, 1949 


“Oh, pooh, I was not. You just ask Lena,” 
Kathie retorted pleasantly. Then she lowered 
her voice in confidence. ‘I'm going down to 
the boathouse with Geoffrey. I think we're 
going to put up the sail, and if we do” 
she whirled on her toes—“' you are not to tell 
daddy. It’s a surprise.” Then she sobered, 
for her mother had the green catalogue in he 
hand. She began to move toward the door- 
way, but her mother’s voice stopped her. 

“See what I found, Kathie! Here are the 
names of the girls who were at camp last 
year. Look, Julie Packer Williams. That 
must be her little girl—Julie Packer's. I re- 
membered—that was her name.” 

“Whose name?” Kathie asked with dis- 
may. 

“The little girl from St. Louis.” 

“The one with ‘the vulnerable eyes’?” 
Kathie seized upon it, as if for safety. 

“Yes, child, and I was thinking —— 
Mother paused uncertainly. 

“What were you thinking?” 

“Oh-—that it would be fun if you two were 
to meet.” 

“Why?” 

“It is always good to make new friends, 
darling.” 

“But I don’t need new friends, I don’t 
want new friends,”’ Kathie protested, some- 
thing very close to fear in her voice. 

Mother put down the catalogue almost 
too quickly. “All right, lambie, we won't 
talk about it any more. I can see it does 
distress you.” 

It's almost worse than having her cry, Kathie 
thought miserably, for this time there was 
nothing comforting she could do. She stood 
uneasily by the bed, feeling quite disobedi- 
ent. “I am sorry, mummie,” she said. 

But this time her mother did not meet her 
halfway. 

“T'll talk it over with daddy if you'd like.” 

“Yes—talk it over with daddy. Perhaps 
he could 

“T don’t think it will make any differ- 
ence,”’ Kathie said soberly; and a lonel: 
awkwardness filled the room. 

On her way outdoors Kathie avoided the 
kitchen even though she could smell fresh 
ginger cookies. She felt that at the sight of 
Lena’s round face she might burst into 
tears. She could hear Geoffrey down at the 
boathouse, but she didn’t join him. 

I need a“ good think,”’ she said in Geoffrey’s 
vernacular, as she trudged down her favorite 
path toward the rocky shore. The woods 
were still damp from the rain, but the sun- 
light filtering through the trees cast silvery 
shadows. 

Out on the beach the world was suddenly 
bright and clear. The bay moved with color 
as if all the blue of the sky had been washed 
into the sea. There was not a cloud; not even 
a shimmer of jaze at the horizon’s edge. The 
little islands offshore; the mil'-white birches; 
the gigantic firs that marched right down to 
the water’s edge; the meadow dotted with 
Indian paintbrush, all lay drenched in a 
crystal light. 


Sue felt as if she couldn’t savor enough of 
it after having been cooped up inside the 
house. It was captivating, like Christmas. 
Little puffballs of white foam nestled among 
the rocks. The puppies raced before her, 
behind her, lapping, panting, their tongues 
drooling bubbles like the cradled foam. 

I do want to try to make mother happy, she 
thought as she kicked the sand with her 
scuffed moccasins. She felt a terrible neces- 
sity within her to do so. She does so want me 
to go. Why, then, does it make her look as if she 
would cry? 

Her analytical little mind slid hesitantly 
away from the riddle. It was as if she could 
see the answer. She didn’t want to—not yet. 
“T will have to talk it over with daddy,” she 
said to Butter, sniffing at her feet. 

She waited until after supper. Then she 
waylaid him in the kitchen where he had 
gone to get mother’s tray. 

“Mother thinks it would be nice for me to 
go to camp,” she began without any preface. 
“In fact, she wants it pretty—pretty much. 
Mother thinks I need other girls to play 
with, and so I told her that I’d talk it over 
with you.” 


“Camp! I should think not,” daddy replied 
unhesitatingly. ‘‘Whatever for?”’ His voice 
sounded very gruff, as if he were going to 
scold. 

“TI didn’t ask to go,” Kathie said quickly. 
“Mother sent for a catalogue of where she 
had been as a little girl. That’s how it began.” 

Daddy didn’t answer. His brown eyes— 
which, Kathie couldn’t recognize, were as 
vulnerable as her own—looked first at her 
and then at Lena. Then he put down mother’s 
tray on the kitchen table and began speaking 
rapidly. All the time he kept looking at Lena. 
“It’s preposterous,” he said, biting off his 
words shortly. “It is unthinkable. Kathie 
does her good. I can’t understand. She’s 
never mentioned it before—has she?” he 
appealed to Lena. 

There was a silence in the room filled with 
unspoken questions and answers. Kathie 
looked from one to the other anxiously. But 
Lena only turned her back and began shak- 
ing soap chips vigorously into the dishwater. 

“T see,’’ said daddy slowly. ‘‘So it has been 
discussed.” He picked up the tray thought- 
fully and walked out of the room. 

““Lena—Lena ——” Kathie began. 

Lena patted Kathie clumsily. ‘Forget 
it, child,” she said. ‘‘Your daddy sees no 
sense in your going.” 

The words should have brought comfort, 
but they didn’t. 


They had been talking about camp when 
she came upstairs. She knew because she 
stood outside the door for a moment and 
listened. She hadn’t heard 
all of what they said be- 
cause of mother’s whisper. 

Mother was saying: 
“We're making her ad- 
just to me, Steve—not 
putting her development 
first. It’s all so much longer 
than we thought—so un- 
certain—and she’s grow- 
ing up. Ican’t bear to 
send her off to school— 
and I’m afraid —— ” 

Then daddy must have heard her, for he 
stepped to the door and called, “Kathie?” 
and she had gone in and sat down on the 
hassock by daddy’s chair. 

“Have a nice day?” her mother asked. 

Kathie nodded. “‘I—I think I’ll go to bed,” 
she began. ‘I’m ——’”’ But she didn’t need 
to continue. They weren’t really looking at 
her, but at each other, as if they could 
barely wait to finish what they had to say. 

“T'll come down and tuck you in, snooks,”’ 
daddy said. 

“Okey.” She felt flat inside. All her enthu- 
siasm for the week end had vanished. 

She knew when he came in several minutes 
later that he had sided with mother. For 
daddy sat on the edge of the bathtub and held 
out a towel for her to dry her face, before she 
had even finished brushing her teeth. He 
spoke to her in a slow, deliberate way. 

“Mother thinks camp would be good for 
you, Kathie. She feels it is not a normal life 
for you to be here all the time with just older 
people like Miss Penny and Geoffrey.” 

“You always said Spruce Acres was good 
for me.” 

“Darling, you'll always have Spruce 
Acres. This is a new experience.” 


the 


Sue couldn’t seem to find an answer for 
that. ““Do you want me to?” she asked at 
last, feeling cornered. 

‘Mother does.” 

““But—do you?” 

“Kathie’—he put down the bath towel 
on the edge of the tub—‘“‘I want to do what 
is best for mother and you. You’re only ten, 
and a great deal has already been asked of 
you; but do you understand in thé slightest 
little way what I mean? Could you... 
try to?” 

A strange measure of unknown comfort 
ran through her. Nothing she could explain. 
Daddy hadn’t promised that she need not 
go. Yet he was talking to her as if he loved 
her very much, and curiously she felt proud. 

“‘Kathie””—he held her close—“‘let’s talk 
about it in the morning, shall we? Things 
always look better then.” 


fe ae A a BR ANS 
We hear many complaints 
about 


morality of our times, but I 
see no reason why anybody 
who wants to be moral should 
not be so all the more and 
with all the more credit. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


She lay in the dark, after he had gone, with 
hot tears rolling down her cheeks; Ping, her 
musical duck, was tight in her arms. ‘“‘I 
don’t suppose they will let me take you to 
camp,” she whispered chokily. 

Ping was no real comfort; yet somehow he 
seemed a silent ally in the night. She had 
always understood mother and daddy up to 
now. Even if she had acted stubborn, deep 
inside she had known their reasons. But 
now—and it made her feel horrid to admit 
it—she didn’t think they were being honest. 

The subject of camp was not mentioned at 
breakfast. It was as if they had declared a 
silent truce. 

“Let’s go down and see the boat,’’ daddy 
said with forced cheerfulness. - 


Ir was all spoiled; all ruined. Not even the 
surprise of the new sail would erase her heart- 
ache. Down at the pier the Falcon rode 
sturdily at anchor. A fine breeze was ruffling 
the waves. Geoffrey was already ahead of 
them; the new canvas stretched out like a 
clean sheet on the pier. Daddy squatted 
down in the boat out of the breeze, his unlit 
pipe between his teeth. There was the famil- 
iar spank-spank of the water under the hull 
that heretofore had made her heart sing. 

Ordinarily, she would have been dancing 
up and down, tugging at daddy’s coat sleeve 
impatiently, coaxing to go out in the boat. 
But now she stood, feet apart, staring miser- 
ably ahead of her. Little fears that had often 
plagued her in the night now seemed very 
real. There were so many moments she re- 
membered with perfect ac- 
curacy, that she had delib- 
erately hidden in mem- 
ory. Unfinished remarks 
between Geoffrey and 
Lena, broken off when she 
came into the room; daddy, 
coming oftener; mother’s 
voice becoming shadowier; 
the doctor driving down at 
night; funny excuses; Miss 
Penny’s face once actually 
puckered from tears. 

All at once she realized that both daddy 
and Geoffrey were looking at her with mutual 
concern, because she had been so silent. Then 
daddy hauled himself back onto the pier from 
the deck of the boat. 

“Want to try her—after she’s up?”’ He 
pointed to the sail. 

“Daddy.” She ignored him. Oh, there were 
sO many ways to put it! ‘Daddy, isn’t 
mother ever going to get well?”’ 

Daddy squatted down on his heels and 
took his pipe out of his mouth. She saw 
Geoffrey put down whatever was in his hand 
and look, not at her but at daddy. Even a 
sea gull wheeling in the air above them 
floated for a moment motionless. It was as 
if everything were waiting for what daddy 
might say. 

“We—we can’t tell . . . yet, Kathie,” 
he said very, very slowly. Then he knocked 
the bowl of his pipe against the side of the 
pier, and it made a hollow ring. 

“And you still want me to go to camp?” 
A painful throbbing arose in her throat. 

Daddy began speaking in low, jerky sen- 
tences. “‘My first and only thought, Kathie, 
is to do what is best for mother and for you. 
That you can surely understand, can’t you?”’ 

She nodded through gathering tears. 

“Tt is important for mother not to be wor- 
ried or concerned. And she has worried, 
Kathie, that you are shut off here alone. 
She wants you, now you are ten, to be mak- 
ing new friends, new horizons—contacts. It 
makes for better adjustment to life—for 
what is ahead.” 

He coughed for a moment and turned his 
head. But Kathie couldn’t see him clearly. 
The tears were coming faster now. 

“Tt is as someone once told me in the Navy 
during the war, Kathie. ‘You must roll with 
the ship.’ Remember the first time I took 
you sailing out past the islands?’”’ Kathie felt 
him reach for her hand. “‘The motion was 
very rough and new to you, and you were 
frightened because you felt sick. And I told 
you not to pit yourself against the motion of 
the boat, but to relax and ‘roll with the ship,’ 
and you’d be all right. Remember, darling? 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


You got over being panicky; the seasick feel- 
ing left you. And you made a good little 
sailor. Remember that?” 

There was such an anxious 
daddy’s voice that she nodded. 

““Well—that’s it, Kathie. We can’t always 
see ahead what the waves will be, but some- 
times, if weroll with the ship, darling, it will be 
much better all around. Won’t it, Geoffrey?” 

“That it will, sir,” came Geoffrey’s de- 
liberate voice. 

“And then I’m to go,” Kathie said. 

“T’d like very much for you to be a good 
sailor,” daddy said in a low voice. 

After several long minutes, she looked at 
both of them. “T’ll go,” she said. 

“Good girl,” said Geoffrey quickly. 

Through her returning tears she saw that 
daddy’s face was almost greenish, and he 
kept moving his mouth as if he were going 
to be sick. ‘‘ You tell mummie,” she said. And 
this time it was daddy who was silent and 
could only nod his head. 


query to 


Sue didn’t feel at all hungry when it came 
time for supper. She went upstairs and lay 
down on her bed, exhausted after so much 
weeping, and after a while her mind began 
to drift in an effortless peace. 

Presently she heard her bedroom door 
open. “I don’t want any supper,” she said. 

A few minutes later she knew the bedroom 
door opened again. She could hear the tinkle 
of dishes—smell Lena’s hot chocolate and 
fresh gingerbread. Miss Penny turned on 
the little ship’s lantern above the bed and 
plumped up the pillows. 

“Now, Kathie, eat your supper,” she said, 
as she put down the tray. Then she drew up 
a chair. ‘“‘Wouldn’t you like me to read to 
you?” 

Kathie nodded, not trusting herself to 
speak. She felt the oddest foreboding within 
her. Although she felt safe and cozy in her 
own room, with the warm glow of the lamp 
filling up the dusky corners, she felt she al- 
most preferred Miss Penny to be abrupt— 
crosser. She just wanted life to go on in the 
same old way—as things were before the 
catalogue came. 

That night she had a horrible dream. She 
dreamed that she had come home from camp 
and opened the door to her mother’s room. 
But mother wasn’t there! Instead of the 
familiar rose carpet and blue satin puff on 
the bed, there was only water—dark and 
swirling. She got out of bed and ran down 
the hall. She opened the door; the night light 
was on by mother’s bed. 

“Come in, Kathie,’”’ mother said, as if she 
were quite used to Kathie coming to see her 
in the middle of the night. 

“T’m not supposed to.” 

“‘Close the door softly, and we’ll whisper.” 

Kathie sighed. ““I—I had a bad dream!” 
Her lower lip was still trembling, remnants 
of fear not wholly gone. 

“What’s wrong, darling?’”’ Mother held 
out her hand. “Are you afraid of being 
homesick ?”’ 

“Yes,” admitted Kathie slowly. That was 
all she could say. 

Mother pulled her close. ‘Well, you 
needn’t be afraid or unhappy any longer, 
darling, because I—because you don’t have 
to go away to camp.” 

“But—but I said I would. Didn’t daddy 
tell you?” Kathie raised her head from her 
mother’s shoulder, surprised. 

“Yes, darling, he told me.”’ Mother cradled 
her gently. ““‘He told me you were such a 
good little sailor. And I do know how hard 
you try to please f 

“But, mummie,” Kathie interrupted. 

“There are no ‘buts,’ Kathie. I never 
dreamed it would distress you so. There is 
no need for all this heartache. I’ve been 
lying here thinking how—how wrong it is for 
everyone to be so unhappy. Dear me; some- 
times adults can be very wrong—even when 
they are trying to be very wise.” 

“But, mummie, you wanteciit so!” 

“Sh-h-h,”’ mother whispered. ‘‘Let’s not 
talk about it any more. Let’s forget it like a 
bad dream. You don’t want to remember 
something unpleasant, do you? Now”— 
and mother hugged her—‘‘now you do feel 
better, don’t you?” 





“Yes.” Kathie nodded, turning it all over 
in her mind, not quite certain what to think. 

“How would you like me to tell you a 
story?”’ mother asked; her voice held such a 
comforting sound. “Once upon a time,” she 
began in her clear whisper, “there was a little 
girl who was afraid to go to school. She had 
moved to a new town, and the school and 
the children were unfamiliar. Each morning 
her mother would walk to school with her, 
but when the little girl would reach the 
large building she would become terrified and 
her mother would have to take her home. 
Each night her mother would try to soothe 
her fears, but the next morning the little girl 
would still be afraid.” 

“What happened?” Kathie asked. 

“One morning the little girl’s mother 
didn’t tell her to get ready for school. She 
took the little girl downtown instead and 
they bought a ball of golden thread.” 

“Of golden thread?” Kathie echoed. 

“It was yellow yarn, really.”” Mother 
smiled. “‘However, they took it home, and 
the mother told the little girl to take one end 
of the yarn, to walk around the room and 
then to hide behind a large chair.” 

“Did she?” 

“Yes. Then the mother said, ‘Don’t hide 
any more. Get up and look at me. You aren’t 
alone. Do you see in my lap the ball of 
golden thread? That’s my love for you. No 
matter where you go—even if you can’t see 
me—we are always tied together.’ So the 
little girl got up and looked. It was 
just as mother had said. They were held fast 
together by the golden thread.” 

“What happened then?” Kathie asked 
eagerly, because mother had paused. 

“Why, the little girl went to school the 
next day.” 

“She did? Wasn’t she afraid any more?”’ 

“No, she wasn’t. Because she kept think- 
ing about that thread holding her fast to her 
mother, even when she was hiding, when she 
was away—all the time. I—I don’t know as 
I can explain it, really, but she just wasn’t 
afraid any more.” 

“Was she you, mother?” 

“Yes. And now you'd better scamper. 
Want daddy to tuck you in?” 

“No. I can go by myself,” Kathie said. 
“Night, mummie.” 

“Good night, darling.” 

Kathie went slowly down the hall. She 
felt tall and thin in her yellow bathrobe, as 
if she were stretching. Even after she was in 
bed she felt the same way, very tall. 


Everyone had finished breakfast the next 
morning when she came downstairs. The 
library, where they always ate on Sunday, 
was a warmth of color. There were yellow 
pansiés on the table in front of the fire, and 
the orange juice and pitcher of maple sirup 
were reflecting golden fragments of light. 

Kathie sat down and began her breakfast 
very deliberately. She didn’t call to Lena or 
tell Miss Penny what mother had said. In- 
stead she sat very still and drew long, deep 
breaths. She was making a little curved 
island out of her half-eaten waffle when 
daddy appeared. 

“Hello, snookie,”’ he said, with his pipe 
between his teeth. 

She looked up at him thoughtfully. 
“Mother said I didn’t have to go to camp.” 

“T know.” He nodded. 

““Maybe I’d better go,”’ she said gravely. 

“Don’t worry any more, Kathie.’”’ Daddy 
sat down beside her and put his large, ca- 
pable hand over hers. “What is right for one 
person may not be for another. And mother 
could see how very unhappy you were. So 
it seems best all around.” 

Kathie put down her fork carefully. “But 
I guess it would be fun,” she said. ““Maybe 
that girl, Julie, would be there. I'll bet 
mummie would be walking when I got back. 
I’ll bet she would,” she finished with more 
force. 

Then she got up from her chair and 
whistled to the puppies that were romping 
at the door. Even all her stretching in the 
night couldn’t make her find any more words 
for her declaration of faith than that. 

“O.K., sailor,’ her father said gently. 

THE END 






Auguet, 1949 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


MIRACLE RELIEF FROM ARTHRITIS 


(Continued from Page 51) 


Suppose an individual is subjected to con- 
tinuous stress over a prolonged period of 
time. Under such conditions the adrenal 

:: would be called upon to overexert itself, 
rcing the body to live constantlyunder con- 
ditions Nature intended for an emergency. 

Such a state of affairs would lead to three 
* or more types of undesirable results. The ex- 
cessiveamountsof hormones from theadrenal 
cortex, constantly pumped into the blood 
stream, would stimulate all the other glands, 
particularly the pituitary (which controls all 
the others), to overwork, so that the entire 
system of glands might be thrown out of bal- 
ance. In due course, the abnormal load of 
work would lead to a breakdown in one or 
more of the vital glands, manifesting itself 
either in a deficiency in these vital hormones, 
or in the production of abnormal hormones, 
which, instead of maintaining health, pro- 
duce disease. Any one of these three condi- 
tions—excessive hormones, a hormone 
deficiency, or abnormal hormones—and pos- 
sibly a combination of any two or all three, 
could produce any number of abnormalities 
in bodily functions, from arthritis and high 
blood pressure to hardening of the arteries 
and cancer, even possibly to nervous and 
mental ills. 

Much evidence has been garnered during 
the past few years pointing suspiciously at an 
imbalance in the functioning of the glands of 
internal secretion, known as the endocrine 
system, as being at least partly involved in 
the genesis of the chronic diseases. It was 
found, for example, that cancer of the pros- 
tate gland can be controlled by the surgical 
removal of the male sex glands or by their in- 
activation with female sex hormones. Sim- 
ilarly, it was found that cancer of the female 
breast can be greatly relieved, and in many 
cases stopped, by the administration of male 
sex hormones. Investigations at the Sloan- 


THIS ISA 
WATCH BIRO 
WATCHING 


oT 


A 


Kettering Institute and the Memorial Hos- 
pital in New York City have brought to light 
that the fluids eliminated by cancer patients 
contain abnormal hormones related to the 
normal hormones of the sex and adrenal 
glands. 

But none of the evidence obtained so far in 
all the years of arduous search was so striking 
and so convincing as the crippled, tortured 
men and women walking, running and danc- 
ing at the Mayo Clinic. Not only did it pro- 
vide the first direct proof that arthritis, a 
disease of the joints that hardly anyone sus- 
pected as glandular in origin, can be dra- 
matically brought under control in a short 
time with a hormone from the adrenal cor- 
tex; it hit at the same time upon a veritable 
medical bonanza in the adrenal cortex prom- 
ising riches beyond compare in terms of hu- 
man welfare. 

Here we come to the sad part of the story, 
sad and tragic for the millions for whom 
cortisone offers the only hope of relief from 
a life of pain and crippling disability. For 
the truth is—and it cannot be told too em- 
phatically—that the quantities of cortisone 
that can be produced at present are so small 
that not enough is available to take care of 
more than a mere handful of patients. For 
this there are several reasons. 

In the first place, the hormone does not 
produce a permanent cure but, like insulin in 
diabetes and liver extract for pernicious 
anemia, must be taken regularly to keep the 
disease under control. Secondly, it must be 
given in relatively large doses, at least 100 
milligrams per day, to produce its effect. 
Thirdly, the only natural source of cor- 
tisone, the adrenal glands of cattle, pro- 
duces it in such minute amounts as to be 
practically negligible. Fourthly, large plants 
still have to be built for mass production, the 

(Continued on Page 123) 


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LADIES HOME JOURNAL August, 1949 


BE A FAMILY! 


While Ted and Dad load the boat with food and plenty of 
7-Up, Jean and Mom are ready for their family outing. 
They’re typical of millions of “fresh up” families because 
they find fun in planning their work and play together. 
Typical, too, is their liking of crystal-clear 7-Up—the all- 
family drink with the fresh, clean taste and tempting sparkle. 
At home or away—make your family activities even more 
pleasant with cheerful 7-Up on hand. So pure ...so good... 


so wholesome for everyone, you'll all be 7-Up “‘Steadies”’ in your 
family. Look for those colorful 7-Up signs. Let them remind 


you to order a case. 


Copyright 1949 by 
The Seven-Up Company 


(Continued from Page 121) 

present product being handmade only on a 
small laboratory scale. Fifthly, the partial 
synthesis of cortisone, accomplished after 
years of Herculean effort by young Dr. 
Lewis Hastings Sarett, at the research lab- 
oratories of Merck & Company, Rahway, 
Ke Jersey, has turned out to be the most 

difficult and complicated of its kind in the 
history of chemistry, so laborious that a total 
of eight months is required before the process 
is completed. 

Probably most formidable of all the diffi- 
culties that stand in the way of the mass pro- 
duction of cortisone is the fact that the only 
raw material from which the hormone can 
now be produced is a small fraction from 
ox bile, known as desoxycholic acid, which 
can be obtained in only minute amounts from 
the slaughterhouses—so minute, in fact, that 
the slaughter of all of America’s vast herds 
would supply less than a tenth of the ex- 
pected demand. 

Does all this mean that the situation is 
hopeless? Most certainly not! The very same 
situation always exists whenever a new dis- 
covery is made or a new process developed. It 


always takes time to translate the findings of - 


the laboratory to large-scale production in 
mammoth plants. Simpler processes will be 
developed to produce cortisone in quan- 
tities large enough to 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


at the Polytechnic Institute of Zurich, Switz- 
erland (now at the University of Basle), ven- 
tured to undertake a job they knew would 
confront them with enormous difficulties. 


‘The original task they had set for them- 
selves was first to isolate a sufficient quantity 
of the natural cortical hormone for chemical 
analysis, break it up into its constituent 
parts and then determine how the parts are 
put together, all essential steps that must be 
taken before a substance made by Nature 
can be duplicated artificially. To their great 
amazement, each soon discovered that what 
they had believed was just one substance ac- 
tually consisted of a multiplicity of closely re- 
lated substances, all having the same funda- 
mental skeleton framework. By 1935 Doctor 
Kendall had identified at least six different 
substances which he named alphabetically, 
compounds A, B, C, D, E, F. Doctor Reich- 
stein announced in 1937 that he had isolated 
at least twenty different compounds from the 
same magic fountain, though it was suspected 
that several of them probably consisted of 
only fragments of natural substances, broken 

up in the process of chemical fractionation. 
The world of science watched the interna- 
tional race between an outstanding American 
chemist and one of the leading European 
chemists. Then, as the world in general was 
preoccupied with the 


meet the demand from (a 88 antics of Hitler, the 


all over the world. 
Mass production not 
only of cortisone but 


CAMELLIA 


news was flashed that 
Doctor Reichstein had 
succeeded in synthesiz- 


also of all the other bets George Joseph Camellus ing an adrenal-cortical 


hormones of the adre- 


once sailed into a port of China substance that was ef- 


nal cortex, promises to where he found beautiful new flow- fective in the treat- 
become for the chronic ers he had never seen before blos- ment of Addison’s 
diseases that strike soming onevergreenshrubs. Father disease. It looked as 
those past middle life Camellus took a plant home to the — though Doctor Kendall 
what penicillin and Queen of Spain in the early eight- had lost out after years 
other antibiotics arefor eenth century. This first camellia of arduous labors. But 
the infectious diseases had white blossoms. A yellow one Doctor Kendall refused 
that used to decimate wassenthomefromChinaby Robert to concede failure. 
the youngeragegroups. Fortune in 1855, and the first red None of the six com- 

The story of the iso- | camellia was plantedinaCharleston pounds isolated by him 
lation, identification, garden by Colonel Lucas in 1804. was identical with the 


partial synthesis and 
application of cor- 


—SOCIETY OF AMERICAN FLORISTS. - compound synthesized 
by Reichstein, and Na- ' 


tisone (which, in cases = lture did not put them 


you are interested, 

bears the fearful chemical name 17-hydroxy- 
11-dehydro-cortico-sterone) will go down as 
one of the great epics of all time. Its principal 
protagonists are men and institutions: Doc- 
tors Kendall and Hench, backed by the superb 
facilities of the Mayo Clinic; young Doctor 
Sarett, backed by the matchless research fa- 
cilities of Merck & Company, which risked 
millions on pure faith. 


The story begins nearly a hundred years 
ago when Dr. Thomas Addison, one of the 
great British physicians of his day, observed 
a fatal disease in human beings, known to the 
present day as Addison’s disease, which he 
traced through autopsies to a degeneration 
of the cortex of the adrenal glands. So many 
things go wrong in a patient afflicted with 
this terrible malady that it was realized that 
the adrenal cortex was essential for the nor- 
mal functioning of several of the key processes 
in the living body. 

It was not until 1927, however, that inde- 
pendent groups of American investigators, 
including Dr. Frank A. Hartman and Drs. 
W. W. Swingle and J. J. Pfiffner, succeeded 
in concentrating extracts from the adrenal 
cortex of cattle that could be used as a sub- 
stitute for the natural gland. It took several 
years before more concentrated animal-gland 
extracts could be prepared for use on human 
victims of Addison's disease. These intensive 
labors proved that, unlike insulin, which can 
be extracted in adequate quantities from the 
pancreas of slaughtered animals, the ad- 
renal-cortical hormone was so difficult to ex- 
tract from the natural glands, and the quan- 
tities obtained so minute, as to make it pro- 
hibitively expensive for any except the very 
rich. 

This, of course, suggested the need for 
producing the hormone synthetically, but the 
task appeared so difficult that only two bi- 
ological chemists, Doctor Kendallat the Mayo 
Clinic and Prof. Tadeus Reichstein, then 


there for no purpose, he 
reasoned. So Doctor Kendall doggedly car- 
ried on. 

Meantime Doctor Hench, working in an- 
other department at the Mayo Clinic, was 
wrestling with another problem. Ever since 
1929 he had observed that patients crippled 
with rheumatoid arthritis experienced inex- 
plicable relief from pain when they became 
jaundiced, and that women with arthritis 
likewise were relieved of arthritic pain, and 
other symptoms, when they became preg- 
nant. Coupled with these observations was 
the fact that rheumatoid arthritis is oc- 
casionally halted dramatically without any 
apparent explanation. This led Doctor Hench 
to the concept that “within every rheuma- 
toid patient corrective forces lie dormant 
awaiting proper stimulation,” and that such 
stimulation was produced by a biologic com- 
pound specific in both nature and function. 
Since the stimulating factor was unknown, 
Doctor Hench kept referring to it as ‘‘anti- 
rheumatic substance X.”’ 

He next noticed that in some cases rheuma- 
toid arthritis was temporarily relieved when 
a patient underwent a surgical operation or 
was placed under anesthesia. This gave him 
the first clue. It was known that during such 
procedures there is a stimulation of the ad- 
renal gland in response to shock. Here was 
the common denominator he had been look- 
ing for. In all these apparently unrelated 
cases in which the course of rheumatoid ar- 
thritis had been reversed, he speculated, 
there was a jolt to the system which gave the 
adrenal cortex a severe kick, causing it to se- 
crete a specific hormone that exerted a bene- 
ficial effect. 

By 1941, after conversations with Doctor 
Kendall, both were agreed that the hypo- 
thetical ‘‘antirheumatic substance X”’ might 
be a hormone produced by the cortex of the 
adrenal gland, most likely one of the com- 
pounds isolated by Doctor Kendall, since the 
Reichstein compound not only did no good, 





123 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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but even aggravated the condition. Alas, 
not enough of any of Doctor Kendall’s com- 
pounds was available to test on human be- 
ings. But to Doctor Kendall the idea was an 
added stimulus to go on with his search, while 
Doctor Hench was all the more convinced 
that the success of his own quest was de- 
pendent on the success of Doctor Kendall. 
From then on the separate worlds of two sci- 
entific men who had been working inde- 
pendently under the same roof merged into 
one. 

The various compounds isolated by Doc- 
tor Kendall all have a four-ringed skeleton 
framework of carbon atoms identical with 
the carbon skeleton of the bile product named 
desoxycholic acid. There are twenty-one 
carbon atoms in the skeletons of both sub- 
stances, numbered from one to twenty-one, 
each occupying a specific place in the struc- 
ture of their molecules. One of the principal 
differences between the bile product and 
Compound A, the first cortical substance 
identified by Doctor Kendall, was that the 
former had an oxygen atom attached to the 
carbon ‘atom in position 12, whereas the 
latter had the oxygen atom at position 11. 
To shift that one oxygen atom from place 
12 to 11 presented one of the greatest chal- 
lenges in the history of chemistry. 

By 1941, shortly before 
Pearl Harbor, Doctor Ken- 
dall had worked out a 
method for shifting the 
oxygen atom from 12 to 11, 
and also made what looked 
like a promising start to- 
ward the synthesis of Com- 
pound E. In consultation with the Commit- 
tee on Medical Research of the Office of 
Scientific Research and Development, Doc- 
tor Kendall revealed the progress he had 
made and was informed that the Govern- 
ment considered research on cortical hor- 
mones to be one of the most important fields 
of chemical study. This is understandable in 
view of the fact that cortical hormones were 
known to counteract shock, a major cause of 
fatality on the battle front; to raise the blood 
sugar level (thus providing extra energy and 
counteracting battle fatigue), and to enable 
the body to get along with less oxygen—that 
would allow American fliers to fly higher and 
fight better at higher altitudes. 


doctor's nose. 


To speed up the work, Research Corpora- 
tion, a nonprofit organization that had been 
supporting Doctor Kendall’s work, enlisted 
the aid of Merck & Company, which was 
specifically equipped for this type of research. 
At the invitation of Doctor Kendall and 
of the Research Corporation, Merck sent 
Dr. Jacob van de Kamp, its senior organic 
chemist in developmental research, to the 
Mayo Clinic. Under this co-operative ar- 
rangement, Merck succeeded, by January, 
1942, in producing an import: 1t intermedi- 
ate chemical, according to the directions of 
Doctor Kendall. Working on for another two 
years, Doctor Kendall finally succeeded in 
synthesizing Compound A. 

But then came a crushing blow. When it 
was put .o the test Compound A was found 
to possess very little physiological activity in 
the treatment of shock, fatigue and related 
conditions in which it was desperately needed 
on the far-flung battle fronts. 


Joy, temperance and re- 
pose slam the door on the 


August, 1949 


The story might have ended right here. 
But it so happened that in 1942 Merck & 
Company had engaged Doctor Sarett, a 
young chemist specially trained in this field, 
who had just received his doctorate at 
Princeton University, sent him to the Mayo 
Clinic for a period of instruction under Doe- 
tor Kendall, and had given him the sol 
assignment to try to produce Kendall's Com- 
pound E by chemical synthesis. Doctor 
Sarett had been at work on this problem for 
more than a year and a half when the dis- 
tressing news of the failure of Compound A 
reached the Merck laboratories. Would Com- 
pound E, if he ever succeeded in synthesizing 
it, prove no better than Compound A? Merck 
& Company decided the risk worth taking. 
Aided by the interest and support of scien- 
tific consultants of the Government, the 
project to synthesize Compound E was 
pushed with the utmost determination. 


Awnp so the days, weeks and months passed 
by with the goal seemingly still far away. 
There are four major alterations required to 
change the bile product into Compound E, 
and though three of these had already been 
accomplished by Doctor Kendall, there still 
remained the all-important step—to place 
the one-oxygen-and-one-hydrogen-atom 
group (OH) at position 
No. 17. Doctor Sarett, who 
was twenty-five at the 
time, thought of the ex- 
hausted soldiers, sailors 
and marines whom the 
compound might give the 
strength they needed to 
carry on; and he worked on with the aware- 
ness that he, too, was fighting an important 
battle on one of the major fronts. 

By the end of 1944, after nearly three 
years of constant shuffling of atoms, the goal 
at last appeared in sight. Of the bile material 
Doctor Sarett had started with, only a few 
pinches of white grains were left, about one 
ten-thousandth part of the original. But all 
the tests up to then had indicated that the 
few precious grains of white powder, upon 
which so much labor and funds had been ex- 
pended, represented the first sample of Com- 
pound E ever to be synthesized by the magic 
of chemistry. 

There was still one crucial test to be made. 
Every substance has its characteristic melt- 
ing point when subjected to heat, and in the 
case of Compound E the melting point, ae 
determined by the natural compound, ix 
235-238° Centigrade. Doctor Sarett placed 
a pinch of the white powder on a glass slide 
under the microscope, threw a switch to turn 
on the heat under the glass, and watched in- 
tently for the moment when the powder 
would begin to melt. At the first sign of it he 
glanced anxiously at the thermometer at- 
tached to the glass slide. The mercury line 
had reached 235. 

As he relaxed for the first time since 1942, 
Doctor Sarett’s eye fell on a calendar on the 
wall. It was the day before Christmas. And 
three more Christmases passed, and a fourth 
was about to come, before Doctor Sarett and 
Doctor Kendall, and Merck knew their labors 
and huge investment had not been in vain. 
For it took all that time to produce sufficient 
quantities of the compound to test out the 
inspired hunch of Doctor Hench. 


—LONGFELLOW, 


“FROM ACROSS THE GREAT WATER” 


(Continued from Page 31) 


copy with me and was able to present it to 
Zamba along with copies of some of the actual 
photographs. His reactions were very inter- 
esting, for these people had never seen a 
photograph before, or any form of magazine. 

At first they registered complete indif- 
ference, except for Wife No. 1, who hobbled 
up on her game leg and mumbled something 
about witchcraft, which she refused to repeat. 

I had hoped to get a photograph for you 
of the whole family looking at the pictures of 
themselves in the JOURNAL, but Zamba just 
sat bolt upright in his chair, holding the 
magazine, and his children were much too 
polite to look at it while their father held it. 


As I was unable to make them relax, I 
went away, having first assured them that 
the magazine and the pictures were theirs to 
keep, and solemnly shaken hands with each 
one in turn. Then, no sooner was I out of 
sight around the hut than the fun began. I 
waited a few minutes and returned quietlyg 
Everyone was howling with laughter, grab- 
bing at the pictures and, as they recognized 
one another in the photographs, shouting eut 
the names and laughing louder and louder. 
Before, they had been too polite, according 
to their jungle code, to relax in the presence 
of a stranger and show their true feelings. 

—GEORGE RODGER. , 


7 Rela en 5 By 
Za cs ~ , Z 
When chemist Tod De Neal, 33, works swing shift, wife Ruth hurries home from 
the office for lunch, “otherwise I’d never see him.” High-school sweethearts, en- 
gaged for 7 years, they married in 1940 “almost as much in love as we are now.” 








ais 
amy: 
af fe 8 
UV It Hs 





Young pioneers on a new frontier—meet Mr. and Mrs. Tod DeNeal, of the Hanford Works. 





“Let him do his own asking,”’ Ruth said when shy Tod had friend ask her for 
their first date; later she confided, “Someday I'll marry him.” Smart, pretty, 
she runs her home as efficiently as she handles “top secret”’ secretarial job. 





By DOROTHY CAMERON DISNEY 


UTH and Tod DeNeal are old atomic settlers in the town of Rich- 
land, Washington—among the oldest. Since neither is yet 35, it 
might almost be said that the couple grew up with the business of 

plutonium manufacture. Certainly they appear to think of themselves 
in that light. “Before we came,” the DeNeals say, in fixing the year 
and month of an incident important to them, or, 
“After we came.” 

Ruth can tell you the date of her arrival in Rich- 
land as quickly as she can report the anniversary 
date of her marriage: “April 21, 1944. I got here 
when the first of the working wives were admitted.” 

“J beat Ruth’s time by three weeks,” Tod says, 


grinning, “and so I had the fun of meeting her 


? 





that afternoon and introducing her to bedlam.’ 
Tod DeNeal is a chemist. Slim and muscular and 


with quiet, reserved eyes, Tod is employed by the 


& aS) 4 


“We’ve always been a team”—De- 
Neals plan, work and play together. 


Photos by Rondal Partridge 





Hanford Works. This civilian organization, now operated by Gen- 
eral Electric under the direction of the Atomic Energy Commission, is 
engaged in the most fateful big business on earth: the business of 
transforming uranium into plutonium. Plutonium, a basic element in 
the make-up of the atom bomb, possesses still unproved constructive 
possibilities to ease the. work load of mankind that 
chemists, scientists, engineers firmly believe far 
overshadow its proved destructive certainties. Tod’s 
job brings him close to the secret manufacturing 
heart of the project. 

Ruth is a secretary. Pint-sized, blond, very blue- 
eyed, she is occupied with the administrative end of 
the Hanford enterprise. Daily she transposes, types 
and files away letters, memoranda, reports that are 
rubber-stamped ‘“Top Secret.” In her pastel-green 


office, which Ruth gets around with the swiftness 


The barrier.”” Beyond, in 400,000-acre wasteland, the Hanford Works engages round-the-clock in “the most fateful big business on earth’’—atomic energy. 





jose . eee 
| BER EAE Steak 
SUBJECT to DISMISSAL 





tii ea eae 


Dhaest 


2 


“Dishes are done once a day by whichever of us feels in the mood.” DeNeals say 
dishwashing moods “‘balance out.” Tod does most of weekly grocery shopping, 
makes liberal use of “short cut’’ frozen foods, storing them in two big refriger- 
ators. Food bills are high, “but our schedule values time more than money.” 


“We must learn how to use best 


this new thing we have brought 


into the world.” 


and sureness of a hummingbird, are six stout steel filing cabinets. 
The filing cabinets are equipped with combination locks, like the locks 
on safes. Ruth’s last act before leaving work for the day is to test the 
combination locks. Regularly through the quiet hours of the night, 
armed building guards enter her deserted office and one by one try 
the filing-cabinet drawers. During the five years of Ruth’s custodian- 
ship the locks have always been in order. 

The DeNeals both love their jobs. And their home town suits them 
right down to the dusty, desert ground. Ruth and Tod, twentieth- 
century pioneers, suit the town. Richland is a new-style American 
frontier—a blueprint town designed and engineered for efficiency, but 
possessing a vitality and drive as thrilling as could ever have existed 
in any of our other pioneer American towns. The six-shooters common 
on the old frontier have given way in Richland to the .38’s on 
the hundreds of uniformed patrolmen who guard the city’s buildings 
and the distant atomic plants. A still more modern note is struck by 


the FBI men in business suits who move along the crowded sidewalks. 





Ruth’s record for getting dinner—7 minutes flat; canned food takes even less 
time than frozen; thoughtful neighbor provided hot casserole. Only time Ruth 
was ever late for work she forgot her identity pass, went home for it rather 
than risk “being written up in Hanford’s U. I. (unusual incidents) record book.” 





Waiting for shuttle bus to main depot. From there “luxury” buses make 1}4- 
hour run across desert to atomic plant where Tod works. On trip men play 
bridge, poker; read. Tod’s favorite recent book, du Nouy’s Human Destiny. 
Often Tod naps, can fall asleep “anywhere, any time it’s convenient.” 


Richland was created practically overnight during the war to house 
Hanford workers, dropped down on a stretch of flat desert country 
inside a sweeping loop formed by the juncture of the Columbia and 
Yakima rivers. The DeNeals’ town (pop. 23,000) is now one of the 
largest in the state of Washington. There are miles of paved streets 
which run as straight as string past row after row of mass-constructed 
houses, turned this way and that in a wistful but somewhat belated 
effort to provide variety. Each dwelling is set on a measured square of 
vivid green lawn; the topsoil which grows the grass was dragged by 
bulldozers from the rich Columbia bottoms. Hundreds of late-model 
automobiles (Hanford’s average wage, $3800, is probably the highest 
in the nation) pass up and down the streets. Although the 44 stores 
do not have an expensive chromium-and-plate-glass look, you can 
buy furs and jewelry, handmade infants’ clothes, skis and tennis rack- 
ets, motion-picture cameras, smoked oysters, anchovies and caviar, 
thick steaks. It wasn’t that way in the beginning. 

Ruth and Tod remember the incredible dust storms that preceded 
the laying of pavement and grass, the confusion and overcrowding, 
the lack of housing and conveniences, the work, the fatigue, the 
chronic rush and bustle that extended everywhere. The huge football- 
field-size cafeteria on Goethals Drive (then the only public eating 
place) was so jammed with hungry folk at suppertime that more often 
than not the hungry DeNeals just walked out. They preferred to fight 
their way into the one embattled grocery store. Here the couple would 


buy supplies for a picnic in the open—a bunch of carrots, cheese, a 





8 a.m. Ruth dusts boss’s desk. On a busy day she may hold 200 phone conver- 
sations, deal with visiting VIP’s, handle a mounting tide of correspondence. 
‘Doing three things at once is just routine.” With stenographers, typists and 
messengers to help her, executive secretary Ruth is almost an executive herself. 


* HOW AMERICA LIVES x 


N 
es 


Lives of Tod and other atomic-plant workers depend on safety devices like Five 
Fold Counter. It tests soles of feet, both sides of hands for “tolerance point” 
radiation, is used after each work shift. Hanford takes no chances, strictly 
enforces its regulations. Men “‘catch on to the rules here or find new jobs.” 


bit of fruit when and if available, crackers, milk. Ruth was and is a 
firm believer in the balanced meal. They had no cooking facilities of 
course. 

They did have laundry facilities, as Ruth remembers very well. By 
nightfall of every working day, her clothes and Tod’s were black with 
the desert grime. So nearly every evening Ruth would stand in a line 
with the other working wives to await her turn at a washtub. Her 
blouses and Tod’s shirts she tried to keep ironed. Their under- 
clothes they wore unironed. 

For their first months, Tod and Ruth lived apart in male and female 
dormitories at opposite ends of the town. They had brought from IIli- 
nois their one alarm clock and this precious, then wholly irreplaceable, 
possession was traded back and forth. One week Ruth would get the 
clock, while in his dormitory miles away Tod would stir uneasily in 
bed and worry lest he sleep through his rising hour—6 a.m. The next 
week the clock would pass to Tod, and Ruth would do the worrying. 

The DeNeal worry was unnecessary; with or without the clock, 
neither of them ever overslept. Throughout his five-year career with 
the Hanford Works, Tod has never been late to work. Ruth has been 
late once. On that occasion she had changed purses and left behind the 
identity card admitting her to her building. By explaining the circum- 
stances to the guards who knew her, Ruth could have gained admission 
to her office, but the small event would have been promptly chronicled 
in an exhaustive record called the U. I. (unusual incidents) book. 
Ruth preferred to return to her room, fetch the card and be tardy. 





Talented pianist Ruth accompanies Meistersingers, Richland’s male chorus of 
70. Group’s yearly tour of state permits Ruth—proud of her pretty shoulders— 
to wear wardrobe’s greatest extravagance, “the perfect strapless dress,” ordered 
from New York or Chicago. New hat was lent by neighbor for vacation trip. 








“Sweetie-pie,” in Tod’s hand, checks safety of work areas. If his special 
clothing is “contaminated” it will be buried in deep “‘atomic waste” pit. 


After 5 years at her job, 12 bosses, Ruth “has the history of the Hanford 
Works in her pretty head’’; is invaluable to general manager G. R. Prout. 





130 


* HOW AMERICA LIVES x 





Music for fun. Ruth gave up career as concert pianist for business 





course and a share in Tod’s future; still practices each day. “To be 

near Ruth” Tod once learned violin, has not played since marriage 
“When I first came to Hanford,” she climb through his lady’s window. Both of the DeNeals insist the threat 

declares, “I made up my mind I wasn’t was never carried out. 

going to be stupid and careless enough Instead, there began the week-end trips that still remain an integral. 
to be written up in the U. LI. book. And ifmore infrequent, part of the DeNeal regimen. Their working days and 
believe me, I never will.” hours, dissimilar today, matched then. Every Friday night. the two of 
During the dormitory period, the them got in their car and drove away from Richland, headed toward 
DeNeals were four years married and, the nearest or newest spot that offered a roof and pleasant double 
Two cooks; “dinner in a fast 15 minutes.” as they put it, “almost as much in love room. One hundred miles, two hundred miles, as far as three hundred 
as we are now.” Unfortunately, the miles they drove to search out two days and nights of privacy. They 


Hanford Works didn’t seem to know it. In the nest of rules and regula- saw a lot of places that first year. Their tired minds and bodies de- 


tions entangling the dormitories was a rule which regulated romance manded the change to normal living, whatever the cost in money o1 


for the married right out of existence. Tod, like all the other working costin energy and trouble. For, naturally, what the DeNeals recall most 


husbands with working wives, was strictly confined to the ground floor vividly from their early wartime days in Richland is their work. Hard 


of Ruth’s residence. On numerous occasions, parting for the night work, exciting, deeply satisfying, because, of course, being intelligent, 


from his wife in the public reception room, he threatened to march and in key spots in the Hanford project, they early comprehended the 


outside, seale the walls of the concrete-and-plasterboard prison, and importance ol the Hanford eflort in the eventual winning ol the war. 


Party-dressing. DeNeals spent first Richland months in separate dormitories; hope we never have to move” from attractive eight-room Government-owned cottage. 





“People and parties.” In isolated Richland en- 
tertainment is ““home”’ variety. Schottische is 
lively feature of DeNeals’ indoor barbecue. 





The bursting of the atom bomb over Hiroshima could hardly have 
been a surprise to Ruth and Tod, although they do not tell you so. 
They are security-minded. No national, political or business secrets 
drop inadvertently from their lips. They know what information con- 
cerning the manufacture of plutonium is top secret, what information 
is classified, what information was declassified yesterday or may be 
declassified tomorrow to pass into the public domain, what public 
information they personally consider it unwise to discuss. These two 
people think before they speak. You can see it in their eyes. 

A blankness comes into Tod’s quiet blue eyes when he hears an 
unwelcome question, he falls momentarily silent, and then hospitably 
wonders whether the inquisitive outlander has ever fished the Colum- 
bia for salmon or would enjoy the experience. An ex-athlete—baseball, 
basketball, track—Tod is today an ardent sportsman. In similar cir- 
cumstances, Ruth’s blue eyes fill with a sudden gleam and twinkle, she 


beams with amusement that you thought to catch her in imprudence, 


“Time out for talk.” Richland’s people are young—average age 
is 31; workers’ incomes average a high $3800 per year. Birth 
rate—305 per thousand—is 2] per cent above the national figure. 


Tod “shoots” guests doing Mexican shuffle. DeNea 


and then she, too, deftly turns the subject. Her topic, if you are fem- 
inine, may be clothes. She buys two tailored suits a year for office 


wear. Two striking, strapless evening dresses—Ruth is vain of her 





pretty shoulders—are also a yearly must in her wardrobe. In talk of 
fashions or sports, the visitor is gently led away from an indiscreet and 
unanswered question which concerned the manufacture of plutonium. 

Since all the property in Richland is Government owned, there are 
figures and letters for nearly everything. After Ruth and Tod escaped 
from the male and female dormitories they moved into a B-house: one 
half of a two-family unit; living room, two bedrooms, kitchen, bath; 
rent, $32.50. In their next move, they took proud possession of a 
larger, more desirable H-house, a single-family house, rent $50. A year 
ago in their last move, the DeNeals climbed the housing ladder to what 
they and most people consider Richland’s top. 

Ruth and Tod sincerely hope they never have to leave their present 


Q-house, or move again. The low ranch-type dwelling midway the 1900 


“Tod plans a party.”” Guests are neighbors; menu: ‘T-bones, salad, “‘terrific’’ lenon pie. Tod “‘did” game room himself, with guns, fishing gear, movie-film collection. 


Pee AE en me 
pkex : . 





= 


ls’ hob- 


bies: golf, skiing, archery. Ambition of Tod, scientist of the 
Atomic Age: to bag deer with Middle Ages bow and arrow. 





Tea and a sunset view—for two. Winter week ends at 


“We feel Tod's work helps make 


a brighter future for everyone— 


*“So much we 


“hit the road” 


want to see and do while we’re young.” Ruth and Tod 
on vacation trip to New York, “or anywhere—for fun!” 


* HOW AMERICA 


a 


ed 


Mt. Hood, DeNeals practice ski techniques “learned from a book.” They “haven't dared try the jumps yet.” 


block on Harris Avenue is an agreeable place to live, very spacious for 
two. There are three bedrooms, a large living room, a dining room, a 
sun porch, a highly efficient kitchen, an all-purpose basement room. 
The rent is 

Across the street, readily available for fishing and canoeing, is the 
Columbia River. In the yard, Tod has planted shrubs and four small 
trees on which he keeps a hopeful eye. Inside, Ruth, after nine years of 
marriage, has at last achieved the background that she wanted all the 
time. The pleasant furnishings belong to the DeNeals. Ruth chose the 
robin’s-egg blue that is the dominant color scheme, and Government 
painters put it on the walls. She made the slip covers and all the flow- 
ered draperies, and Tod helped her hang them. As is usual with most 
DeNeal activities, they achieved a professional result. 

Downstairs in the all-purpose basement room—laundry, ski and 
sports-equipment racks, radio, motion-picture projector, comfortable 


grouping of sofas and chairs—is Tod’s work bench. Here, in his free 
hours, he repairs or remakes a piece of furniture to Ruth’s specifica- 
tions. Here he ties the flies that he needs for trout fishing. Here also 


Tod makes, tips and feathers the arrows (Continued on Page 145) 


LIVES x 





Because Avondale fabrics are dyed-in-the-yarn, you get 
the exact same colors in solid shades and stripes 


Striking new notes in the classroom — dark cottons-for-quilting in 
Avondale Companion Colors. The same color yarns, dyed to match exactly, 
are woven into stripes and solid colors — to do wonders in stretching 
college wardrobes with extra blouses and movie-date’ac ies. Avondale 
chambrays. so easy to sew, will wear through many semesters, and 
launder like new. . . . Sanforized*, too, for a perfect fit. In ready-to- 

wear and fabric-by-the-yard . . . in a range of qualities and pric 


dyed-in-the-yarn fabrics... 
the stay-fast colors are woven-in 


58 Worth Street, New York 13 





quilting an Avondale Valerie chambray into a warm swinging skirt 
(Vogue, 4) ...and a snug vest (Vogue, 6777—quilt fabric before cutting 
pattern). A matching Valerie stripe makes the smart classic shirt (Vogue, 
6763). Look for the blue label that identifies these Avondale Valerie chambrays. 


*Residual shrinkage less than 1% 





‘4 meet 
¥ 





<—, 
er 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL August, 1949 


Fels-Naptha Soap 


£") THE ONE WASHDAY ‘MIRACLE’ 
8 THAT CAN BE EXPLAINED! 


Don’t look for ‘miracles’ on washday 
unless you are using Fels-Naptha Soap. 
Too many women already have seen 


the promises of strange 





~ soap substitutes turn out to be 


just washday disappointments. 


Women who use Fels-Naptha Soap 
see a ‘miracle’ of cleaning 
performed every washday. 


And they know how it’s done: 


This astounding laundry soap 

is produced by blending the 

two greatest cleaning agents known 
to science—gentle, active naptha 
and mild, golden soap. The formula 
for this blend is preserved where it 


was created—in the Fels laboratories. 





Thus the gentle, thorough aan 
Fels-Naptha cleaning action a ‘ ly 
is unique. It cannot be duplicated | cad 
by any other soap—certainly not YN 
by any chemical soap substitute. a da 
ff 


Dainty garments come out of your | 

Fels-Naptha wash as sweet and fresh as \ 
a daisy —safe from strong chemical action. 
Badly soiled work clothes, grimy towels, 
infant diapers, are washed stainlessly clean 
without a trace of odor—even in your automatic washer. 


Incredible? Not to the women who have tried 

Fels-Naptha Soap—because they want more than promises. 
Get Fels-Naptha for your first washday ‘miracle’ now... 
because you know what it willdo... and why. 


For your machine or automatic washer, 
get gentle, quick-cleaning, sneezeless 
Fels-Naptha Soap Chips. 


Eats 
sire 
—— 


MADE IN PHILA, 
By FELS & CO. 


FOR EXTRA CLEANING ACTION USE “AS 


Fels-Naptha Soap 


MILD, GOLDEN SOAP AND ACTIVE NAPTHA 


















~*~ HOW AMERICA LIVES * 


Let the Vacuum Do It 


Ry MARGARET DAVIDSON 


RUTH DENEAL, like most young housekeepers, has 
come a long way from the old-hat notion that a vae- 
uumcleaner is for large rugsonly. The whole house can be 
kept shining clean by making full use of the vacuum’s 
attachments for special purposes. To prevent dirt from 
becoming embedded in fabrics and accumulating on 
other surfaces, clean rugs and draperies once a week; 
radiator grilles, air intakes, lamp shades, books and 
such, once a month; do special jobs as called for. In 
localities where the vacuum sometimes has to be 
plugged in as often as once a day, this ounce-of-preven- 
tion policy pays dividends too. ... Below are some 


of the newest ways of side-stepping the pound of cure. 


PARTE! 


"There’s nothing like the 
vacuum for the insides of the 
piano,” says Ruth. She uses 
its dusting attachment for the 
keys, too, and for wooden 
furniture, books, Venetian 
blinds and lamp shades. The 
way it lifts ashes right out of 
the ash trays shows how it 
sucks up dirt instead of flick- 
ing it around. This tool for 
bedsprings and the flat one for 
crevices help keep that hard- 


to-get-at place, under the bed, 





free of dust and kitten curls. 


You don’t have to turn dresse 
drawers upside down an 
spank them to get them clean 
A short snort of the crevic 
tool will do this job and delin 
shoe bags, coat pockets 
purses, luggage and the hidey 
hole behind the radiator. I 
makes short work of the mys 
terious collections in th 
crannies of upholsteres 
chairs. But use a brush o1 
the down-stuffed cushions i 
the suction of your cleane 
pulls out the little feathers 


Dipping water with a sieve i: 
easy compared with paintin; 
wicker with a brush. Use you 
spray attachment after thin 
ning the paint a little. Use it 
too, as the DeNeals did ir 
their rumpus room, for wal 

But please stand back abou 
three feet so the paint goes or 
smoothly. Cover nose anc 
mouth for safety, and oper 
windows or work outdoors 
Cleaned with turpentine, thi: 
spray tool is handy for moth 
proofing your woollies too 


= 
= 
= 
—— 


~~ 


_~;z 


SS 


—_ 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


135 


"Satina makes starched clothes 
3 times easier to iron! 


WRITES MRS. C, E. PEELER, JR., DALLAS, TEXAS 





With the extension wand plus a flat brush-nozzle, Ruth cleans above-floor surfaces 
first—ceilings, moldings, window ledges, starting at the top and working down. She 
cleans draperies using a downward, overlapping stroke. Afterward, Tod goes over the 
rugs, pushing the cleaner slowly, giving it a chance to lift the settled dirt as well as sur- 
face litter. This cleaner, 
day isn’t moving day. 


like some others, fits under most furniture so every cleaning 
The floor-brush attachment is fine for tile, linoleum and cement 


as well as for bare wood floors. And it whisks the fluff off closet floors in nothing flat. 


The gadgets and step-down 


floors of new cars hinder 
sweeping them. But your 
cleaner’s upholstery and crev- 


ice tools and floor brush clean 
out tramped-in dirt and hairs 
shed by a joy-riding dog. 
e@ Ruth empties the bag before 
she uses her cleaner, to avoid 
rebrushing clean floor in case 
she spills a little dirt. Dispos- 
able bags should be thrown 
away when three quarters 
full, since a clogged bag in- 





PHOTOS BY DI PIETRO 


terferes with operation. A 
cloth bag shouldn’t be ex- 


pected to last as long as the 
cleaner. Strange to say, the 
cleaner gives a warning (when 
you smell fine dirt leaking) 
that it’s time for a new bag. 
@ For use on light-colored 
surfaces your vacuum brushes 
must be splinter clean. The 
wand will remove loose lint. 
But washing in warm, soapy 


water, rinsing and drying 


will guarantee a clean sweep. 


@ Your cleaner is voracious, but don’t let it swallow pins, nails and coins. These are 
bad for its innards. Check its belt occasionally by comparing it with a new one. If 
the new one fits inside it, time to change. On upright cleaners, brush bristles should 
be level with the nozzle. If you can’t lower them that far, a new brush is needed. While 
testing, clip hairs and threads wound around brush cylinder, and pull them off. If 
cord is in a shocking condition (literally), don’t put off buying a new one until you 
get knocked galley-west. Forestall such a condition by storing cord loosely looped. 
Hold plug when you disconnect cleaner. And keep all its little gadgets spick-and-span. 





aSdTaLavd 


“Ironing was one of my pet hates,” 
writes Mrs. Peeler. “Then I heard 
about Satina. It’s wonderful! It makes 
starched clothes 3 times easier to iron 
—cuts my ironing time way down!” 


Satina is a wonderful ironing aid 


FREE 
size PACKAGE 


We SO SURE you'll love fF 
Satina, if we can just get 
you to try it once, that we’re 
offering youa free full-size 4 
package. Enough for 4 big 3 
starchings! Just you try it and 1 
judge Satina for yourself! 







A Product of 


General Foods 
CITY. 


Satina 
users 
say: 


lt makes starched ironing 3 times easie 





STREET_ 


that you use with boiled or unboiled 
starch. It dissolves easily in boiling 
water or the boiling starch solution. 


It not only makes ironing Jots eas- 
ier, it makes clothes smell fresher, look 
newer, and stay clean longer, too! 


SATINA, DEPT. 114, Battle Creek, Michigan 

Dear Sirs: Satina sounds good to me. Now I'd 
like a free full-size package to see how much easier 
it makes my starched ironing. 


| —— 





_STATE__ 





He ec a ee ee en oe 


Pit SATINA in your starch ! 


yi” 





Bee eo oe oe oe oe oe ee es ee ee os 


136 


TM Ml 





>——_ 


a 


tei he ll 
Sl neal 
Tin 





PHOTO B HAROLD FOWLER 
The DeNeal living room pictured at the right was made gay and exciting by using fabrics 
that accented the plain backgrounds. The flower pattern gives that decorated look. 


By HENRIETTA MURDOCK 


Interior Decoration Editor of the Journal 


“Our living room is too neutral. It has blue walls and a gray rug, but no color scheme. 
It needs dash and style, but we don’t know what to do about it.” 


HIS is how Ruth DeNeal analyzed her own living room. But right there she had an 
asset. Without going to the expense of repainting or buying a new rug, she could 
use those blue walls and the gray floor covering as the monochromatic background 
for a splashy floral print. For by matching the background of your printed fabric to 
the wall color you create the one-tone effect necessary if you wish to dramatize your 
room with a bold or large pattern. As you see in the photograph, the effect is spacious, 
even in a medium-size room, with wall, rug and fabric colors blending in soft harmony, 
The fabric pictured and many others in the $1.50-a-yard class come in all the basic 
decoration colors. By picking out one of the richer flower tones for additional slip 


covers, you have a scheme that looks professional and is easy to do. 


x HOW AMERICA LIVES x 


+ 


* HOW AMERICA LIVES x 


cuts of elk or deer ground and put in the 
freezer. She cooks it just as you would ham- 
burger. The steaks are very special. Lay 
strips of bacon over them and broil just to 


- the rare stage, just as you do any steak. 


\ 


Almost all game needs additional fat—thus 
the bacon. Sweet-sour red cabbage is a good 
choice for a venison dinner. You can now 
buy good sweet-sour red cabbage in jars, 
if you want to make your venison dinner 
speedy. Add a little more chopped onion, 
additional vinegar and sugar to the pre- 
pared product and simmer 10—15 minutes 
over low heat. One jar serves two. 


HASHED BROWNED POTATOES WITH 
ALMONDS. Add 1% cup slivered blanched 
almonds to finely chopped cooked potatoes 
before you fry them. They get crisp and 
brown along with the potatoes. 


RUTH’S ROLLS. You’ve eaten French 
bread with garlic butter time and time 
again—but have you ever tried this? Ruth 
euts slits in French rolls, perpendicular to 
the base and not cutting all the way 
through. Then she creams butter or mar- 
garine, adding grated garlic. Spread the 
zarlic butter in the slits and heat rolls be- 
fore serving. 


VEGETABLE SALAD—PERSIAN DRESS- 
ING. For the salad, use a combination 
of greens, shredded carrots, tomato wedges, 
green-pepper strips and slivers of raw 
cauliflower. Toss with Ruth’s pet dress- 
ing, which she calls Persian dressing. She 
makes up a goodly quantity at a time, so 
it’s always ready in the refrigerator: To | 
can condensed tomato soup, add 114 cups 
salad oil, | cup sugar, 1 tablespoon onion 
juice, 1 tablespoon salt, 16 tablespoon 
black pepper, 1 teaspoon dry mustard, | 
teaspoon grated horse-radish, | tablespoon 
Worcestershire sauce, 2 dashes Tabasco 
sauce. Blend with a rotary beater. Store in 
refrigerator in a quart jar. (If this is too 
sweet for your taste, start with 2 table- 
spoons sugar first—then add more if you 
think you'd like it. You can always add, 
but you can’t cover up the sweetness once 
the sugar is added.) 


RABBIT DINNER 


Braised Rabbit — Baked Potatoes 
Cauliflower or Broccoli 
Green Salad 
Compote of Pears with Orange 


Young rabbit, floured and browned in 
bacon fat and braised down or pot-roasted 
like chicken, tastes much like chicken. Out 
in Washington, rabbits are hunted for sport 
but decidedly not for food. The rabbits are 
large and definitely on the tough side, Ruth 
told us. In other parts of the country, young 
cottontails are much favored. Here is a way 
to cook them that you might like to try. As 
a variation, omit the green pepper and 
citrus juices, increase the onion and make 
the gravy with sour cream. 


BRAISED RABBIT. Disjoint a young 
rabbit weighing 114-2 pounds into serv- 
ng pieces. Dredge in seasoned flour and 
rown pieces well on all sides in 6 table- 
joons hot fat. Drain off any excess fat. 
add 1 cup canned chicken broth, 3 table- 
spoons lemon juice and 6 tablespoons 
yrange juice, 4 cup finely chopped parsley, 
cup sliced mushrooms, | small onion, 
hopped, and 2 tablespoons minced green 
»epper. Season with | teaspoon salt, pepper 
ind a pinch of ginger. Cover and simmer 
»ver low heat for about 1 hour or until ten- 
Jer as chicken; or follow directions for your 
gressure cooker and cook at 15 pounds 
oressure for 15 minutes. Thicken juices if 
Jesired and reseason to taste. Serves 4-6. 


LADIES’ 


w~ 


PHEASANT DINNER 


Fried or Roast Pheasant 
Wild-Grape Jelly 
Wild Rice—Buttered Peas with Onions 
Celery-and-Apple Salad 
Lemon Sherbet 


Ruth fries pheasant just as you do chicken, 
if it’s a one-year-old bird. To tell a pheas- 
ant’s age, look for the spur just above the 
foot. If you see little or nothing at all, just a 
tiny, slightly rounded callus, you’ve got a 
young pheasant, and by all means fry it. We 
jointed ours, rolled the pieces in seasoned 
flour and fried it just like chicken and it was 
beautifully tender and delicious. The older 
the pheasant, the more developed the spur. 
On a really old pheasant, the spur will be 
hard. 

If the bird is not too old, roast it sim- 
ilarly to duck—that is, quickly, in a very 
hot oven, for about 30 minutes. Pheasant is 
drier than duck, however, so rub soft butter 
or margarine all over the inside and outside 
and lay strips of bacon or salt pork over the 
legs and breast. Older birds are prepared for 
the oven in the same way. After browning, 
turn down heat, cover roaster, add a little 
chicken stock to pan and continue roasting 
in a moderately slow oven, 325° F., until 
pheasant is tender. Time will depend on the 
age of the bird. 


a 


NIGHT-BEFORE DINNER 


Barbecued Rib Ends 
Noodles — Carrots 
Green Salad 
Lemon Pie 


Most nights Ruth gets home at five—has 
dinner ready by five forty-five. Broiler 
meals and casserole dishes of the quick-to- 
fix variety make up her repertoire. But one 
of their favorite and most economical meat 
dishes is barbecued rib ends. This takes 
long, slow cooking—about 2 hours. In order 
to have this occasionally, Ruth cooks it the 
night before while Tod’s busy in the work- 
shop—lets it stand overnight. While it’s 
cooking—it takes little watching—she 
makes a lemon pie—the quick kind made 
with condensed milk in acrumb crust. Tod’s 
favorite dessert, by the way. 


























RUTH’S BARBECUED RIB ENDS. For 2, 
buy 2-2) pounds of beef rib ends—called 
short ribs in some markets. Cut into serving 
pieces. Season with salt and pepper. Dredge ~ 
with flour. Brown on all sidesin hot shorten- — 
ing. Add 1 cupsliced onions, 14 cup chopped 
celery tops and 1% cup carrot tops (cut fine 
with scissors). Ruth thinks carrot tops a 
fine seasoning—uses in her cooking when- 
ever she has a bunch of carrots. We agree— 
so next time, don’t throw them away. Good 
in soups too. Then she adds 14 green pepper, 
chopped, a piece of garlic, minced, 14 cup 
chili sauce, 1 cup water, several dashes 
Tabasco sauce, | teaspoon salt, 14 teaspoon | 
pepper. 2 tablespoons tarragon vinegar and 
a little crushed dried tarragon. 

Sometimes Ruth has barbecue sauce 
all made up for barbecuing steaks, elk- 
burgers and chicken outdoors. If so, she 
uses this in place of chili sauce, tarragon, 
and so on. 

Cover and let meat simmer about 2-214 
hours or until tender, stirring occasionally 
and adding more water, if gravy cooks 
down. Skim off fat before serving. A Dutch 
oven is the best utensil for cooking this 
dish. A pressure cooker is good, too, and 
speedier. The next night, when she serves 
the rib ends, she mixes freshly cooked 
noodles with the gravy. 


CREAM DEODORANT 
STOPS PERSPIRATION 


u completely sure of your charm? 


how lovely you can be until you 





. Different from any deodorant 


use FPRESH aud 


stay freshen 


smooth FRESH we will send you. 


jar. 





36 ~ *, 
» if l 
aa | / \ | | IEAL’S GROOMING GAME 
a 
a DO . . . Give blouses a “five-minute test.’? If they can be ironed in 
a | | nd are becoming, I buy. . . . Take five minutes every day at noon- 
j ‘ ] 1en my make-up. ... Make necessary repairs on my clothes the night 


n to wear them, to avoid a morning mad rush. . . . Save time by follow- 
r schedule in grooming. . . . Buy a dress or hat which is exceptionally 
‘ven if | have nowhere to wear it immediately. It’s paid off a hun- 


because | avoid rushing to buy something I don’t really like. . . . 































SARIS hs DOR 
2 


eam”: Your Self-Confidence? 





. 
' Ly 


Hi 
i by Dawn Crowell Norman 


Beauty Editor of the Journal 








4 more to self-confidence than meets the eye. It comes from knowing that 
oO" and value you. But few stop to find out what is likable and valuable 
Pat on the landscape. Eye appeal is your first step toward assurance, because 
an pers take their first steps toward you. Here are some two-and-two’s you 
rave added up to four. Answer Yes or No to the following questions, then 
Assurance rate on page 148. If you've answered less than half correctly, 
gvork on your beauty can make you a shining reflection of your sterling 
Snake you surer of it yourself. You may be an angel. But who would recog- 


el with rough fingernails? What fat girl feels angelic in a bathing suit? 


(_ESTIONS © 
2 


game you don’t espe- 15. Do you dread introducing several peo- 


hf ple to one another? 
A ruck by the breeze- 16. In public, do you ever look as if you're 
Daa friend’s fresh hand- trying to do a back bend to see if your stocking 
by tht perfume, have you seams are straight? Or as if you're scratching 
=) to yourself? your back as you try to button up that middle 
Writicism of your looks button? 
lection on you, body. 17. Have you often thought of taking a dic- 
tion course or a public-speaking course, without 
and then forget it? doing anything about it? 
overjoyed to see the 18. Is something awful always happening 
irns up unexpectedly to you? 


19. Do you ever feel like a whited sepulcher 
because of what your outer clothes conceal? 


hat other people are 

_< your hostess what 20. Do you pride yourself on telling other 

end to avoid looking people the terrible truth about themselves? 
— ot, and vice versa? Turn to page 148 for your score. 

The DeNeal living room pictured at the right was made gay and exciting by using fabrics 

that accented the plain backgrounds. The flower pattern sives that decorated look. 


PHOTOGRAPHS BY FRANCESCO SCAVULLC 





By HENRIETTA MURDOCK 


° 
Interior Decoration Editor of the Journal 


“Our living room is too neutral. It has blue walls and a gray rug, but no color sch 
It needs dash and style, but we don’t know what to do about Td 


HIS is how Ruth DeNeal analyzed her own living room. But right there she ha 
asset. Without going to the expense of repainting or buying a new rug, she ¢ 
use those blue walls and the gray floor covering as the monochromatic backgr 
for a splashy floral print. For by matching the background of your printed fabr 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


4 


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RICHMOND-CHASE COMPANY-—San Jose, Calif. 



















August, 1949 


DIARY OF DOMESTICITY 


(Continued from Page 24) 


People who don't like glads just don’t ar- 
range them properly, Stuck in a tall vase as 
they are, they do look awkward and rigid. 
But if you cut the stalks different lengths and 
mass the blooms toward the base of the con- 
tainer, you have something to dream over, 
The simple triangle is an easy and satisfying 
design. You use the longest stalk for the line 
of height, fix two stalks in at the side, one at 
about 70 per cent of the height of the main 
stalk, and one to the left and a third as high; 
you begin to see the outlines of a nice bou- 
quet, and the glad comes into its own glory. 
One of my favorites is a bouquet of frosty- 
white glads with a few dark purple blooms at 
the base for a center of interest. I use a milk- 
glass bowl, and I always wonder whether 
anything else could be lovelier. 

When we get up in the morning we can tell 
just how hot the day will be. The hottest days 
begin with a peculiarly pure color in the sky 
and with the air very still and smelling sweetly 
of the dew on the grass. Because I was raised 
in the Middle West, my conscience tells me 
this is the time to rush about and close every 
window and pull every shade, and open the 
door to the cellar to let the damp dark air 
sift up. But this is one way in which I have 
got the best of my conscience, for I prefer 
hot fresh air to closed-up, lifeless air. So I 
take my breakfast out in the garden and 
leave the house open to every bit of summer 
that wanders in. I have noticed that these 
shut-tight houses seem 
cool when you first step in 
them, but after a few mo- 
ments they are hot as fire 
and breathless too. * 

The big old hand-hewn 
stones on the hearth sweat 


It is one of the most beau- 
tiful compensations of this 
life that no man can sincerely 
try to help another without 


Actually, the woman fortunate enough to 
have a home freezer never needs to worry 
about either feeding the family or having un- 
expected guests. Of course the food doesn't 
freeze itself, but the labor is so quick and 
easy, it almost seems to, And now there are 
so many new efficient containers, the danger 
of dehydrating is practically nil. We are 
trying out the glass type this season. 


A GoopD dish for a hot night when you are 
tired of just cold plates and salads is a cheese 
ring filled with creamed lobster. To make this 
I beat 3 eggs well, add 114 cups light cream 
and beat till blended, then pour this over 1 
cup grated Cheddar cheese mixed with 114 
cups bread crumbs. Season with 1 teaspoon 
grated onion, salt, pepper, pinch of dry mus- 
tard andadashof Worcestershire sauce. I but- 
ter aring mold and pour the cheese mixture 
in and set the mold in a pan of hot water and 
then bake it in a moderate oven (350°F.) 
until it is set. This takes around 35 to 40 
minutes. For the center the creamed lobster 
is extra elegant if I stir a beaten egg in the 
sauce just before adding the lobster, I often 
add mushrooms and diced green pepper. 

I like best dishes that can be made of one 
thing or another—for instance, lacking the 
lobster, I use chicken with slivered almonds 
added, or shrimp and oysters from the 
freezer. Or plain mushrooms, with a spoon- 
ful of sherry added to the sauce. Recipes that 
call for truffles and must 
have truffles are not much 
good to country dwellers. 

I never used to like 
chicken salad more than 
now and then, but I 
learned about a trick that 


on the hot days, and look helping himself. © —emerson. _ lifts it into gourmet qual- 
dark and cool. The tap- ity for those who cook 
rom AliebBonait i vith wine. The chicken is 


our family room, which is 

really a better word—gathers what air there 
is with a// the windows open. Jill painted the 
wallpaper over last month with some of that 
wonderful new paint which does everything 
in one sweep of the brush. She used a delicate 
green, like a young willow tree in spring. 
Then we decided on soft blue tissue gingham 
for the curtains to match the sailor’s hat in 
the Jon Whitcomb painting which I am so 
fond of. And painted the inside of the pine 
cupboards with red. The milk-glass collec- 
tion looks lovelier than ever against the dra- 
matic red. 

The couch in front of the great fireplace is 
still covered with pink, for we never do get 
a whole room fixed at once—the way they 
do in magazines. But the pink is the same 
kind of pink that the red is red. Then Oscar 
Olson and Willie got interested, and made a 
pine panel for over the fireplace. “‘There 
used to be one da,” said Oscar, ‘‘she yust 
got taken avay. I make one like old one.” 

In August nobody wants to stand over the 
stove any longer than necessary. But of 
course it is canning month and time to 
freeze most of the vegetables. I keep the elec- 
tric fan turned on ina direction to carry the 
hot air toward the other side of the room. 


Most of the meals are planned so I can do 
the cooking in the cool of the night before. 
The small pressure cooker is the greatest 
help, for potatoes and beets and carrots and 
beans can all be cooked so fast that the 
kitchen stays comfortable. It is good for 
chicken, too, and a bowl of cooked chicken 
helps with a lot of meals—salads, jellied 
consommé, creamed with mushrooms, or in 
sandwiches for a picnic. 

I cook a big dish of potatoes at once— 
potato salad, casserole material; and if it 
turns cooler, they are ready for frying with 
fresh onion slices and crisp bacon. 


When there is a rainy chilly day, which 


happens in New England at any season with 
some frequency, I may spend extra time 
making date forte and cookies and cakes and 
pies to freeze. Sandwiches freeze beautifully 
too—I leave out the lettuce and put it in 
fresh later on. 


cut up for the salad and 
then put in a mason jar. I pour into the jar 
1g cup white wine and 1 tablespoon lemon 
juice, add the herbs I like best, and let the 
chicken marinate in the liquid, shaking it 
now and then. 

When you remove the chicken for the 
salad you will have lost that flat taste 
which chicken often has. You can use the 
marinade in the dressing if you like. 

Somehow August is too soon over. The 
rich fullness of summer is something to 
cherish, no matter how high the thermometer 
may sneak. And it takes the stifling days 
to make the trout stream wonderful to swim 
in, a hot afternoon to make the glasses of 
Darjeeling iced tea taste the best. 

We seldom have a hot night, but there is 
something special about a very hot night in 
the country. Especially in the New England 
hills. It is rare to be able to sit in the quiet 
garden in the wideness of the moonlight with 
not a scarf or sweater. The meadows have a 
silvery veil of mist rising, rising. The scent 
of the Nicotiana is passionately sweet in the 
air. Voices fall softly, guests are not so apt 
to be arguing over politics on a hot August 
night. There are comfortable pauses, which 
are always pleasant to me. When friends 
can be content just to think together. 

I am reading The Keats Circle, and I have 
time to be amazed all over again, as I sit in 
the garden and watch the moon climb the 
sky, that Keats was so loved by such diverse 
people. The main thing most of his friends 
had in common was that they loved Keats; 
on everything else they never saw eye to 
eye! Reading these letters of his friends, 
one realizes all over again what a trium- 
phant, glowing personality he was. 

Thinking of Keats in the August night at 
Stillmeadow, I feel a quick sense of immor- 
tality, for like Shakespeare, death has noth- 
ing to do with him. Truly I believe the beau- 
tiful does not die, not the essence of it; 
though the rose itself withers, the beauty of 
the rose is still there. At least this is the way 
I believe on a summer night. 

Fortunately, Honey does not ask me to 
explain it. She is watching a night moth 
fluttering in the moonlight. THE END 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


ONLY IN THE U.S. A. 


(Continued from Page 132) 


that he and Ruth use when they drive out- 
side the city limits and practice archery. One 
of Tod’s small ambitions is to bring down a 
deer with a bow and arrow. Ruth neither 
hunts nor fishes, but she paddles the canoe. 
Tod built the canoe. 

In the living room, near the picture win- 
dow, sits Ruth’s grand piano. She is a tal- 
ented musician as well as a crack secretary. 
She practices an hour a day, choosing times 
when Tod is away at work. Once a week 
through the winter months, she rehearses 
with the Richland symphony orchestra. She 
is the tympanist. On Tuesday evenings she 
practices with the Meistersingers, Richland’s 
male chorus of 70 voices. Ruth is their ac- 
companist. The Meistersingers give three an- 
nual concerts in Richland. Once a year they 
make a short swing around the state. That 
explains Ruth’s need for the two formal strap- 
less evening dresses. She likes to make a good 
appearance on the stage. 

When does she get her housework done? 
Richland is a servantless community. Ruth 
and Tod share the 
work ofkeeping their — 
home in order. Both 
DeNeals are pick- 
ers-up instead oflay- 
ers-down. Seldom - mn 
does either Ruth or I 
Tod enter a room 
without a quick cas- 
ual glance around. 
A rumpled maga- 
zine is straightened, Average 
an ash tray with a 
single stub is emp- 
tied, a light film of 


dust is whisked Food Hash = Slate 
from a table surface Savings. . . . « 
as one or the other Clothing. ... 
passes by, a soiled Rent 


glass is carried to 


(Annual Estimates) 
DeNeals Earned. . . . $9,400 
Monthly Earnings .. 783 
Income Tax. .... . ~ $1,285 


of frozen-food storage space. When Tod and 
Ruth start on one of their speedy evening 
meals, their accustomed hands fly instantly 
to the wanted meat, vegetable, salad greens. 
Their electric range, the broiler and top 
burners, is already going at full blast. This 
means they skip the chopping, grinding, 
mixing, shredding type of cookery. As for 
seasoning, salt and pepper and a bit of garlic 
maybe suit them fine. Steaks and chops do 
have that advantage. 


Exrravacanr? Yes, certainly. Nowadays, 
when it is no longer necessary, the DeNeals 
don’t pretend to budget. Tod and Ruth con- 
sider their present savings, deducted regu- 
larly from their pay checks, to be ample for 
their present circumstances. The DeNeals are 
childless. This is not by choice. About a year 
ago they applied to an adoption agency. In 
the state of Washington, adoptive parents 
must wait from two to three years. When 
Ruth and Tod receive their child, Ruth in- 
tends to quit her job. They eagerly await 
their chance to start 
STS] cutting corners. 
They know how to 
do it. 

Both were poor 
as church mice in 
their early youth. 
Indeed, Ruth, the 
second in a family 
of five boys and 
girls, is the daughter 
of the Rev. C. R. 
Underwood,aMeth- 
odist minister. She 
and Tod met and 
- ++ 1,020 fell in love back in 
ey events 2,200 their high-school 
SiC C fo days at Bismarck, 

Illinois. They waited 


(including all utilities) 70 seven years to 


the kitchen. Telephone ....... 36 marry, because they 

The DeNeal Insurance ....... 270 were each deter- 
dishes are washed Medical. Sr es ane 175 mined to acquire a 
once a day. Ruth Civie Contributions. . . 300 college education. 
considers any other Car: . con sata «ke 250 Both worked their 
method a waste of Recreation ’ way through’ col- 
time. At the mo- and Entertainment. . 1,200 lege. It took Tod 

Interior Decoration* . . 400 


ment, the used 
dishes are piled in 
the sink after every 
meal for eventual 
evening disposal. As 
soon as Ruth’s 
much desired and 
on-order dishwasher 
is delivered, the 
dishes will be piled out of sight. She has 
an automatic washing machine and an elec- 
tric ironer now. 

Once a week Ruth and Tod join forces 
and do a “thorough house cleaning.” Ruth 
changes the bed linen, tidies the bureau draw- 
ers and closets, cleans and scrubs the bath- 
room, washes up the kitchen. Tod vacuums 
all the rugs, waxes and polishes the floors, 
applies himself to the upholstered furniture 
with another brush, and finishes with a spir- 
ited attack on the window blinds and sills. 
When this double process is completed, the 
remaining specks of dust in the DeNeal home 
could hardly be discovered by a Hanford mi- 
croscope. The job requires exactly one hour. 
Efficient people who value time, Ruth and 
Tod enjoy the stop-watch effects. 


Giftsii nei cone 


“Including closing 


Simmary, they co-operate on the cooking. 
Sometimes Tod cooks, sometimes Ruth, some- 
times the two of them. Ruth allots herself ex- 
actly 25 minutes to prepare and put on the 
table a balanced dinner—meat, a starchy 
vegetable, a green or yellow vegetable, bread, 
salad. When Tod assists in getting dinner, the 
preparation time is lowered to 15 minutes, 
and the visitor had better stay out of the 
way of the whirling dervishes in the kitchen. 

One or the other or both DeNeals go to 
market once a week. Practically everything 
they buy is frozen. Steaks, chops, hamburger, 
vegetables, juices, fruit. They own two 
large electric refrigerators, and have plenty 


Reading Material. . .. 100 


Incidentals. ¥.- 6%, % % 119 


in sun porch and furnishing it. 


five years to finish. 
The full-time job he 
carried on the side 
paid $17.50, and the 
$9,400 student was occu- 
pied outside the 
classrooms never 
El less than 40 and us- 
ually 60 hours a 
week. As Tod recalls his college years, ‘I was 
almost always sleepy.” 

Ruth and Tod were married on June 23, 
1940, by Ruth’s father in his church. It was a 
white wedding. The Reverend Mr. Under- 
wood’s parishioners gathered every white 
flower that bloomed in town that morning— 
roses, sweet peas, larkspur—to decorate the 
altar. The minister’s daughter wore a satin 
gown and veil. 

There had been some previous nervous 
discussion between the bride and groom 
about the wedding fee. Tod’s best man, his 
older brother, deftly handled the awkward 
little matter by surreptitiously slipping the 
envelope and bill into Doctor Underwood’s 
pocket. On the final day of the DeNeal 
honeymoon at Lake Geneva—$50 had been 
saved up for the purpose—Ruth found the 
folded bill neatly tucked into the band of her 
going-away hat. The DeNeals lingered until 
they spent that bill too. 

It wasn’t until the spring of 1942 that 
Tod, a graduate industrial chemist, landed 
the job he had so long prepared himself to 
hold in the industrial world. He went to 
work as a control chemist in a huge explo- 
sives plant, then operated by duPont at Kan- 
kakee, Illinois. His monthly salary was $200. 

That same week Ruth landed in the ex- 
plosives plant as a secretary. Ruth took 
her degree in business administration, and 
she’s good. On a manual—nonelectric—type- 
writer she can zip along at 105 words a 


e Memalcs 200 











HELLMANNS 





145 





IN THE EAST 
IN THE WEST 






W a gasket 


Be Brand-Wise! 


If your shopping time gets you 
behind on your housework, here’s 
a suggestion for catching up. 


“Bone up” on your brand 
names. The time you spend 
reading the advertising pages of 
this magazine, or other forms of 
advertising, and learning the 
names that meet your needs will 
be saved many times over when 
you get to the store and you can 
name exactly what you want. 


But, being brand-wise means 
something more than saved 
time. It means that every item 
you take home is backed by the 
reputation of its manufacturer 
—a nice comfortable feeling 
when you put your purchases 
to use. 


e A non-profit educational foundation e 
@ 119 West 57th Street, New York 19,N.Y. @ 
@eeeeoeedeee2#e9%28es8e8eee ee 


minute—a truly phenomenal speed (60 
words a minute is considered good), Trained 
in court reporting, she can take dictation at 
almost any rate you care to talk. From the 
first, duPont had her spotted as an expert in 
her field. 

Even so, Ruth was lucky. There were 4000 
employees in the explosives plant. Usually 
in so large an organization the path that 
leads an ambitious stenographer upward 
to the heights of the executive offices is long 
and hard. That wartime summer of 1942, 
many clever duPont girls in Kankakee got 
married to soldiers, got sick, got bored with 
explosives and constant pressure, quit. 
Within two months, Ruth was happily typ- 
ing and transcribing dictation for a duPont 
production superintendent. 

In the spring of 1944, with the changing 
character of the war, our national demands 
for smokeless powder, TNT, and so on, 
slackened. DuPont transferred the operation 
of the Kankakee plant to U. S. Rubber, and 
overnight thousands of employees had an- 
other boss. At this time, some 400 key du- 
Pont workers in the plant were secretly in- 
vited to travel to the state of Washington. 
There they were to occupy themselves upon 
a completely secret, wholly unexplained, but 
vastly important war project. Tod was in- 
vited first, then Ruth. Both accepted, and 
both pledged themselves to meet all condi- 
tions of the new job. No talking whatever to 
friends and acquaintances, outright fictions 
in letters to mothers and fathers, brothers 
and sisters. . . . In short, the rule laid upon 
the couple was silence. Naturally, Tod and 
Ruth were excited by all this, but not unduly 
excited. 

To this day the DeNeals labor under the 
curious impression that they are average, 
ordinary citizens, leading more or less aver- 
age lives. Most of us have less energy, fewer 
interests. Ruth and Tod appear to use their 
brains all the time, even at their play and 
recreation. Their educated minds are lively, 
and easily direct their hands and muscles into 
unfamiliar channels. When the DeNeals de- 
sired to learn to ski, they bought a book. 
They bought skis. While one read out the in- 
structions, the other practiced balance, snow 
plowing, stem turns on the living-room car- 
pet. After two weeks of this interior practice, 
they sought the nearest mountain with a ski 
run. Neither ever got a broken leg or even a 
twisted ankle. They followed directions, pro- 
gressed chapter by chapter through the 
book, and soon they learned to do it right. 


‘Tuer friends resemble them. An engineer- 
ing neighbor, Johnnie Chatten, may drop in 
after dinner to announce, “I’ve almost fin- 
ished making my potter’s wheel. Betty 
should have that set of dishes soon.” It seems 
that on his last trip east, Chatten stopped a 
few hours in Ohio, moseyed around the 
Russell Wright factory and observed the 
procedures for creating fine pottery. 

Another friend will remark casually, 
“*MacGuire flew in from Chicago yesterday, 
and after work he was blowing glass. I’m 
not much good yet, but this afternoon I did 
blow one dandy little kangaroo. The kids 
think they might like a whole row of them 
for that hanging shelf in their room.”’ A third 
friend, Hank Carlberg, electrical-division 
superintendent, in his off hours is busy turn- 
ing out a break-front. The break-front his 
wife priced in Seattle cost $1600. Carlberg 
expects to produce a duplicate for his Eileen 
for around $125, Honduras mahogany and all. 

Tod’s contribution to Richland’s fine- 
furniture-making craze can be seen on the 
DeNeals’ sun porch. The handsome, brass- 
studded leather-covered radio and record 
cabinet is his. The squat, leather-covered 
seats that flank the cabinet are also his. The 
windows that enclose the sun porch and turn 
it into an extra room were made and installed 
by Tod with the expert help of Ruth’s 
younger brother, Claire, also a Hanford em- 
ployee. 

There is little business discussion in the 
DeNeal living room when outsiders are 
present. Yet it is clear that Ruth and Tod, 
like most of us lucky enough to enjoy our 
work, would rather discuss their jobs than 
anything else. Perhaps more than the ma- 


jority of people, the two DeNeals feel the 
urge to communicate and share with others 
the vibrant, consequential atmosphere in 
which they spend their working hours. 
Within the rigid limits of security, they do 
talk. They tell you all they are allowed to 
tell, and dimly from their words and manner, 
their own lack of fear, you sense some obscure 
outline of a future which need not be fearful, 
but even reassuring, a future better and 
easier for everybody than is the present, full 
of hope. 

Ruth works from eight o’clock until half 
past four in an undistinguished two-story 
structure located in downtown Richland. 
She is the confidential secretary of George 
R. Prout, employed by General Electric as 
administrative overseer of the entire Hanford 
project. It is up to him and his staff to know 
the status of atomic affairs everywhere. Mr. 
Prout is the sixth executive who has held 
the same position. Ruth has worked in the 
same confidential capacity for them all. 

With each new boss, Ruth's secretarial 
value has been enhanced. She was in the 
office when duPont was in control before the 
management of the project was transferred 
to General Electric. She has the history of 
the Hanford Works in her pretty head. 

Back in early ‘45, her business days, like 
those of her chemist husband, were tense and 
anxious. Until the test bomb fell, the suc- 
cess of the whole gigantic enterprise, an enter- 
prise proceeding at Los Alamos and Oak 
Ridge as well as at Hanford, hung in-the 
balance. With failure, all the effort, the 
millions of dollars of public money spent, 
would be wasted. Explanations to the Con- 
gress, kept in the dark along with us taxpay- 
ing citizens, would be virtually impossible. 
Ruin faced a lot of people. Both Ruth and 
Tod were aware of this. 

Ruth recalls a hot July morning in 1945 
when her first boss, W. O. Simon, concluded 
a long-distance telephone call in his private 
office and walked slowly into her adjoining 
office. There was a strange expression on 
Mr. Simon's face as he said, ‘‘ Well, Ruthie, it 
worked.” 

She also remembers August 6, 1945, and 
the bomb drop on Hiroshima which an- 
nounced to the world the opening of the 
atomic age. She remembers how her first 


impulse was to talk to Tod. But, clad in 
specially treated clothing, wearing a special 
mask to purify the air he breathed, Tod was 
working, out of reach of telephone, news- 
papers, radio, It wasn’t until evening that he 
and Ruth were able to discuss the fact of 
Hiroshima. 

Hanford workers have their own peculiar 
language—a combination of technical terms 
and wartime slang invented to preserve se- 
curity. New employees are handed an atomic 
primer for study so they can learn to talk to 
their associates. In Richland jargon, Tod is 
called “a shift supervisor on a pile opera- 
tion.”” Actually he is a chemist engaged in 
plutonium manufacture who supervises the 
work of other men who are not chemists. 


Top’s place of business is not in Richland, 
Adjoining the DeNeals’ town to the north 
lie some 400,000 acres of sagebrush, low 
mountains, greasewood and grassless desert. 
In this vast, isolated country are the atomic 
plants of which you and I are allowed no 
glimpse, either from the air or ground, 
Patrol planes regularly roam the skies. 
Guards in armored cars, guards in jeeps, 
guards on foot patrol these forbidden acres. 
Guards in boats patrol a snipped-out length 
of the Columbia River which is caught inside. 

Scattered within these forbidden acres, in 
seven widely separated places, rise the 
atomic plants. 

Every working day Tod travels some 35 
miles by special bus from his home to reach 
his job. Tod is equipped with a lunch box, an 
identification card, photograph, social-se- 
curity number, and so on. The bus fare is 
a nickel. “The longest five-cent ride still 
extant in the world,” Tod says with a grin. 

You and I may follow the bus for a certain 
way. Four miles outside the town limits, large 
warning signs announce the nearness of the 
restricted area, the heavy penalties for un- 
authorized entry. And then, immediately 
ahead, you see the barricades. The four con- 
nected towers that block the road somewhat 
resemble the prosaic stations to be found at 


7 


toll bridges. But the guards who man these _ 


towers, prepared to handle two lanes of 
traffic going in and two lanes coming out, are 
armed. 

(Continued on Page 148) 


KxeewekweK KK K KX KR KE RK KR KS ee 


Ask Any 


Woman 


. 
BY MARCELENE COX 


(OME people have good memories, some 
forget easily, others remember things 
that never happened. 


Even elbow grease seems to have a win- 
ter grade and a summer grade. 


Destiny: That split second when the tree 
chopper determines where the tree will fall. 


Note to summer girls: Don’t allow his 
convertible to let the top down on your 
high ideals. 


Strapless bathing suits seem a compro- 
mise between the law of decency and the 
law of gravity. 


She looked as if she’d been up all day. 


Dash across our lawn: If you watch your 
steps, you hang your chin on the clothes- 
line; if you watch the clothesline, you trip 
over the croquet wickets. 


“Having company” may be expensive, 
but an extra plate on the table never shows 
on the household accounts. 


Distressed daughter: ‘‘It hurts me to see 
how she throws her dolls around, mother. 
You see, I have a feeling about dolls.” 


The difference between a career woman 
and a housewife is about thirty pounds. 


When members of a family try each 
other by moderate standards, there is sure 
to be more contentment. 


Lucky the man who can unload his ex- 
perience at purchase price. 


The heavier the croquet mallet, the 
quicker the argument is settled. 


The last rose of summer looks even more 
forlorn when on a spring hat in August. 


Never knowing where your children are 
is like teaching singing by correspondence. 


The human mother should accept her 
young as unquestioningly as a mother dog, 
cat, sheep—simply opening her eyes to see 
what’s there. 


A child born and a house built rarely re- 
semble the original blueprint. 


Cold war warming up on the home front: 
“TI can’t find it anywhere. You probably 
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JS 7h EN NODE 
(Continued from Page 146) 

Tod's ingoing bus stops on the right-hand 
side. A guard steps forth from his tower, opens 
the bus door, checks occupants’ passes. The 
guard nods. Then the driver steps on the 
gas and the bus passes through the barricade, 
You and I may pull up and park. We can 
watch the red-and-yellow bus gather speed 
on the long straight highway, dwindle to a 
moving speck, then disappear in the vast, 
dusty distance. 

Most of the passengers, ‘according to Tod, 
appear to enjoy the long journey. Gin-rummy 
games are popular. There is a poker club. 
Often Tod reads. Still more often, he sleeps. 
His irregular schedule makes it difficult for 
him to obtain suffi- 
cient sleep. He has 
learned the trick of 
falling suddenly and 


Suge, eee 


go in there and survive. Hanford takes no 
chances with the lives of its employees. 

Dr. W. D. Norwood, head of Richland’s 
Kadlec Hospital, is able to tell you flatly, “No 
individual employed in any capacity on the 
Hanford project gets more radiation than he 
would obtain from an annual chest X ray.” 

To men like Tod DeNeal is due some of the 
credit for this record. Tod is responsible for 
the work performance of his crew. He is also 
responsible for the health and safety of his 
men. Part of his supervisory job is to see that 
Hanford’s safety rules are obeyed, In a 
danger zone, you touch nothing except for a 
specific reason and with specific permission. 
People who can’t catch on to Hanford safety 

rules must find jobs 


= cot elsewhere, 


Every individual 
employed by Han- 


soundly asleep at ford in the manu- 
any time conven- facture of plutonium 
ient to him, any- has an individual 
place. health record. Every 

An hour and a So it’s up to the family! The three months his 


half after Tod leaves 
home, he is deliv- 
ered at his destina- 
tion. The building 
that Tod eventually 
walks into is tall, 
made of thick con- 
crete, air-condi- 


tioned, and lighted 


their daughter 


restricted area with- 
in a restricted area 
Inside the building 
itself are restricted 
areas, locked by 
keys which only 
Tod is permitted to 
use during the hours 
he in charge. 
Special working permits, special clothing, 
special and complex safety equipment are 
issued to men who must enter these danger- 
ous zones to do a piece of work. The amount 
of time they are allowed to remain is some- 
times very short. 

At times, there are parts of Tod’s build- 
ing where no one is allowed to spend even ten 
seconds. Filled with ponderous equipment 
operated by remote control, these parts of the 
building are shielded and shut away because 
they are contaminated with excessive radio- 
activity. 

In these shielded, shut-away parts of 
Tod’s building, a human being would see 
nothing, smell nothing, taste nothing, feel 
nothing. Yet it is believed that he could not 


1S 


Rufus Austins, of Cape Girardeau, 
Missouri, are not eligible for an old- 
age pension because they own a 
$500-cash-value insurance policy — 
that’s the law of the state. 

Their basement sitting, dining, 
bedroom, kitchen is one room with 
curtain partitions, in the home of 
and 


Nead 


by BRuizabeth 
and Eliot Janeway 


urine is tested, and 
his blood count is 
taken, Once a year 
a complete health 
examination is 
made, An employee 
who has received 
at home the slight- 


actin dav, est cut or abrasion 


| by electricity be- where these Americans try to solve must report the fact 
Caust there are no the riddle of ~elf-respeeting old age at work. Until the 
windows. This sin- ina world designed for the young. cut 1s healed, he 
ister structure is a is not allowed to 


enter a danger zone 
under any circum- 
stances. 

This is the at- 
mosphere of Tod's 
working days. 

Tod and Ruth 
DeNeal are proud 
of Hanford’s safety 
record. They are proud of Tod's job. They 
take the safety regulations, which Tod rigidly 
enforces upon his men and upon himself, in 
their stride. 

“All the care has paid off,” Tod says 
soberly. ‘After all, there is no denying that 
we have introduced something new into the 
world, something that wasn’t there before. 
Until we learn all about the nature of what 
we've got hold of, much more than we know 
now, plutonium manufacture will be labo- 
rious and slow. But it’s the job I like.”’ 

Both DeNeals are convinced that Tod’s 
work is a valuable contribution to hu- 
man progress. They speak in the authorita- 
tive voices of tomorrow’s good American 
citizens. 


HOW'S YOUR SELF-CONFIDENCE? 


(Answers to Questions on Page 142 


Questions | through 6, and 15 through 20, 
should be answered No. Questions 7 through 
14 should be answered Yes. 


If you have answered 17 or more questions 
correcily 


You are Ahead of the Game! 


You are a popular person and a coveted 
guest, for you ‘‘dress up”’ any social gather- 
ing. Your justified confidence in your appear- 
ance affords you the luxury of feeling 
perfectly at ease in even the most for- 
midable settings—and your foresight in 
making an effort to look crisp, tidy and 
pretty at home keeps pride (and romance!) 
in the family. 


If you have answered at least half of the ques- 
tions correctly 


You Know the Rules 
of Good Grooming, But 





Perhaps you are not allowing enough time 
to make the most of them. Your perfectly 
human and eager interest in other people and 
other things tempts you to put off “‘doing”’ 
for yourself! Take a few minutes more each 


day to step up your own appearance—it is 
sure to make you an even more enjoyable and 
attractive person! 


If you have answered less than half of the 
questions correcily 


You are Cheating Yourself! 


Try dividing your generous outgiving qual- 
ities between others and yourself fora change! 
You'll be delighted to discover the wonderful 
possibilities you have for becoming an in- 
finitely more appealing person. In the begin- 
ning, schedule a half hour a day for your 
personal-appearance program. A new hair-do, 
different make-up, the results of exercise or 
diet or more attention to your clothes will 
unearth a whole new world of beauty (and 
admiring friends) for you! 


If you have answered all the questions cor- 
rectly 


You are Too Good to be True! 


Your preoccupation with the way you look 
may make a dead-pan clotheshorse of you. 
Too much attention to yourself can create 
self-consciousness as much as too little! 

THE END 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


WHO UNDERSTANDS TEEN-AGERS? 


(Continued from Page 41) 


love doing things for her, and being in on 
things. And she’s so good you just can be 
lenient with her.’’ Bev, for her part, brings 
her mother a peppermint patty every day, 
tries to remember slightly risqué stories—like 
the one about the man who had his children 
in rabbit succession—because “‘no one ever 
tells any to a minister’s wife.’’ She never 
makes a decision without consulting both 
her parents, so far has always done as they 
suggested because “they know so much 
more than I do.” 

Revolter in the family is her 20-year-old 
brother Don, a senior at Gettysburg College, 
who played so many pranks on kids when he 
was at York High that they stranded him in 
the woods once with a middle-aged school- 
teacher by pouring fruit juice in the gas 
tank. This not-so-funny joke cost Doctor 
Simonton $250 in repairs on the family car, 
but he had to admit Don deserved it. Don 
is extremely fond of Beverly, urges her to 
“let your hair get mussed up once in a while 
and run around in blue jeans. Don’t always 
look so dressed up and prudish. You want to 
have a good time in college, don’t you?”’ 

Choosing a college was Bev’s biggest de- 
cision. As long as she can remember, she’d 
planned to go to Gettysburg College, only 30 
miles away, “‘so I could get home for week 
ends.”’ She even turned down a scholarship to 
a girl’s college because it was 180 miles from 
York, despite Don’s warnings that “you 
won't find many girls’ activities at Gettys- 
burg, and you're going to miss them.” 

Then one night Bev had a dream. She 
saw herself in a plaid skirt and fresh white 
blouse wandering across a campus full of 
girls. Each one knew her by name—‘‘Hi, 
Bev. Hear you’ve won another election.” 

That dream made such a big impression on 
her that the very next morning she went in 
to see M. L. Yinger, her high-school guid- 
ance director. Mr. Yinger, a youngish red- 
haired man whose office is piled high with 
bulletins on current college and job oppor- 
tunities, urged her to “go farther away from 
hame, see another part of the country.” 
(One out of five York High graduates goes to 
college; about half of the 650 graduates go 
immediately to work in York industries, 
many in the same companies employing their 
fathers and grandfathers) 

“You'll become more independent,” Mr. 
Yinger told Beverly. ‘““And don’t you think 
you might have more fun if you didn’t have 
to compete with Don’s record at Gettys- 
burg?” 

When Mrs. Simonton heard this, she 
agreed, added, “‘ You need to learn to think 
for yourself, Bevie. It’s too easy for you to 
come to me for things, and always easier for 
me to do them than say ‘no.’”’ 

So early in September Bev—sporting 
three new sweaters and skirts, a rustly new 
black taffeta party dress, and a big orange- 
and-navy-blue Gettysburg banner—will 
drive with her parents to William and Mary, 
more than 300 miles away. She gets “all 
pimply’’ when she thinks about it, worries 
because “I know I’ll be homesick without 


my parents to talk to every night. Maybe I 
can join some activities right off.’’ 

Activities, for Bev, have always been ‘‘the 
best way I know to meet people.’”’ Seven 
years ago when her father became pastor of 
the newly built St. Paul’s Lutheran Church 
in York, and Bev left behind in Harrisburg 
the only friends and school life she’d ever 
known, she was too shy to make new friends 
in York. 
older people in the church.”’) Because few 
kids lived near the parsonage, she walked to 
and from school alone, impressed her sixth- 
grade teacher as being ‘‘a good Student if 
only she would open her mouth of her own 
free will.” But the next year in junior high 
school, where everybody felt strange, she 
began to make friends, joined the glee club, 
and by ninth grade had been elected mayor 
of the school. In high school she really 
blossomed. 

York’s William Penn High School (‘“‘ York 
High”’ or “Bill Penn”’) is a big, busy school 
with 2059 students, a principal popular for 
being “‘on the kids’ side,”’ and a program of 
extracurricular activities known throughout 
the state for its scope and intensity. Activi- 
ties are open to all, but a student not giving 
his best effort may be asked to find some 
other outlet because “anything worth doing 
is worth doing well,” and the school is proud 
of the yearly prizes brought home from state 
and national contests by its weekly paper, 
yearbook, band and orchestra. When this 
year’s basketball team went all the way to 
the state finals, before losing 63-51, the 
whole town went wild. Principal Edward 
Glatfelter closed school for the day; Mayor 
Felix Bentzel invited students to “‘take over 
the streets of York.’’ They did—over a thou- 
sand strong, in a big parade through the 
center of town with their own and Catholic 
High’s band, eight majorettes and a drum 
major, cheering loudly and singing, ‘Old 
York High, the best on land and sea, Old 
York High for me.” 

School starts at 8:30, with an extra-long 
lunch hour (11:30-1:00) to allow time for 
activity meetings. More than 70 per cent of 
the students elect at least one activity— 
most because they’re interested, a few to 
avoid the social stigma of a slogan like “‘He 
had a smile for everyone”’ under their names 
in the yearbook where activities are listed. 
Beverly, who sang in the mixed chorus, ran 
parties for Clio (girls’ literary society) and 
gave away so many bright smiles and cheery 
hellos in the halls that she won a top school- 
government post, devoted as many as eight 
to ten hours weekly. While most fellows and 
girls are glad to leave school as soon as the 
3:25 bell rings, for a Coke at King’s (a small 
drugstore a block away from school) or the 
Ramona, a downtown sandwich shop popu- 
lar also with townspeople, Bev usually stayed 
until 5:30, rushed home for a quick dinner 
and was off again to church-choir rehearsal, 
a baseball game or the movies with the girls. 
She rarely started her homework before 11, 
felt lucky to get to bed by 1, was up again by 
7:30, and so tired by the end of the week 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


that she slept until 12 every Saturday morn- 
ing. 

Admitting the possibility that some stu- 
dents tend to overload, Mr. Glatfelter main- 
tains, ‘‘ That’s typical of human beings. How 
can you prevent them?” Yet Beverly 
slated for top jobs in both student govern- 
ment and the Dramatic Society—was told 
she must choose one or the other. And her 
parents, convinced by Anne Finkbinder, 
student-government faculty adviser, that 
“T’ve trained Beverly for two years; I can’t 
lose her now,” helped her decide that way. 

Bev’s biggest desire in life is to be liked. 
Secure in her parents’ and Don's deep devo- 
tion and interest at home, popular as ‘‘our 
little girl’”’ to her father’s congregation, she 
was surprised in school to find that “not all 
people are nice.”’ She did one boy’s Latin 
translations, another’s English papers all 
last year, but when she needed help with 
French, was hurt to find both boys ‘too 
busy’”’ to help her. After she had spent part 
of Friday and all day Saturday arranging a 
Clio barn dance which the boys classed ‘the 
best this year”’ (although her date com- 
plained that she spent so much time or- 
ganizing games that he hardly saw her all 
evening), a ‘“‘troublemaker”’ accused her of 
padding the party expense account. Bev, as- 
tonished, burst out crying, was convinced 
by her mother that she should try to see why 
people act as they do (‘‘Maybe the girl was 
jealous because you did such a good job’’). 
Because Bev likes all people, she expects all 
people to like her; is slowly learning that re- 
lationships are two-way propositions, that 
she must develop her own personality, and 
adjust to those who are not so even-tempered 
as herself. 

Did high school satisfy Beverly? Em- 
phatically_ yes. Loudly applauded by her 
teachers—‘‘She’s mature and responsible; 
she can do any job well’’—elected time and 
again to school offices by her fellow students 
because she’s a ‘“‘swell kid” and “good or- 
ganizer,’’ Bev found high school such a vital, 
exciting part of her life that she said sadly on 
Commencement Day, **It was so much fun 
being in on things that I just hated to 
graduate.” 

While Bev was known to all the kids in 
York High, outside of school she clung to one 
close friend, Gaynor Murdough, a languid 
brunette whom she still sees so constantly 
that friends tease them about “going 
steady.”” They have no secrets, spend most 
of their time discussing boys, and call each 
other after every date—even as late as 
3 A.M.—to find out “how things went” or “‘if 
I said the right thing.’”’ Once when both 
girls were walking down the street in red 
dresses, and a boy lounging on the corner 
whistled and said, “I'll take the one in red,” 
Gaynor remarked, “I hate it when boys 
talk about me that way.’”’ Another time she 
told Bev, “It’s nice being best friends with a 
girl who isn’t as attractive as I am.”’ But 
when Bev was sick for a week, Gaynor 
brought over her homework and the latest 
school news every day, this summer invited 
her to spend two weeks with the Murdoughs 
at the seashore, is always willing to suggest 
that her date bring ‘‘someone for Bev.” 


Asa general rule in York, about four out 
of ten girls go steady; the rest have only a 
few formal dates. The unattached boys say 
either “‘There’s no future in dating”’ (which 
is a blasé way of saying they’re ‘‘above”’ 
such things) or “‘Who could I ask who would 
go with me?” But when they meet the girls 
at the Teen-Age Center or after the movies 
they’re likely to mutter, “I’ve got the car so 
I might as well take you home,” pile eight 
kids in a 1938 Dodge and take off for the 
Orange Top or Amber Light, two ‘“‘night 
clubs”’ on the edge of town which serve no 
liquor, but are high on hamburgers and 
malteds. A date is usually the movies or an 
informal school dance, with something to 
eat afterward, and home by 11 on week nights 
and 1 on Saturday night~Bev is one of the 
few who can set her own deadline). To be 
rated ‘“‘popular,” a girl should be seen at 
eight school dances (she can ask her own 
date, though) and three big literary-society 
formals (only members may invite dates). 


Another ‘must”’ is the midnight movie six 
nights a year at a downtown theater where 
everybody sits in the balcony eating pop- 
corn, whistling and shooting paper air- 
planes, and no one would think of getting 
home before 3. Bey made them all. 

On the whole, dating and friendships are 
taken casually at York High. Most kids have 
a cluster of special friends they meet in the 
school cafeteria for lunch, or after school for 
a Coke; a few “‘special”’ dates they see again 
and again. While many ‘‘steady” couples 
last only a week, there are occasional in- 
tensities. One girl who broke up with a boy 
was afraid to go home nights for two weeks 
because he patrolled the house with his 
friends—‘'If you date anyone else, I'll beat 
him up’’; very occasionally a boy dating a 
girl who’s turned down another boy may 
find all his tires flattened when he comes out 
to drive the girl home. 

Up until Christmas Eve, Bey—who is 
strongly influenced by Gaynor—thought 
most York High boys “too silly and child- 
ish”’ to take seriously. When a boy she'd 
dated three times asked her to go steady, she 
changed the subject quickly, and then re- 
fused his next two date offers—‘‘It would 


a At a dinner party, a rather self- 


assured young man found him- 
self seated next to Mrs. Sidney Webb. 
After some rather impertinent pre- 
liminary remarks, he said, “All this 
talk about feminism seems absolute 
nonsense to me. Why. there isn’t a 
woman on earth today who wouldn't 
rather be beautiful than clever.” 

“lL admit that.” replied Mes. 
Webb. “But did you ever stop to 
think why? It's because so many 


men are stupid—and so few are 
blind!" 


be too boring.”’ A college friend of her brother 
impressed her because he was “quiet, re- 
served and very sophisticated,” and what's 
more, remembered to open the car door for 
her (a courtesy generally overlooked by 
York High boys), but the relationship never 
got beyond the “just friends’’ state. Caught 
between her mother’s feelings about sex 
“‘T necked when I was young—it’s healthy if 
you like a boy, and know when to stop” 
and Gaynor’s idea that “necking is silly,” 
Rev used to kiss the boys good night only if 
she liked them very much, necked twice 
when she was “‘caught”’ in a parked car, but 
never let it happen twice with the same boy. 
When she said positively, ‘‘ Most girls don’t 
neck,”” a boy overhearing her remarked, 
“Then who do the boys neck with?” 

Out of 1093 girls in York High, 23 preg- 
nancies were reported to the school nurse 
last year—21 unmarried. Of these, only 2 
girls failed to get married—they had their 
babies, left them at home with their mothers 
and returned to school. (One girl had been 
raped on a blind date, refused to marry the 
boy because she ‘didn’t know him well 
enough,” is now trying to regain her reputa- 
tion in school by electing many activities 
and refusing to neck at all.) Most of the fa- 
thers were older and out of school, but two 
were high-school athletes. While the pro- 
spective mothers had to leave school during 
their pregnancies, the two fathers were al- 
lowed to stay—and with no curtailment of 
activities (although a large segment of the 
faculty felt they should have been forced to 
drop all activities). The majority of these 
girls came from better homes and more in- 
tellectual scholastic courses. 

Beverly, who studied the process of birth 
in school last year, wasn’t surprised at these 
figures—‘‘The girls were so weak-kneed 
they’d let the boys do anything’’—but 
wouldn’t want the girls for friends now. She 
agreed with the other girls in her Personal 
Living class that “‘no one should have extra- 
marital relations unless they’ve gone together 
at least three years and can’t get married be- 
cause of something like supporting their 
parents. Even then it’s risky because you 
might get a guilty conscience, or the man 
might think you were doing it with others 


August, 1949 


too.” Because most Clio barn parties end up 
“rolling in the hay” (heavy necking in the 
hayloft), Bev arranged such a full schedule 
of games and dances for the last one that 
“nobody got a chance to neck.”” When she 
entertains at home her parents remair, 
quietly in the background, but her friends 
know they're there, and concentrate o: 

games and food, A boy who stopped datin 

“because the novelty wore off” reported dis- 
gustedly that an unchaperoned party at one 
girl’s house ended up with everybody “off 
necking in a corner; the whole place was 
oversexed,”’ 


Secret.y Beverly had wondered for a long 
time if she was being foolish not to get more 
fun out of dating. Why had she never been in 
love? Was she really, as Don jokingly accused 
her, an “asexual prude”? On Christmas Eve 
she decided to change her reputation. She 
was out until 4 that night, 5 on New Year's 
Eve. She began flirting with the boys; de- 
cided, ‘‘ Why should I be a cold potato when 
none of the other girls are?"’ Most important 
to her, she talked herself into having a crush 
on one of the school’s big activity men. He 
liked her too, They dated frequently for two 
months, but he was ‘too busy”’ with home- 
work and school jobs to go steady with any- 
one until after graduation. Even his friends 
told her, *‘ Better lay off for a while, Bev.” 
She says she decided she didn’t want to go 
steady, anyway, but her pretty brown eyes 
still light up whenever she hears his name. 
And she “might” invite him down for 
William and Mary’s big fall week end. 

While Bev doesn’t like to read books and 
much prefers articles with many pictures, she 
doesn't hesitate to discuss anything she’s 
learned about at home or in school. She 
approves of Mayor Bentzel because he’s a 
“good churchman,” but has no idea what 
his politics are. She would like to be Presi- 
dent for a day so she could “kick out all the 
officials and put in some good ones,” but 
can't list any bad officials by name. She has 
never felt any prejudice toward other races— 
“Tt just doesn’t make sense—and boy, would 4) 
our basketball team have been lost without 
our four star Negro players!”"—but knows 
little about President Truman's Civil Liber- 
ties Bill. Not the least bit interested or ex- 
perimental about smoking or drinking her- 
self, she doesn’t mind if her friends do (Gay- 
nor tried both so she’d never get stuck when 
she felt like acting sophisticated) ,says lightly, 
“T doubt if I'll turn into a drinking woman 
even if I marry into it." Smoking is forbidden 
in York High, and only a few boys sneak out 
into the back alley for a quick cigarette, be- 
cause the penalty for getting caught is ten 
hours’ detention. None of the boys or girls 
in Bev’s crowd smoke or drink. 

More conscious of religion than her friends, 
although York has been called the “city of 
churches,” Beverly attends church every 
Sunday morning, occasionally misses the 
evening service for homework, but never for 
dates, feels that ‘‘if people are really Chris- 
tian, they go to church.”” Don, a “‘ Progres- 
sive Christian’’ who favors dancing in the 
church auditorium and movies on Sunday, 
argues stanchly against his father’s more 
conservative views. When Bev tells him, 
“You'll get over it,’’ he answers, “I hope 
you'll be more questioning when you get to 
college.” 

Beverly, on the brink of a new life, looks 
forward to college eagerly as a “chance to 
find myself.’’ While she is a fine speaker and 
has been urged by the manager of a local 
radio station to study dramatics, she takes 
thoughts of a career lightly. She’d much 
prefer “‘to get married, have four children 
and make housekeeping my career.’’ She’s 
planned her wedding five different ways 
already, at the latest count will have four 
bridesmaids in filmy green dresses, a maid 
of honor (Gaynor) in pale yellow, and her- 
self in gleaming white satin. Candles willy 
shine on the altar, the groom will be hand- 
some and very much in love. And after a 
honeymoon in some glamorous spot like 
Bermuda, the couple will come back to live 
in York, Pennsylvania. 

That is the way Beverly Simonton sees 
herself in four years. THE END 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 













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No one would have been more surprised at 
all this interest than the Lees themselves. 
They knew for a fact that people in a big 
city like New York are just the same as in- 
visible. Back in Little Teacup, Pennsylvania, 
you spoke to everybody you met on the 
street, or they thought you were sick. Not 
here. Here, no one even saw you. Here, you 
fixed what Stephen (Smoldering) called a 
mug on your face and sallied forth, conduct- 
ing your business behind it, the business of 
“What shall we have for dinner tonight?” 

r ‘‘What would he say if I hit him for a 
raise?”’ Or, as in the case of Smoldering on 
this particular spring night, My gosh, my 
gosh, my gosh, how much longer can I stand 
this love stuff ? 

It really was hard to take, and just when 
you thought it was beginning to get better, it 
got very much worse. Even over the tele- 
phone, even when it wasn’t anything more 
than, ‘““‘Um ... um, and so are you... 
Um-h’m, so do I.... Yes, I still do, darling.” 

After about five minutes of that, Smolder- 
ing felt curdled beyond endurance. At such 
times he would say “Gaaaah!” under his 
breath. At such times Mrs. Zinsberg would 
make a check on the chart to indicate that 
Smoldering had left, hurriedly. 

For the Lees’ design for living was a direct 
cesult of the housing shortage, of which you 
may have heard. You take two brothers who 
are finishing up at Columbia, you assume 
that one has just married the girl of his 
heart, and that, after interminable search, 
they have found the only apartment avail- 
able in all New York, and that it costs ninety- 
three dollars a month for two bedrooms and 
a darling living-dining room, and a swanky 
kitchen and bathroom. You know that is 
about ninety dollars more than they can 
afford, and what happens? Everybody dashes 
out and gets jobs, and Stephen Blakely 
(Smoldering) Lee moves into the second bed- 
room, to ease the strain on the budget of 
Mr. and Mrs. Donald Fairmount Lee, as 
well as to keep a roof over his own head. 

Simple, isn’t it? 

Ive got to rationalize this, Stephen told 
himself desperately. J simply cannot let it get 
me down. It was the third time that evening 
that Don had called Betty from the tele- 
vision station where he had a part-time job, 
the third time that she had reassured him of 
the unchanged state of her affection. Stephen 
picked up an armload of books and retreated 
toward the public library. As he walked 
along, he could not help noticing the 
quick double-takes that often came his way. 
Unh-hunh! he said, smoldering even more 
intensely. Not for me, sister! I’m vaccinated. 

It was the one redeeming feature of being 
the silent partner in this love nest. He had 
come to the definite decision that this was 
not for him. As soon as Don could swing the 
rent, he, Steve, would move to some exclu- 
sively male spot. He would live where long 
dark nylon stockings never dropped into his 
bath water, where no one clacked around in 
velvet mules with pink feathers on them. 

Not for him, marriage. Unh-hunh, sister, 
save your speed! 

Why, Don and Betty did not even talk in 
normal voices. They cooed. They held hands 
when they were supposed to be doing the 
dishes. Steve had never figured what he ought 
to do. He stayed in his room—and their feel- 
ings were hurt. He came out—and his feel- 
ings were macerated. He ate with them, and 
Don devoured charred ruins without once 
lowering his starry gaze from the eyes of his 
beloved, while Stephen poked his dinner with 
his fork and wondered what it had been be- 
fore Betty cremated it. He ate out, and went 
broke. He could not leave them to meet the 
rent alone, and he could not stay 

At this point, Stephen slammed his book 
shut and scowled up into the startled eyes of 
the prettiest librarian, who had promoted 
herself to the position of telling this hand- 
some thing that the library was now closing 
for the night. 

“Mercy!” gasped the prettiest librarian, 
stepping back. 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


THE VACCINATION 


(Continued from Page 39) 


“T don’t really bite,”” Stephen reassured 
her with a reluctant grin. “It’s—I’m ie 

The librarian was really extremely pretty. 
Now she smiled pleasantly at him. “The li- 
brary is closing, sir.’’ It sounded exactly like 
Betty talking to Don! That sort of singing 
note. The mating call, thought Stephen. He 
turned on the big chill. 

“Thank you,” said he, and walked right 
straight out into the night. ‘My gosh!” 

Spring in New York is a matter of delicate 
nuances: no blatant business of wobbly- 
kneed lambkins skipping about a pasture in 
a frenzy of trustfulness. Spring in New 
York is a cloud formation behind a tall gray 
building, an old man with a pushcart of flow- 
ers, a tenderness in the air. Sniffing the air, 
Stephen sighed. How long, he wondered 
gloomily, can a honeymoon last? He went 
home to the hot chocolate and cookies— 
Betty did make good hot chocolate—which 
the Lees had at midnight. 

He met Don on the stairs, and they climbed 
up to the fourth floor together. Don was his 
usual ebullient self. How a guy could take 
nine hours of math and physics, hold down a 
part-time job and come home every day 
walking as if there were little rose-tipped 
clouds underfoot, Stephen did not know. 

Betty met them at the door, after her day 
of being a secretary, her evening of being a 
housekeeper, bland, smiling. She kissed Don. 





“We're going to have a party,” she said 
radiantly. 
“Swell,’”’ said Don. 


“Now?” asked Stephen brokenly. ‘‘I have 
an exam coming up tomorrow.” 

“No, goon-child,” caroled Betty. ‘This is 
just hot chocolate ——” 

“Tt’s boiling over,” said Stephen. 

It was. But they had it anyway. 

“Aunt Mary is giving us the cabinet grand 
she promised,” Betty told them, over the 


THE VISIT TO 


steaming cups. “A piano, imagine! It will 
simply make the living room! I thought we'd 
have a party, like back home, as soon as it 
comes. A piano-warming.” 

Don took her into his arms. ‘‘Of course 
we'll have a party, baby.”’ He kissed her, 

“Who'll we ask?”’ demanded Stephen. 
“Who do we know around here?” 

And then he was sorry, because Betty’s 
face got very serious and sad, and she stepped 
back out of Don’s arms as if all the fun had 
gone out of everything. “Oh, well,” said 
Betty, “it was just an idea.” 

After that, they both thought up guests 
for the party. Don’s boss would come, and 
his wife, said Don. Steve would bring some 
of the fellows from Columbia. So would Don. 
They persuaded Betty to think. Weren’t 
there any pretty girls in her office? Betty 
brightened a little. She would see, she said. 


“A piano, yet,” said Mrs. Zinsberg, watch- 


ing the men unloading it. “It would be even 
better if anyone stayed home long enough to 
play it.” 

““How do you know it’s for them?” asked 
Mrs. Overholt, coming up. 

“T asked,” said Mrs. Hagen. 

It was the night before the party. Betty 
showed Stephen how to help her make rolled 
sandwiches. Without Don around, Betty 
seemed quite sensible. They rolled the sand- 
wiches in dry towels and in damp towels and 
set them in the refrigerator for over night. 

“T love a party,” said Betty in a perfectly 
normal voice. ‘Don’t you, Steve?” 

“Yeah,” said Stephen. ‘I think I'll turn 
in now. Don will be along any minute.” 

Betty smiled after the tall, boyish figure. 
If Steve ever suspected that this party was 
being engineered for him! Poor, lonesome 
Steve, so out of it all; what he needed was to 
meet a nice girl. The nicest girl she had met 


THE NURSERY 


By FRAGONARD 


HERE were curiously conflicting 

trends in French eighteenth-cen- 
tury painting, as there were in the 
social life of the age of Louis Quinze 
and Louis Seize. Jean Honoré Frago- 
nard (1732-1806), one of the most en- 
chanting of painters, mirrors in his 
work these inconsistencies. He was 
the fashionable designer of boudoir 
decorations, usually of the most en- 
ticing sensuousness: but, happily mar- 
ried himself, he was also the apostle of 
domestic felicity. He was a favorite 


artist of a debonair and sometimes 
dissolute aristocracy, yet many of his 
paintings, such as The Visit to the 
Nursery, are paeans to simplicity and 


natural goodness. Often impelled by 
the taste of his age to be didactic, his 
sermons are acted out by women of 
the most piquant beauty and men of 
the most sophisticated elegance. 
These contradictions are sympto- 
matic. As the French Revolution ap- 
proached, Fragonard’s patrons were, 
consciously or unconsciously, under 
the strain of a vague foreboding. Per- 
haps as an escape from this feeling of 
insecurity, or perhaps because of the 
popularity of Rousseau, it became the 
fashion to depict a factitious world of 
peasant life, a pastoral paradise either 
of dallying swains and their coy 
sweethearts, or of Darby and Joan 
living in conjugal bliss. A simple, 
bucolic existence appealed to a court 
so stifled by etiquette that boredom 
had become an occupational disease. 
The fiction that it was pleasant, 
even desirable, to be poor was the 





theme of a story by Saint-Lambert, 
published in 1766 and called Sara Th. 
Its doctrine is that love in a cottage is 
on the whole preferable to love in a 
castle; and that the heroine, an English 
woman of rank, who was for a time 
prevented from marrying her suitor 
because of his inferior social position, 
Was wise to persevere. For the reward 
of finally becoming a farmer's wife 
was the triple blessing of an adoring 
husband, charming children and, 
somewhat surprisingly, an excellent 
nurse! The novel was popular, and 
Fragonard used it as the basis for his 
painting, The Visit to the Nursery, now 
in the Kress Collection, National Gal- 
lery of Art, from which engravings 
were made and sold widely. It was a 
pleasant illusion, this concept of the 
felicity of the common man, and par- 
ticularly so when, as here, he is hand- 
some and well fed and his wife pretty 
and well dressed. 

Thus Fragonard was in a way a 
painter of “social content,” to use a 
modern term. But it is interesting to 
note that whereas our contemporary 
painters who deal with such themes 
depict sharecroppers, miners and fac- 
tory workers with almost painful re 
alism, the eighteenth century did the 
reverse. Our self-criticism today in 
literature and art is a commentary on 
the growth of a social conscience, 
which can be traced to the eighteenth 
century and to books like Sara Th. . 
and paintings like The Visit to the 
Nursery. —Joun WALKER, 

Chief Curator, National Gallery of Ari. 


August, 1949 


since they had come to New York was Sally 
Wilks in her office. If Steve and Sally—of 
course, it was too soon to hope yet, but 
supposing Steve and Sally —— 


The party was a success. One of the 
people who seemed to be having the 
gayest time, apparently, was Don's boss, 
who—unaware of the flat contradiction in 
terms—would have described himself as a 
young forty-five. It was he who began calling 
for the tunes which had been killers in the 
’20's. Hardly anybody knew the words, but 
some of the crowd hummed along anyway. 
It is the effect a piano has. 

The girl Stephen noticed was the one 
whose name was Wilks. He was affronted at 
the disagreeable expression on her face. She 
had stepped back from the piano. After all, he 
thought, Betty had worked like a beaver to 
get this party organized, What was the mat- 
ter with this Wilks? He drifted over to 
where she stood. 

“You don’t like?” he muttered in her ear. 

“Tt’s lovely.” 

“Give that remark a little more zuzz. Say, 
‘It’s lahvely!’ or I'll think maybe you are 
not being entirely sincere.” 

She looked up at him and laughed in a 
superior sort of way. Then she asked, ‘‘ What 
is there about middle-aged music of this sort 
that is so—so macabre? A nice old waltz is 
charming. But when you try to resurrect an 
old hot-licks number ——” She shook her 
head sadly. 

“It’s embarrassing,” suggested Stephen, 
instantly intrigued. ‘‘Like grandmaw haul- 
ing up her skirts and giving out with a quick 
fox trot.” 

This time, when she laughed, it sounded 
like little bells. It was quick acquiescence. 
“I’m afraid you have something there.” 

Stephen saw at once that this girl was 
different. They wandered out into the 
kitchen together, and it was no time at all 
before they discovered dozens of mutual 
likes and mutual dislikes. 

They both felt the same way about mar- 
riage, for instance. Sally intended to remain 
single forever. Stephen told her he was vac- 
cinated. Sally thought that very clever. She 
was one of four children, and of course they 
had a large apartment for the six, but just 
the same —— 

It was relaxing, and at the same time 
bracing, to think that they could just enjoy 
being —— 

“Being friends,” said Sally simply, look- 
ing up at Stephen from under her fringy 
eyelashes in a very friendly manner. 

Stephen was careful. He narrowed his eyes 
intently and analyzed that voice. There was 
no mating call there, no here-I-am, the way 
there had been in the librarian’s voice. 
Secure in the knowledge of his vaccination, 
he relaxed. 

““Have a sandwich,” he invited. 

“Look at them,” said Betty to Don. 
“‘Look in there at Steve, honey. He’s having 
a wonderful time. Wouldn’t it be divine if it 
just sort of happened that Steve and 
Sally —— 

Don gave her arm a friendly little shake. 
“Wake up, woman!” he said, serene in his 
superior masculine knowledge. “It can’t hap- 
pen. Not with my hard-shelled brother. I 
don’t imagine Stephen will ever marry.” 

“You’re probably right, at that,” said 
Betty meekly. “But would you want to bet?” 


“Apathetic” was the word for Mrs. Zins- 
berg, for Mrs. Overholt, for Mrs. Hagen as 
they watched with uninterested eyes the 
two young Mrs. Lees tripping forth, just 
before nine, with their brief cases. 


e 


“Prob’ly all they got in them is sand- € 


wiches,” said Mrs. Overholt. 

The four young Lees, sharing the apart- 
ment, working, studying, laughing, making 
love, were of the most remote interest to the 
good ladies. Sure, they were fine young peo- 
ple. Sure, they’d most likely get ahead, the 
way they worked and went to school and 
all. . . . The thrill was gone. 


THE END © 


just © 


| 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


August, 1949 


CONVERSATION PIECE 


(Continued from Page 76) 


All we need with the casserole and salad 
are an assortment of relishes and something 
rather special in the way of bread. For the 
relishes, red and icicle radishes, scallions and 
strips of garlic dill pickles will be fine, and 
bread sticks will be superlative for the bread. 
I must confess that until about a year and a 
half ago I had never made bread sticks. 
Maybe I wouldn’t have done it then, but I 
wanted them for a special meal, I couldn’t 
buy them here in the country, and it was too 
much trouble to cart them out from New 
York, So I worked out a recipe, found that it 
wasn’t much of a trick to make them, and 
now we have bread sticks often, 

For dessert we'll have homemade French 
pastries and a bow! of fruit. The pastries are 
quite sweet, but the fruit will provide a fresh 
tart taste as a finale. And just in case you 
think, Ye gods, I'm not about to make French 
pastries, let me assure you that these are a 
very simple version of that tony sweet. 

Now we are ready for recipes, and I've 
planned them for ten people. 


LENTIL-AND-SMOKED-TONGUE 
CASSEROLE 

Boil a large smoked beef tongue until tender. 
They usually weigh about 444 pounds and 
take about 3'% hours’ cooking time. If you 
use a tongue that comes wrapped in heavy 
cellophane, follow cooking directions on the 
package, and when cooking time is up re- 
move tongue from pot, pierce the cellophane 
and save the rich broth that will run out. We 
don’t need it for the casserole, but it will 
make a wonderful seasoning for split-pea 
soup, baked beans and any number of dishes. 
| have never found these tongues too salty, 
but if you use one that doesn’t come wrapped 
in cellophane, better play safe by soaking it 
overnight in cold water. Another method of 
removing salt is to cover tongue with cold 
water, let it come to a boil, pour off this wa- 
ter, cover tongue with boiling water and con- 
tinue cooking until tender—about 45 min- 
utes to the pound over low heat. When tongue 
is done and cool enough to handle, plunge it 
into cold water, peel off the skin and trim 
off fatty and hard portions and the roots. 
Cut the whole tongue into cubes about % 
inch each way. 

Soak 2% cups lentils overnight in cold wa- 
ter. Drain, cover with cold water and bring 
slowly to a boil. Turn down heat and simmer, 
uncovered, '4 hour and drain. 

Melt 4 tablespoons butter or margarine in 
a skillet and add 2 or 3 cloves garlic, finely 
minced, 2 cups chopped green and red sweet 
pepper and 2 cups chopped onion. Sauté 5 
minutes, stirring often. 

In a stewing pan heat a 10'%-ounce can 
tomato purée, | cup water, | teaspoon salt, | 
teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, 2 ta- 
blespoons sugar and 2 tablespoons chili pow- 
der. (Some chili powders sold in Mexican 
shops are fiery hot, and if you use one of 
these cut down on quantity.) 

Now we're ready to fill the casserole, and 
be sure it’s a big one. Put in first a layer of 
lentils, next a layer of tongue cubes and 
then some of the onion and pepper. Continue 
with these alternate layers until casserole is 
full, finishing with onion and pepper, and add 
the tomato-purée mixture. Cover and bake 2 
hours in a moderate—350° F.—oven. When 
finished, the consistency should be moist but 
not soupy, so add water cautiously if needed. 
Do everything but the 2 hours’ baking the 
day before; and if you want, the whole job can 
be finished then and the casserole reheated to 
the boiling point just before you go outdoors. 
Later [ll talk about how to keep the cas- 
serole hot until you're ready to eat. 


SALAD 


To | pound cottage cheese add 3 tablespoons 
very finely minced or grated onion, 2 table- 
spoons prepared horse-radish, and salt to 
taste. Mix well and store in a container with 
a tight lid. The day before or the morning of 
the party, peel 2 firm cucumbers, leaving 
some of the green skin on, slice, cover with 
ice cubes and store in refrigerator. Wash salad 


greens and store in refrigerator. Several heads 
of Boston lettuce and a lot of water cress 
would be perfect, but any good greens are 
fine. As near the last moment as possible, cut 
stem ends from 8 or 10 medium tomatoes and 
peel them. Wrap in wax paper and put in 
refrigerator. 


CHIVE-AND-OLIVE FRENCH DRESSING 
Into a pint jar put | cup salad oil, }4 eup 
red-wine vinegar, | scant teaspoon salt, | 
leaspoon sugar, 4 Leaspoon paprika, \% lea- 
spoon dry mustard, | tablespoon catehup, 
2 tablespoons finely chopped chives—I use 
scissors to cut chives—and | heaping table- 
spoon finely chopped green olives. Shake 
well. If you have an attractive eruet or jar 
with a tight cork, pour dressing into it so 
that it will be ready to go to the party, or it 
can go in the jar in which it was made, 

This completes the prepreparation of the 
salad, and we'll go into the matter of service 
later. 


BREAD STICKS 

Seald | cup milk and add to it 44 pound—\4 
cup—butter or margarine, 2 tablespoons 
sugar and 114 teaspoons salt. Cool to luke- 
warm. Dissolve | package dry yeast, or | cake 
fresh yeast in }4 cup lukewarm water. If you 
use dry yeast, follow exactly directions on the 
package. Measure 3% cups flour into a bowl, 
add milk and yeast and | stiffly beaten egg 
white. Stir together and knead until dough 
looks smooth—about 3 minutes. Work into a 
ball, grease sides of bowl, cover with a towel 
and set in a warm place to rise until dough 
has doubled in bulk. This takes approxi- 
mately 2 hours. 

Separate dough into balls about the size of 
golf balls and roll and stretch each one into a 
cylinder about 7 inches long. The dough is 
quite stiff and manageable and it isn’t diffi- 
cult to make neat round sticks. Just press 
your hand on a ball and work it back and 
forth on the breadboard, then pull gently 
from each end to stretch it and roll some more 
until the shape is right. Transfer sticks to 
greased pans in which they are to be baked. 
Iron corn-stick pans are perfect, but cooky 
sheets do very well as a substitute. If you use 
cooky sheets, leave a space between the sticks 
so that they will not touch each other when 
they have risen again. 

Beat | egg yolk with 4 tablespoons cream, 
brush sticks lightly with this mixture and set 
to rise again for about 1% hours. Put them 
in a preheated hot— 425° F.—oven and bake 
10 minutes, then lower heat to 350° F. and 
continue baking 5 more minutes. At this time 
try astick. If it isn’t nicely browned all over 
and crisp all the way through, lower heat to 
300° F. and continue baking until this stage 
is reached. The sticks will be wonderful to 
dunk in the cottage cheese and they won't 
need butter. 


RELISHES 

Two or three days in advance, get half a 
dozen dill pickles and cut them the long way 
into fourths or sixths. Put the strips in a flat- 
bottomed refrigerator dish, add 4 or 5 cloves 
garlic, cut in half, and cover generously with 
light brown sugar. Let them stand in refrig- 
erator and occasionally give them a good 
stirring to distribute the garlic taste. The 
sugar will draw out much of the moisture of 
the pickles and leave them crisp and sweet. 

Clean scallions and red and white radishes, 
cover with ice cubes and store in refrigerator. 
If the icicle radishes are pretty big, cut them 
the long way into halves or quarters. 


FRENCH PASTRIES 

We'll have two kinds of pastries, both of 
which are made of a series of thin slices of 
poundcake with a thick filling between the 
slices and icing over all. So the first problem 
is the poundcake, and I suggest that you buy 
it if possible. The pastries are a rather fussy 
job, and you can buy excellent poundcake in 
grocery stores and bakeries. The cake must 
be in loaf shape, and be sure that the texture 
is even and firm, because we'll be slicing it 


very thin. If you can’t buy the cake, you'll 
find a recipe in almost any cookbook. 


CARAMEL PASTRIES 


Cover | can sweetened condensed milk with 
boiling water and let it boil gently 2 hours. 
Chill and empty contents of can into a bowl. 
d he milk will be turned to a deep caramel 
color and it will be very thick. It will have a 
strong caramel flavor and taste as if it had 
been made with loads of butter and sugar, 
but it will be only as rich as the milk was to 
begin with, which is a far ery from that rich. 
Stir in | tablespoon cream and | cup finely 
chopped nut meats. Any kind will do, and 
chop them fine but don’t pulverize them. 

Cut poundeake into 4 -inch slices. If you’re 
very handy with a knife, you can cut slices 
the long way of the loaf and save yourself 
trouble. But the slices must be even, and you 
may find it easier and surer to cut them the 
usual way. Spread a slice thickly with the 
caramel-and-nut mixture, top this with an- 
other slice of cake and continue until you 
have astack of 4slices of cake and 3 layers of 
filling. Use lots of filling and spread it evenly. 
Now cut these 4-decker cake sandwiches into 
oblongs approximately | inch wide and 3 
inches long. This is a fussy job of cutting. Use 
a very sharp thin-bladed knife and press as 
lightly on the cake as possible while you cut. 
If a little of the goo squeezes out, serape it off 
with a silver knife. Put the cakes in the re- 
frigerator while you make the frosting. 

Boil together 2 cups light brown sugar, 1 
cup light cream, !¢ pound butter or mar- 
garine and !¢ teaspoon salt until it will form 
a soft ball in cold water. If you have a candy 
thermometer, stop cooking when it registers 
239° F. If you don’t have a thermometer, 
start testing when the sirup begins to look 
heavy. Dribble a few drops of sirup into a 
cup of cold water, and if you can work it into 
a ball that won't flatten out the minute you 
stop playing with it, cooking time is over. 
Set the pan in cold water, and when sirup is 
lukewarm add | teaspoon vanilla and beat 
with a spoon until creamy. This is the most 

vonderful icing. Of course, the taste is terrific 
and it’s so manageable—it goes on easily and 
it hardens just enough on the outside so that 
it won't stick to your fingers. Ice each little 
pastry on all sides but the bottom and press 
3 whole pecan meats into the top. 


FRUIT FRENCH PASTRIES 





The procedure with poundcake is the same 
for these, but I like to cut them in squares 
for the sake of variety. We'll again use sweet- 
ened condensed milk for the filling. [ts such 
versatile stuff, it's very inexpensive and it 
isn’t too rich. As you may have noticed, I 
shy away from rich desserts. Empty contents 
of | can sweetened condensed milk into top 
of double boiler, and have only a little water 
in the lower pan. Cook, stirring most of the 
time, for 6 minutes, set pan in cold water and 
later transfer to refrigerator. The milk will 
become fairly thin during cooking, but when 





159 


it’s thoroughly chilled it will be very stiff. 
Stir in 14 cup lemon juice; 44 cup finely 
chopped nut meats, 44 cup dates, cut into 
very small pieces. and 2 tablespoons frozen 
or canned raspberries that have been drained 
of juice and pressed through a sieve to re- 
move seeds. There is the filling. Proceed just 
as you did with the caramel pastries, cut into 
squares and store in refrigerator while you 
make the icing. 

Let 14 pound butter or margarine stand at 
room temperature until soft. Add to it 2 cups 
confectioners’ sugar, 1 tablespoon cream, 3 
tablespoons red-raspberry juice drained from 
frozen or canned raspberries, and | teaspoon 
vanilla. Beat with rotary beater until blended, 
stand bowl in a pan of boiling water—not on 
the range—and beat until smooth and creamy. 
A drop or two of red vegetable coloring may 
be added if icing isn’t pink enough to look 
pretty. Transfer bowl to cold water and chill 
to right consistency for spreading, beating 
occasionally during chilling process. Ice pas- 
tries on all sides but bottom. 


Service. As for the service of our outdoor 
buffet—it will be the most casual thing in the 
world, but there must be some detailed plan- 
ning behind it, nevertheless. A table, and a 
bright cloth to cover jt, will be your main 
props. (I do think a table, even a folding card 
table, is essential. The ant, that model of in- 
dustry, can always find time to come to out- 
door parties.) For this kind of deal, a teacart 
would be handy for carrying food and dishes 
from the house to the scene of action, but 
trays or baskets would do very well as a sub- 
stitute. Whether you have a helper or whether 
you don’t, a thorough checking of lists, one 
or two careful mental rehearsals of procedure 
are needed to keep your service from being a 
hodgepodge. There are a lot of accessories as 
well as food going to this party, and it’s pain- 
fully easy to forget something vital. 

For your hot casserole, there are thick 
crocks of stoneware which retain heat, and 
will keep your main dish really hot for an 
hour or so. And there are pottery casseroles 
that can be heated electrically in the kitchen, 
and will stay hot when taken outdoors to the 
party. Lacking one of these, I know a good 
trick for keeping an ordinary casserole hot, 
and it really works. I have an enormous 
striped beach towel whose only mission in 
life is to go to outdoor parties. When the cas- 
serole comes out of the oven, piping hot, I 
wrap it at once in the beach towel so that all 
surfaces are covered with several thicknesses 
of cloth. This won’t keep the food hot for- 
ever, but it does an adequate job for the kind 
of party we’re talking about. 

This is the kind of meal that adapts itself 
to the individual-small-tables school of serv- 
ing—or individual trays would be fine too. 

Well, have fun. Of course, it has been 
known to rain in August, but don’t let that 
you dismay. This is a perfect meal for buffet 
service in the house, and it would be a shame 
not to use it that way sometimes. THE END 


**She insisted on my saying it over and over again.” 











































Al 


Every good cook tries to make 
food taste good and look good. 
And it’s so easy to do both with 
a rich, red topping of Campbell’s 
Tomato Soup! For instance: 
Green Peppers with Tomato Sauce 
Y_ cup chopped celery 
1 small onion, chopped 
2 tablespoons shortening 
1 pound ground beef 
6 medium green peppers 
2 cups cooked egg noodles 
1 teaspoon salt 
1% cans Campbell’s Tomato Soup 


Ever notice how many modern 
recipes call for tomato flavor? 
In such cases, clever cooks use 
Campbell’s Tomato Soup. To 
dishes old and new it imparts an 
exciting tang and savor. Try this: 


Ham Buffet Ring 


1 can Campbell’s Tomato Soup 
¥%, cup water 
2 tablespoons gelatin 
(softened in 2 cup cold water) 
1 3-oz. package cream cheese 
2 tablespoons lemon juice 


Heat your oven to 375° F (moderate). 
Cook the celery and onion in the short- 
ening until soft. Add the meat; cook 
until pink disappears, stirring to separate 
the meat particles. Cut off a slice of green 
pepper lengthwise; remove the seeds; 
parboil for 6 minutes; then drain. Add 
the noodles, seasonings, and % can of 
the tomato soup (as is) to meat. Stuff 
the peppers; arrange in greased baking 
dish. Bake about 40 minutes at 375° F. 
Fifteen minutes before taking from the 
oven, pour on the full can of tomato 
soup. Makes 6 servings. 





1 tablespoon grated onion 
Ya cup mayonnaise 
2 teaspoons prepared mustard 
2 cups ground cooked ham 


Combine soup and water; heat thor- 
oughly. Remove from heat; add softened 
gelatin and cream cheese; beat smooth 
with a rotary beater. Cool; add lemon 
juice, onion, mayonnaise, mustard and 
ham. Rinse ring mold (8! inches diam- 
eter) with cold water. Pour in mixture; 
chill 3-4 hours. Unmold on salad greens. 
Garnish with hard-cooked eggs and 
stuffed olives. Makes 8-10 servings. 


LOIRE co msdee SOT, E 





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We 
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lr you keep your eyes open —also your 


nose and ears—you can develop into a 
truly good amateur weather prophet. 
Here are some things to watch for: 

1. Swallows fly low before rain. This 
is true because they are chasing insects 
and insects fly low before a rain because 
their wings are damp and heavy. 

2. If drains, swamps, ditches, and 
so on, smell worse, a storm is coming. 
This is true because lower barometric 
pressure permits more gas to escape. 

3. On the other hand, flowers will 
smell sweeter before a storm, for the 
same reason. 

1. Sensitive flowers contract their 
leaves at the approach of a storm. The 
farmers’ handy barometer is the tulip, 
cassia, birdweed, chickweed, rainy mari- 
gold. All these foil species contract 
their leaves at the approach of storms. 

5. Corns and joints ache because of 
lowered pressure. 

6. If flies hang on an unconscionably 
long time and keep biting away—storm 
acomin’. Flies hang on longer before a 
storm because of heavier wings. 

7. Bees swarm before a rain. 

8. A halo around moon or sun means 
rain. The halo is caused by refraction of 
light, by ice crystals of the cirro-type 
clouds. These clouds will thicken and 
lower to bring rain. 

9. Clouds low on hills generally mean 
rain acomin’. 

10. When clouds at different levels 
float in almost opposite directions, heavy 
rain can be expected. This is an indica- 
tion of separate bodies of air at different 
temperatures. 

11. Falling chimney smoke denotes 
lowered barometric pressure and that 
means that a storm is on the way. 

12. Dew or frost at night is a good 
sign of fair weather next day. 

13. If it is raining and the wind veers, 
the wind generally will take the low- 
pressure area away and you can expect 
good weather. 

14. When you see clouds in the air 
dissolve, it means that moisture is being 
taken up by air and good weather can be 
expected. 

15. High clouds mean low moisture 
content and therefore good weather. 

16. When sea birds fly high and wheel 
round and round before the wind, a 
breeze is not far off. When the breeze 
comes, birds face into it. 

17. Midges and mosquitoes in great 
number, rain ahead. 





And So to Bed 


Everybody knows the affinity light- 
ning has for silk. So if any of you ladies 
are asleep with the windows open and it 


How to be 
an amateur 


weather prophet. 


starts raining during the night, you are 
perfectly justified in rousing your sleepy 
spouse to ask him to shut the window 
instead of doing it yourself. Your plea 
should be that his pajamas are cotton 
whereas your nightgown is silk, and 
that lightning will never strike his cotton 
pajamas whereas it may strike your 
nightgown and turn you into a ball of 
fire! If you face him with this scientific 
fact, we're sure he'll get out and shut 
the window, while you remain nestled 
snugly warm in your bed. After all— 
that window does have to be shut! 





Raby Forecast 


Is there such a category as woman's 
weather? Not any more than any one 
day's weather will please all men. But 
there is statistical justification for in- 
dicating the best time of the year to 
have a baby. 

In a study of nearly seven million 
births, the Metropolitan Life Insurance 
Company found that babies born in 
August and September are most likely 
to be born alive and to survive the 
hazards arising from congenital and 
prenatal complications. This is because 
the summer baby is conceived in au- 
tumn when its parents are usually at 
peak health, and because, in the last 
months of pregnancy, the mother enjoys 
the richest and most varied diet of body- 
building foods in a season relatively free 
from infectious diseases. 

No less important, the summer baby 
has four to six months in which to gain 
strength and resistance against the sea- 
son of cold and wet with its menace of 
influenza, bronchitis and pneumonia. 
Mortality figures in the Metropolitan 
study show deaths occurring from res- 
piratory diseases in the month of Janu- 
ary were 317 dead of every 100,000 
babies aged under one month old, but 
only 181 dead of every 100,000 babies 
aged three months. The mortality rate 
went steadily down as the babies were 
older by January. If you can work it out 
that way, plan your baby for August or 
September. 





5000 Samplers Can’t Ge Wrong 


The weather never stops happening, 
and often the latest news about it can’t 
be relayed to the public fast enough to 
do any good. There are developing situa- 
tions and disintegrating situations, and 
some take place right overhead. 

Just the same, the greatest pains are 
taken by the United States Weather 
Bureau to make even the general fore- 
casts as accurate as possible. We were 
astonished to hear how much last- 
minute information comes from vol- 
unteer weather observers. There are 
about five thousand of them. The 






Lt 
y ghoits te W 








Sa 


By Barrie Stavis and Harry Granick 


U.S. Weather Bureau furnishes their 
rain gauges and thermometers and the 
record forms on which they enter their 
observations, but they are not paid a 
cent. If anybody doubts the depth of 
interest inherent in our present subject, 
let him consider these men and women 
who out of sheer fascination report the 
weather day after day, Sundays and 
holidays included, year after year, and 
even from generation to generation. All 
their conscientious exertions, however, 
have not prevented somebody from 
posting a melancholy rhyme on a wall 
of the forecasting room in the New York 
City weather Office: 


As we approach life’s gray December, 
These in the main are our regrets: 
When we're right, no one remembers ; 
When we're wrong, no one forgets. 





Weather Folklore 


The sky is full of weather signs, ob- 
» served and interpreted through the ages 
by sailors, farmers, shepherds, hunters 
and warriors. Who has not heard some 
version of: 


An evening ted and morning gray 

Will set the traveler on his way 

But if evening's gray and morning ted . 
Put on your hat or you'll wet your head. 


The position of the celestial bodies has 
little value for weather prophecy. Yet 
there are contradictory theories about 
the meaning of the new moon when its 
bowl is upside down. The Irish believe 
the moon is emptying its bowl of mois- 
ture and that this means rain. The 
English say that it’s plain to see that 
the bow] is already empty and this mani- 
festly denotes clear weather. The truth 
is in the jingle: 

The moon and the weather may change 
together 

But change of the moon does not change 
the weather. 

If we had no moon—and that may seem 
slrange— 

We should still have weather subject to 
change. 





The Poetic Observations 


A rainbow in the morning 
Bids the sailor take warning. 
A rainbow at night 
Is the shepherd’s delight. 
and 
Mackerel backs and mares’ tails 
Make lofty ships carry low sails. 
are very wise, as are also the more 
matter-of-fact statements: 
Lightning at night without thunder, 
Windy weather next day. 
and 


Thunder in the afternoon will be 
followed by fine weather .. . 


A circle around the sun or moon, 
variously known as mock sun, dog 
sun, the rim, the wheel, mock moon, 
moon-bow, is a fairly certain sign of 
stormy weather. The Scots say, ‘The 
bigger the ring, the nearer the breeze. If 
the ring is greenish, rain; if its color is 
pale, batten the hatches.” 

Gloucester men say, “‘When there’s 
enough blue in the sky after rain to 
make a Dutchman’s breeches, the 
weather will be fresh and clear!” 
Another catch phrase is ‘“Clouds low on 
hills, rain acomin’!”’ But ‘* Dew or frost 
at night is a good sign of fair weather in 
the morning.” 

And of course, there is: 


A ted sky at night is the sailor’s delight. 
A red sky in the morning is the sailor’s 
warning. 





The Old Farmer’s Secret 


The Old Farmer’s Almanac has half 
a million subscribers, most of whom are 
farmers. 

The secret of its success is as old as 
the almanac itself. (George Washington 
was President when its first issue was 
published.) In making out the year’s 
forecast, its first editor was in a hurry 
one day, and failing to think up what 
the weather would be on July 13th, he 
told the printer to put in anything. 
Maybe he owed the printer money, but 
anyway the printer put in “ Rain, hail 
and snow.” Certain that this at least 
was a mistake, the editor caught it and 
corrected it before too many copies got 
out. And yet he wasn’t much surprised 
when it rained, hailed and snowed 
on July 13th that year. This is the 
scientific policy the almanac has 
pursued, and the high standards of 
accuracy it has maintained, for all 
these years. 





Tune In on the Weather 


We have a little house out in Bay 
Shore, Long Island. This past summer 
in order to test this traditional lore, we 
showed a list of weather maxims to a 
taciturn clammer who has spent all his 
life on Great South Bay in Long Island. 
When, after a reasonable time, he failed 
to react, we tactfully asked on what 
weather signs he staked his daily safety. 
Slowly he shifted his tobacco cud from 
the left to the right cheek, fixed us with 
the wall-eyed stare of a dead mackerel, 
and finally said, “‘The radio. What’s 
yourn?” 


161 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


THE STRONG 


August, 1949 


MAN 


(Continued from Page 36) 


wrestling in those days so after he licked 
everybody he had quit. He didn’t want to be 
a blacksmith like his father because there 
was no future in that either so he took what 
money he could get together and bought this 
farm in Southern Illinois. But since he didn't 
know much about farms he had ended up 
with about the poorest piece of land you ever 
saw. It was like trying to grow hair on a bil- 
liard ball. We boys always kidded about how 
we were going out and farm the cement road 
the next year and get a good crop for once. 
Ma had up and died about ten years before, 
and since then the youngest of us boys had 
each done the cooking as he had got old 
enough and we other boys and pa had worked 
the farm. 

Pa had naturally showed us the holts and 
we wrestled around the house nights and 
Sundays as there wasn't much else to do. It 
wasn’t really too bad but one or the other of 
us boys were always saying that we were go- 
ing to light out for St. Louis and leave this 
old rock patch forever. We half meant it and 
half meant it just to devil pa. Because pa 
would get up and whap whoever said it and 
we other boys would jump him and we'd have 
a tussle. 

Like the time about the ham. It was 
Easter Sunday and pa had traded some stuff 
for this ham so we could have a real nice 
Easter dinner for once it was a good big ham 
maybe twenty pounds. We were all out in the 
kitchen Sunday morning helping Jamie get 
it on when we noticed Jamie had a bad eye. 
He had been in to town the night before to a 
carnival and pa said right away I thought I 
told you Jamie not to get into any more 
fights in town. None of us boys went in to 
town much any more because we did get into 
fights although it was never our fault. I can’t 
think of a single fight that any of us boys 
ever got into that was our fault. But when 
somebody is getting ready to jump you you 
cannot just stand around with your hands in 
your pockets not in Southern Illinois. 

At first when one or the other of us boys 
would have to lick somebody in town their 
pa would come out the next morning to see 
pa. This was not a good idea as pa could 
smell a fight farther than a setter dog can 
smell a cow barn and he’d jump them just as 
they came in the gate. It got so that if any of 
us boys had been in to town Saturday night 
pa would get up early and have his oatmeal 
and then go out and sit on the front porch 
rocking and humming a little tune and look- 
ing up the road toward town. If anybody 
drove up and started for the gate he was 
down off that porch like a rat dog. You never 
saw a big man of middle age who could get 
around so well. You may ask why somebody 
didn’t pull a gun on pa. Well a fellow tried 
that one Sunday morning the uncle of the 
Bentley boys and pa took it away from him 
quicker than you could wink and beat him 
half to death with it. The town gradually got 
to leaving us Baxters pretty much alone and 
we left the town pretty much alone. 

So as I say we were sure surprised to see 
that Jamie had a bad eye. We were more sur- 
prised when he pulled out twenty dollars in 
cash money and threw it on the table. 


T wasn’t fighting anybody he said. The 
carnival had a fellow with it they called a 
strong man and they said they’d give twenty 
dollars to anybody that could put him down. 
So I went up and put him down. And what’s 
more he said I’m through cooking here. The 
fellow hurt his back in the tussle and I’m 
taking his place. The carnival leaves in the 
morning and I’m going along. I’m the new 
strong man. 

Haw cried pa. The new strong man. Ain’t 
that something. Well I’ve got some news for 
you boy you're going to stay right here. Me 
and the other boys ain’t going to sit around 
and starve just so you can be a strong man. 
Strong man my eye why you little runt you 
couldn’t lick a cat and besides no boy of mine 
is going to be a wrestler. 

Shut up you old goat said Ernie. You 
wrestled I guess Jamie can if he wants to. 


Old goat huh said pa. Haw. And he hit 
Ernie over the head with the ham. Drove 
him like a nail. Well who could blame him 
nobody likes to be called an old goat particu- 
larly your pa, But a tussle is a tussle so Ed 
stepped over Ernie and hit pa, Jamie hit Ed 
for hitting pa, I hit Jamie for hitting Ed, Jess 
jumped the both of us and suddenly that 
whole kitchen was like being inside a milking 
machine, Finally pa shook himself loose and 
took one last swing at Ed hitting Jamie by 
mistake and said boys this isn’t getting din- 
ner on. 

So we stopped and got the ham out from 
under the icebox where it had got kicked and 
finished getting it on and later when we had 
it it was as good a ham as you ever tasted, 
Only Ernie wouldn't eat any he was mad 
clear through at that ham because due to it 
he had laid there like a log and missed the 
whole thing. We kept asking him if he wanted 
some more ham but he wouldn't even answer 
he just sat there and ate his other stuff and 
gloured. 


‘The only thing more that was said was 
when we were getting ready to go to bed and 
pa already with his nightshirt on he looked 
as big as a house in that nightshirt I don’t 
know why he ever wore it said now Jamie I 
don’t want any more talk about this. I need 
every one 0’ you boys right here on this farm 
and I don’t want any more gabble about 
runnin’ away with a carnival is that under- 
stood good night. 

When we got up the next morning Jamie 
was gone all right. There was a note on his 
plate saying he was taking the truck but he’d 
leave it in front of the restaurant in town. 
When pa came down he stood by the table 
and read Jamie’s note over he must have 
read it forty times and then he said to nobody 
in particular well the first boy’s gone I never 
thought it would be Jamie. Then he picked 
up Jamie’s plate and carried it out to the 
kitchen and busted it on the sink. We won’t 
need that plate any more there’s only five of 
us now he said. Then real loud well what are 
you all standin’ around for Ernie you're the 
cook start cookin’. 

After breakfast I hitched a ride in to town 
and got the truck. 

Well the first word we hear of Jamie is 
maybe two months later. Then we get a letter 
saying he is doing fine with the carnival and 
inclosing ten dollars for pa and saying that 
the carnival is going to be over at Center- 
ville the next Saturday night which is a town 
about forty miles down the road and why 
don’t we come over and watch him put some 
of these fellows down. 

Well wouldn’t that be wonderful to see the 
strong man says pa. No thank you I’ve seen 
him. Aw now pa we say one after the other 
why don’t we just go over and watch. If 
you’re afraid he’ll jump you we can sit in 
the back. Haw says pa. Well if you’re not 
scared says Ed then come along. Well says 
pa I'll go just to see that you boys don’t get 
into any trouble. But I won’t speak. 

So we go. That next Saturday night we 
have an early supper and wash up the dishes 
real fast and then we all get dressed up in our 
town clothes pa and all and we climb in the 
truck and go. 

Centerville is a coal mining town a good 
sized place maybe four thousand and there is 
naturally a big crowd at the carnival. We go 
right past all the other stuff only stopping a 
minute while Ed throws some balls at those 
little bottles missing the bottles but nearly 
knocking the back out of the man’s tent and 
then we stroll on down laughing and talking 
to where the wrestling is. This is being held 
in a big tent with a ring set up inside and it 
costs you fifty cents to go in and watch and 
a dollar extra if you want to try to put 
Jamie down and win a hundred dollars 
thereby. 

Well of course as soon as we get in pa for- 
gets all about staying in the back and we 
push down as far as we can get pa saying 
excuse me friend and shoving people out of 
the way. 


Jamie doesn’t see us at all. He is up in the 
ring in a pair of black tights that fit him like 
his skin and he sure looks good. There is a 
fellow down on the mat tussling with him 
but he doesn’t seem to be making much 
headway although the crowd is yelling their- 
selves hoarse. Then we see why because 

ery time the referee’s back is turned Jamie 

twisting this fellow’s fingers nearly off. 
Well pa draws back and takes about one 
look at that and then he yells out Jamie you 
keep twistin’ that fellow’s fingers and I’ll 
come up there and lick you. Well the crowd 
roars at that and Jamie looks around startled 
which gives the other fellow an advantage 
and he slams Jamie down with a choke holt 
and suddenly Jamie is pounding the mat and 
yelling and pa lands in that ring in about one 
jump. Let’s see fair play done here he roars 
and he pulls the fellow’s head back and gives 
him a swat that would have killed a tree. 
Then the referee jumps pa Jamie jumps the 
referee we boys land in the ring and suddenly 
it is just raining coal miners. There is a com- 
motion in that ring I can tell you. For a 
while pa and we boys have nearly all we can 
do to defend ourselves. Then the sheriff gets 
there and starts shooting off his gun up 
through the roof of the tent and things calm 
down. 

Well what a mess. And who do you sup- 
pose is the maddest you would never guess 
Jamie. He is jumping up and down and yell- 
ing we have ruined it we have ruined the 
whole thing. You never saw such lack of 
gratitude. But we manage to get him out of 
there safeandintothetruck 
and we all drive home pa 
driving and nobody saying 


wearisome 


anything. When we get | ae hear complaints is 


there we get the lights on 
and find seats in the kitch- 
en and then pa says now 
just what was it boy that 
we ruined. The only thing 
I can see that we ruined is all our best clothes 
and all because we were trying to save you 
from a chokin’. 

So then Jamie explains this modern wres- 
tling to us. The fellow he was tussling with 
also worked for the carnival and when busi- 
ness was slow he and this fellow got up and 
tussled just to stir up interest and he wasn’t 
really twisting the fellow’s fingers and the 
fellow wasn’t really choking him at all. That 
was just the way the people liked it. Then 
you mean the whole thing was just a fake 
said pa well I never. Jamie I am just as glad 
you are done with that sort of business that 
is no way to make a living. I’m done with it 
all right said Jamie nobody would hire me 
for dog catcher after tonight. Well let’s get to 
bed said pa. 


Tue next morning Jamie gets up ahead and 
gets breakfast. Nobody tells him to he just 
knows it’s his place. We don’t say any more 
about last night but after breakfast pa goes 
out and sits on the front porch humming his 
little tune and looking down the road toward 
Centerville. He has loaded up the shotgun 
and has got it across his knees as he isn’t too 
sure what is apt to develop. These Center- 
ville fellows seem to fight in a group. 

Sure enough about ten o’clock a car drives 
up from toward Centerville and a little 
pudgy man weighing maybe two-fifty gets 
out and starts in the gate. Pa still rocking 
calls out I wouldn’t come in that gate mister 
if I was you. The man yells back I want to 
see you about your boys. And in he comes. 

Well that puts pa in a situation. He can’t 
very well use a shotgun on just one pudgy 
little man but on the other hand pa doesn’t 
get to shoot that gun any too often. So as the 
fellow turns around to latch the gate pa sud- 
denly swings her around at the barn and lets 
go both barrels. 

Then he drops Old Bess and leaps down 
into the yard. But that fellow just flies over 

e gate like a wild turkey. He heads for his 
Car jumps in and off he goes ninety miles an 
hour. 

By this time the other boys have come out 
attracted by the shooting and Jamie yells oh 
my gosh it’s Mister Willoughby hey Mister 
Willoughby Mister Willoughby. But the fel- 
low can’t hear him as he is just clearing the 


wretched and the happy. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


ridge toward town. He is going in the wrong 
direction to ever hit Centerville but he 
doesn’t seem to care. 

Well that does it yells Jamie. That was 
Mister Willoughby the wrestling manager 
and he probably drove clear over here to give 
me my job back and now he’ll sue us and 
take the farm. Well if he takes this farm said 
pa coming back across the yard it’ll be no 
more than what he deserves. 

We get Jamie calmed down but he says 
he’ll be darned if he’ll cook dinner for us so 
Ernie gets it and we are having it when the 
phone rings. Two longs and a short. 


Jamie jumps up and answers it and it’s 
Mister Willoughby. Oh hello Mister Wil- 
loughby says Jamie I’m sure sorry about pa. 

Sorry about pa. Haw says pa. 

What Mister Willoughby says Jamie. 
You want all five of us boys to wrestle for 
you —— 

At that pa jumps up and grabs the re- 
ceiver. Listen Willoughby he yells into the 
phone you keep messin’ around my boys and 
I’ll come lookin’ for you. I got a valuable 
farm here and we don’t need any o’ your —— 

That ended his part of the conversation be- 
cause Jamie took him back of the knees and 
down he went. As he went down he chunked 
the receiver at Jamie but it’s only got a little 
four-foot cord and it swung around and 
caught Ed as pretty an uppercut as you ever 
saw. Knocked him kicking. 

Jamie jumped up and caught the receiver 
as it came off Ed and said okay Mister Wil- 
loughby that’ll be fine we’ll 
meet you in Centerville 
this afternoon. . . . Noise? 
No there’s no noise here it 
must be something on the 
line good-by Mister Wil- 
loughby. 

Then he hung up and 
turned around to defend 
himself. But the tussle was over. I and Ernie 
and Jess were bringing Ed around and pa 
was just sitting there with his back against 
the wall. 

So now you're going to lead the other boys 
away uh Jamie he said. You are a Judas 
Jamie a one hundred per cent blasted Judas. 
You are a dirty dog. 

Oh hush up your bellyaching pa said Jess 
you’re just mad because Mister Willoughby 
didn’t want you to come along and wrestle 
too. 

Well why can’t he come along said Jamie 
he could be our manager or something. 

Well ain’t that kind of you said pa maybe 
I could also be your vallay and press your 
pants. No thank you he said getting up off 
the floor I’ll stay right here and run this 
farm. Any o’ you boys go that wants to I 
can run the place just as well with two or 
three as is I guess you’re not leavin’ for 
one are you Ed. 

Sure I’m going said Ed. Pa looked startled 
at Ed and then he looked at Jess. Jess he 
said. 

I’m going said Jess. 

Well the whole five of us said we were go- 
ing. Pa stood there looking at us first one 
and then the other. Well I’m damned he 
says. Then he turns around and goes out on 
the porch and starts rocking. 

Well having said we were going the only 
thing to do is go. So we commence getting 
our stuff together. 

When we start loading the suitcases into 
the truck pa still rocking calls out going to 
take the truck boys. 

Thought we would says Ed. We'll pay a 
fellow to drive it back. Fine says pa fine. 
Want you boys to be comfortable. 

Ed is the last to get in as he’s driving and 
with his foot on the running board he says 
now look pa why don’t you just shut the 
door and come along you’re just being a 
stubborn fool. 

Pa stops rocking and stands up. Ed he 
says I’ll give you till I count five to get off 
this property. 

Well pa would shoot his own head off after 
he’d counted five if he’d said he would. So 
Ed jumps in and we go leaving him standing 
there on the porch. We are maybe a quarter 
of a mile down the road when we hear Old 


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164 











LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





TELEPHONE DIRECTORY 


guordiera MONSETH 


You’tt find lots more folks listed in the pages of your telephone 
directory nowadays. 
Friends, relatives, doctors, businesses — they’re among those 


who use the millions of new telephones we've added in the past 
three years! 


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in most other things you buy. Matter of fact, they average only a 
penny or so per call. 


BELL TELEPHONE SYSTEM 





Bess let go. Bam bam. Buckshot shells. Pa 
no doubt blazing away at the barn again, 
That night about eight o'clock there is a 
big noisy crowd in the tent all hoping to see 
something like the night before and Jess is 
up in the ring tussling with a fellow and we 
other boys are standing around the edge get- 
ting pointers and taking turns in the ring. We 
are all in black tights like Jamie's only ours 
don’t fit as well and there is no use saying 
we're happy because we're not. It has turned 
out that Mister Willoughby has got about a 
good dozen of these strong man shows in dif- 
ferent carnivals around the country and in- 
| stead of us boys going to be together we are 
}each going to be put out tussling with a dif- 
ferent carnival and we will probably never be 
closer than a hundred miles to each other. 
Also by now we are beginning to be worried 
| about pa and wondering if that noise could 
| have been him blowing his fool head off and 
for about two cents we'd have chucked the 
whole thing and gone home. Only by now we 
have already paid a fellow a dollar to drive 
| the truck back. 

In the meanwhile we are taking our turns 
in the ring. Only we have got so little heart in 
it that once Ernie al- 
most gets put down 
by a fellow. He don’t 
of course which 1s a 
good thing because Gi 
the tent is jammed F ~~ 
full and Mister Wil- SKC 





rk xn 


(7 
: Ong 


August, 1949 


Up above us Jamie is circling around say- 

ing now pa now pa. The crowd is edging for- 
ward and the word has spread outside and 
more people are crowding in. The referee is 
tagging around after pa asking him if he 
knows the rules and finally pa turns around 
to him and says now you just hush up. Yes 
says Jamie this isn’t your put in. 
ry. 
Dien pa says now Mister Strong Man you 
no doubt have your own favorite holts but 
one 0’ old Frank Gotch’s favorite holts was 
the toe holt. And he leaps in and grabs Jamie 
and clamps a toe holt on him like you would 
nail a box shut 

Well to make a long story short in not over 
thirty minutes all five of the world famous 
Baxter Brothers are flat on their backs. | 
hate to admit it, but that’s what happens. 
We give pa a good fight but you might just as 
well try to down the Flatiron Building. Jess 
got a choke holt on him and said what do you 
say now and pa just bulged out his neck mus- 
cles and said choke away boy. Ed bounced 
off the ropes to butt him and pa raised up one 
big old knee and Ed hit it and went down 
like he was poleaxed. Pa is a caution. 

When he is through 
with the last one of 
us which is Ernie pa 
dusts off his hands not 
even breathing hard 
and says now boys 
get your clothes to- 


loughby is out in gether and let's get on 
front on the ticket By Elizabeth-Elien Long home tomorrow’s 
booth waving his Monday. 


arms and telling the 
people that tonight 
only they can see the 
greatest collection of 
strong men ever gath- 
ered together under 
one tent the world fa- 
mous Baxter Broth- 
ers. Meaning us 
World famous strong 
men. Haw pa 
would say. 

Just as I am think- 
ing this the referee 
rings the bell meaning 
that the fellow tug- 
ging at Jess has spent 
his dollar, and he and Jess climb down and 
Jamie whose turn it is next jumps in. He 
struts around and shows his muscles while 
the referee who also keeps time and takes 
your dollar says his speech about would 
anybody like to wrestle the great strong 
man. 

Why yes says a voice at the back of the 
crowd and a man starts pushing his way up 
to the ring a big man in his late forties maybe 
he is pushing fifty. 

Pa we cry. 

Haw cries pa because it is pa all right. We 
rush up to greet him but he pushes right on 
past as though he doesn’t know us from 
Adam jumps in the ring hands the man a 
dollar and starts shucking off his clothes 
pants and all. Hey says the man you got to 
put on your tights but it is like saying hey to 
a passenger train. Pa goes right ahead un- 
dressing Jamie looking on in great horror. 


things: 


swings, 


that: 


as 
ease! 


a a ae 


‘THEN we see that under his clothes pa has 
got on his old purple wrestling tights. 
They’re faded and they’ve got moth holes 
here and there but none in what you might 
call important places and pa looks just fine. 
He looks like an old purple bull. 

Then he kicks his clothes out of the ring 
hitches up his tights and turns around. Good 
evening he says to Jamie are you the strong 





man. And he advances on him. 

Well pa knows and Jamie knows and we all 
know that this puts us in a horrible dilemma. 
There is nothing we would like better than to 
all jump pa as usual but if Jamie is the strong 
man and getting paid for it he is supposed to 
take on anybody that comes along although 
none of us have ever thought that this would 
include pa. But pa has paid his dollar and as 
we see it Jamie is stuck with the assignment. 
And knowing pa each of us is going to be 
stuck in turn unless one of us can manage to 
down him along the way. 


Who plants a tree plants other 
Boys’ climbing places, small girls’ 


Lookouts for sea-going hearties, 
Hide-and-seek and doll tea parties. 


Who plants a tree plants more than 
For birds a leafy Ararat, 


For squirrels a windy green trapeze, 
And, for himself in need, heart's 


KRY ae = 


Well we boys get 
up feeling pretty fool- 
ish I can tell you. The 
crowd has yelled and 
laughed theirselves 
hoarse but they now 
file out knowing noth- 
ing can follow this 
and as pa is pulling on 
his pants we notice a 
figure circling around 
the ring a few feet out # 
It is Mister Willough- 
by. Could I see youa 
minute Mister Baxter 
he calls out still skit- 
tering around. Why 
of course says pa tucking in his shirt any time 
at all. So Mister Willoughby sidles up. 

Mister Baxter he says could you put on a 
show like that with the boys very often with- 
out getting hurt. 

What do you mean says pa how would you 
get hurt. 

Well then says Mister Willoughby I have 
got a great idea. We will shake this carnival 
thing and we will travel around the country 
and put on some real wrestling shows for the 
folks. People like action and you Baxters 
have got the most action I ever saw. I wil! 
guarantee you and the boys five hundred dol- 
lars a week to start and in no time at all 
that’ll be peanuts. Why I can see it now says 
Mister Willoughby the most amazing family 
of strong men in America the Six World Fa- 
mous Baxter Brothers. 

Six asks pa. 

Six says Mister Willoughby. Not even an 
experienced medical man would believe that 
you are any older than the other boys so we 
will just make you all brothers. 

And that Mister Gooch is how we Baxter 
boys got started wrestling. Pa is the one in 
the middle the big one: When we put on a 
show we just choose up sides and go at it and 
people sure seem to enjoy it. Business has 
been so good that we and Mister Willoughby 
are getting downright rich. 

And that is why Mister Gooch we are get- 
ting so tired of all this talk. Because at the 
rate people are willing to pay to see these 
little family tussles we will soon have enough 
money to buy all the land back home on both. 
sides of the road clear into town. When 
get done the only rock on the whole place is 
going to be a head stone for ma like the Tash 
Mihaul. Pa has already got it ordered. And 
Mister Gooch when we go back and all this 
happens we just do not want our old friends 
and neighbors thinking we have turned into 
any violent family. THE END 


Printed in U.S. A. 


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teeth both. Ipana’s extra-refreshine flavor leaves g isto] POSta ox ° good! | : th paste 
¢ 3 ~My “ Os = Si 
your breath cleaner. your mouth fresher, too. Ask @ lillsiq V.. Ce Dept Stamp § 
- dentist about I 1 massage. Rememh @ Nam W Jersey °° LH-99 § 
your dentist about pana and massage. hemember, e e. J 
the care of your gums is as important as the care e Addr, Ss ' 
Z - ve ee. a 
of your teeth—so start with Ipana today! @ City a > 
. ’ 8 ( Mee yee = > é 
ites Hepes “One : a. 
= “enw "31, 1949, Li; —State é 
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*8 out of 10 dentists in thousands of recent reports from all over the country. Smee! 





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gredients. Yardley of London, Inc., “ifth Avenue, N. 










PHOTOS BY WILLINGER 












Sunday-school class 


Mary Elaine Shipp came to this 
month’s cover from Compton, Cali- 
fornia, but her heart belongs to 
Texas in more ways than one. She 
was born in Amarillo and raised in 
Austin. She has one of the thickest 
Texas accents west of the Pecos. 
Her nickname is “Tex.” And to top 
it off, her fiancé, a California na- 
tive, now attends Texas Christian, 
and guess where they’re going to 
live? Yes, Texas. 

Right now Mary Elaine lives with 
her mother and a Persian kitten 
named Jems. Mary Elaine is major- 
ing in art at George Pepperdine 
College in Los Angeles, and plans 
to teach (in Texas, of course) after 
graduation. She now teaches Sun- 
day school at the local Christian 
church, and it was there that she 
met her fiancé. He is a tall, husky 
football player who hopes to play 
pro ball*and then coach a high- 
school team. 

Mary Elaine is enthusiastic about 
many things: horseback riding (be- 
low), table tennis, square dancing, 
and Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s 
Sonnets From the Portuguese. She 
also admits “I have a passion for 
knitting,” and has knitted nineteen 
pairs of socks to prove it. 


Outdoor girl 


VOL, LXVI, No. 9 


Book Condensation Complete in This Issue 


Male and Female 


Fiction 


Let George Do It 
Every Spring . 
Busy Day 


Charley’s | Bapeeure. and Development 


Special Features 


Let Love Come Last (Conclusion) . 


. Margaret Mead 


. . Gertrude Schweitzer 
. Elizabeth Iliff Feemster 
Willard Lindsay 


. H. S. Rummell 
. Taylor Caldwell 


Never Underestimate the Power of a Woman Dorothy Thompson 


Red-Feather Fable. 


City Slums . . . Homes to Live In . 


Before and After. . . 
I Married Again at Fifty-Five. 
Are We Richer Today 


Glenn White 


. Margaret Hickey 


Seymour E. Harris and Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. 


Miss Eleanor Urquhart. 


Profile of Youth: Hank Polsanelli: 


The High Cost of Dating . 

I Go to Trade School mae 
There’s a Man in the House 
Love 


. Painting by Sir Henry Raeburn 
Man and Boy. 


° 


‘Harlan Miller 


Jessamyn West 


How America Lives: We’re e Living With Our Children 


Living With Your Children . 


General Features 


Our Readers Write Us . 
Under-Cover Stuff . 

Reference Library . . . 
Making Marriage Work |. 
An E for Effort (The Sub- Deb) 


Elizabeth and Eliot Janeway 


Leslie B. Hohman, M.D. 


; Bernardine Kielty 
_. . Clifford R. Adams 
Edited by Maureen Daly 


Fifty Years Ago in the Journal « Journal About Town . 


Diary of Domesticity . 
Ask Any Woman 


Gladys Taber 
M arcelene Cox 


Facts You Should Know About Sy phils Dr. - Herman N. Bundesen 
: Munro Leaf 217 


This is a Phone-Heckler 
Bringing Up Parents . 


Fashions and Beauty 


New Angles in Fashion . 
Hat Angles. . . et. 
I Made it Myself . 


Beauty at Home... With the Stars s 


American Beauty, $100 Wardrobe . 


Low in Price, High ‘n Fashion 


Food and Homemaking 


Soufflé for eee 
Line a Day . : 

Two Way "Kitaben . iene 
Come Into My Kitchen. . . . 


Uncluttered Living. . . ... 
Share the Casserole . .... 
Conversation Piece ..... 


Quick & Easys for Two ... 


. Dr. ; Barbara Biber 


Wilhela Cushman 
Wilthela Cushman 

: . Nora O° Leary 

. Dawn Crowell Norman 
te Make . Nora O°’ Leary 
Cynthia McAdoo 


. Ann Batchelder 

. Ann Batchelder 

. . Gladys Taber 

. Margaret Clark Rogers 

. . «Margaret Davidson 
. . . Louella G. Shouer 
.Ruth Mills Teague 


. Louella G. Shouer 22 


Arehitectare and Interior Decoration 


Collector’s House 
Back to Pictures in Decoration 


Poetry 


Catherine Ames Clinedinst 81 


William Meredith 102 e Rhina P. 
Shenton 113. e Katharine O’Brien 122 e Pauline Havard 128 
Elizabeth McFarland 133 e Ernestine Cobern Beyer 143° e  Eliz- 
abeth-Ellen Long 148 e Alma Roberts Giordan 162 e Yetza 
Gillespie 191 ¢ May Carleton Lord 207 e¢ Lola Ingres Russo 218 


Mary Cooper 226 


. . Richard Pratt 
. H. T. Williams 


a Contents ..... September, 1949 


36 














34 
38 
40 
52 
62 


11 
11 
23 
23 
31 


42 
43 
AD 
46 
48 
49 
68 


165 
172 


5 
14 
25 
26 
28 
33 
99 

146 

211 


221 


54 
58 
60 
64. 
127 
202 


70 

72 
100 
115 
174. 
176 
187 
8 


50 
66 


Catherine Haydon Jacobs 94 


Espaillat 107 ¢ Edward 


Frances Rodman 232 


COVER: Photograph by Willinger 


Ladies’ Home Journal, copyright 1949 by The Curtis Publishing Company in U. S. and Great Britain. 
All rights reserved. Title registered in U.S. Patent Office and foreign countries. Published on last Friday of 
month preceding date by The Curtis Publishing Company, Independence Square, Philadelphia 5, Pa, Entered 
as Second Class Matter May 6, 1911, at the Post Office at Philadelphia under the Act of March 3, 1879. En- 
tered as Second Class Matter at the Post Office Department, Ottawa, Canada, by Curtis Distributing Com- 


pany, Ltd., Toronto, Ont., Canada, 


Subscription Prices: U.S. and Possessions, Canada, Costa Rica, Cuba, Nicaragua, Dominican Republic, Gua- 
temala, Haiti, Mexico, Panama, Philippine Islands, Republic of Honduras, Salvador, Spain and South America 
except the Guianas: 1 yr., $3; 2 yrs., $5; 3 yrs., $7; 4 yrs., $9. Other countries, 1 yr., $6. Remit by money order or 
draft on a bank in the U. S. payable in U. S. funds. All prices subject to change without notice, All subscriptions 


must be paid for in advance. 


Unconditional Guaranty. We agree, upon request direct from subscribers to the Philadelphia office, to 
refund the full amount paid for any copies of Curtis publications not previously mailed. 
The Curtis Publishing Company, Walter D. Fuller, President; Robert E. MacNeal, First Vice-President; 
Arthur W. Kohler, Vice-President and Advertising Director; Mary Curtis Zimbalist, Vice-President; Cary W. 
Bok, Vice-President and Treasurer; Lewis W. Trayser, Vice-President and Director of Manufacturing; Benjamin 


Allen, Vice-President and Director of Circulation; Robert Gibbon, Secretary; Richard Ziesing, Jr., 


Manager of 


Ladies’ Home Journal. The Company also publishes The Saturday Evening Post, Country Gentleman, Jack 


and Jill, and Holiday. 


Change of Address: Send your Journal change of address to 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL, INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA 5, PA. 


at least 30 days before the date of the issue with which it is to take effect. Send old address with the new, en- 
closing if possible your address label. The post office will not forward copies unless you provide extra postage, 


Duplicate copies cannot be sent. 


The names of characters in all stories are fictitious. Any resemblance to living persons is a coincidence. 







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Marriage is for Adulis 


Los Angeles, California. 

Dear Editors: 1 was a divorcee and re- 
married a fine man. We have two delight- 
ful children and a happy life together. Yes, 
Iam glad I remarried. But I am sorry that 
I did not have the intelligence to make a 
success of my first marriage. There were no 
children involved, for which Iam thankful. 

As I look back upon the circumstances 
which led to this divorce, I now see them 
as the same problems which are breaking 
up homes every day. They are not the 
fault of either husband or wife, but merely 
a result of financial stress, ill health, en- 
vironment, in-law difficulty, and so on, 
which crop up in any married life. The 
problems which wrecked my first mar- 
riage have presented themselves again 
and again in my second marriage. Other 
problems have loomed infinitely around 
us, but with adult understanding and in- 
telligence this marriage survives. 

Let any woman who is contemplating 
divorce face herself squarely in a mirror 
and ask, ‘‘Have I tried in every conceiv- 
able way to make a success of this mar- 
riage ?”’ If the answer is ‘‘ Yes’’—go ahead 
and have a divorce. But try reviewing that 
question years later without a twinge of 
conscience. Can she still answer ‘‘ Yes’? I 
wish I could. Yours truly, 

(Name withheld.) 


Dogs Weep in Sorrow 


Holyoke, Massachusetts. 

Dear Editors: I wish to take issue with 
Curator Roger Conant’s contention that 
animals do not weep unless their eyes are 
irritated. I have had two definite experi- 
ences with two different Boston terriers 
and know that these dogs do weep. 

A few years ago while visiting at the 
home of my mother-in-law, who owned a 
cat, I took the cat up on my lap and petted 
it. My Boston's feelings were so hurt that 
tears dropped from his eyes. 

Just eight months ago I took a female 
Boston terrier who had lost her litter of 
puppies. The breeder who sold her to me 
warned she would continue to look for 
them. She did look for them in all possible 
places in her new home. She then came to 
me and, with the most pitiful expression, 


begged me to take her up and wept great 
big tears. Her eyes were not affected in 
any other way. Animals do weep and for 
the same reasons we do! Sincerely, 


EMELIE M. BAUME. 


Favors Hot Lunches 


Bentonville, Indiana. 
Dear Editors: 1 enjoyed your article on 
hot school lunches. Why every school does 
not take advantage of the Hot Lunch Pro- 
gram, I do not know. It is cheaper than 
packing a lunch, it is easier on the parents, 
it is grand for the children, and for anyone 
who likes to cook and likes children, it is 
loads of fun. I am in favor of putting 
eatin’ along with readin’, writin’, and 
‘rithmetic. Respectfully, 
MRS. ELEANOR K. WELCH. 


Why Have So Many Kids? 


Spokane, Washington. 

Dear Editors: The oldest of our gang 
will be nine in May. We have a pair of 
twins and the other children are about 
seventeen months apart. Maybe you don't 
think people turn and look when we walk 
down the street! 

When my husband and I were married 
we planned to have eight children. Sev- 
eral years ago I overheard a conversation 
between our oldest and a new boy that 
had just moved into the neighborhood. **I 
can’t see why you have so many kids,’’ he 
said. Our boy replied, ‘Because mamma 
and daddy like kids, and besides, we are 
going to have eight.” 

Children in a large family learn to get 
along with one another and find much hap- 
piness that is missed by a family of one or 
two children. I believe you give your child 
much more if you give him a bunch of 
brothers and sisters to grow up with than 
if you bought him everything money could 
buy. Sincerely yours, 

MRS. JOSEPH F. STIPPEL. 


Teen-Agers Would 
Rather Learn at Home 


Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 

Dear Edilors: 1 am sixteen years and 
considered an average teen-age girl. Ever 
since I entered high school, I have read nu- 


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JOURNAL 


merous articles on the problem of sex edu- 
cation for teen-agers. I agree that sex is 
an important and complex problem facing 
every teen-ager today. Such things as 
necking and parked cars are prevalent 
here, just as in any other state in America 
This problem could be helped greatly 
if the parents of teen-agers talked freely 
with them, and did not try to push sex 
under the table, Only through their help 
and advice, and through proper education 
in the schools, can the yéuth of today 
become stable and intelligent citizens of 
tomorrow. Sincerely yours, 


NATALIE MELNICOFF. 


Earn One Man’s Love 


Ft. Collins, Colorado, 

Dear Editors: Your article Profile of 
Youth interested me greatly and yet made 
me a little sad for those headstrong “ kids"’ 
who don't take advice to heart. Until only 
a while ago I too was a teen-ager bent on 
fun and good times. My high-school days 
were filled with fun and dating. When I 
needed advice or an older, more experi- 
enced point of view, I went to mother. I 
can truly thank her for the most part of 
my present happiness. She and her high 
morals kept me on the right track and 
helped me to see the ‘‘why” of things 

I am married and have a baby daughter 
eight months old. We are very happy. I 
must say that the very happiest moment 
of my life, however, was the time I looked 
my husband in the eye and told him that 
he was the only one. I can only pray that 
my daughter experiences that same mo- 
ment someday and sees the pride and 
trust flash through her new husband's 
eyes. It’s pretty wonderful! Why don't 
these high-school girls realize that prom- 
iscuity makes for only one kind of pop- 
ularity ! 

My mother had ideas on dating different 
from most mothers. She felt dating too 
young would wear out the fun which should 
be saved for later years. I agree com- 
pletely, for the simple reason that a lot of 
girls were a little shopworn by the time I 
had just begun. There's absolute trust and 
love in our family, thanks to a wonderful 
mother who understood a teen-age daugh- 
ter's human nature and emotions. It's 
worth all the self-restraint and control in 
the world to belong to only one man. 

Sincerely, 
(Name withheld by request 


Husband Approves 


Pontiac, Michigan. 

Dear Editors: My husband says: ** The 

JOURNAL really has the right slant—de- 

votes about 20 pages to style and beauty, 
and about 80 pages to food.” 
Sincerely, 


JUDITH THOMPSON. 


Fan Not the Embers 


The Duke's Cottage 
Rudgwick, England. 

My Dear Bruce and Beatrice: As usual, 
after my letter about the German pris- 
oner’s baby, I got a great many letters 
asking am I mad. Some were signed, but 
the more vindictive were anonymous, 
which is such a good sign, because it 
showed the people who wrote them were 
secretly, perhaps without knowing it, a 
little ashamed of them. It is always an 
amazement to me that we over here feel 
so far less bitterly, now it is all over, than 
those who were safe from having their 
roofs blown off. 

But not everyone feels that way, and 
today I had a charming letter from a 
woman in Natick, Massachusetts, which I 
must quote. “‘I would like,’’ she says, “to 
help keep a baby warm whether it is Ger- 
man or not. If the babies in this rather in- 
different world were to grow up warm and 
well fed, perhaps they wouldn't be any- 
body’s enemies.” 

Thank you, Mrs. Alexander. I am still 
blowing you kisses for those kind words. 
For nothing ever came of hate. But love, 
so I was brought up to believe, never 
faileth. 

‘“‘How can you forget!’ people write 
me. But how can I go on, indefinitely, re- 
membering? And what good would it do, 
should I achieve this? 

On Jock’s memorial tablet in the church 
here are words he himself wrote when he 
was still a cadet at Sandhurst. They seem 
to me to become more appropriate every 

(Continued on Page 8) 








September, 1 


EESTI 
Lah 
tat] 



























































HERES 
THE REASON 
WHy ! 

















GEE, MOM ° 
YOU MAKE THE 
BEST CAKE 
IN TOWN 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Ne be a better cook than ever be- 
cause Spry itself is better than ever. 
There’s no other shortening in the world 
exactly like it. It’s made by an exclu- 
sive patented process that no one else 
can use or copy! 

And because Spry, and Spry only, 
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that it gives better results than ever in 
all your baking and frying: 

Better cakes than ever—lighter, richer- 
tasting, more delicious in every way. 
For new better-than-ever Spry contains 


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Better pies than ever—pies with a 
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Better fried foods than ever—crisper, 
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MY FAMILY 
LOVES SPRY FRENCH 
FRIES AND THEY'RE 









AS DIGESTIBLE AS = 
IF BAKED OR aa) 
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Spry retains its original purity and 
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that are baked or boiled. Even a child 
can eat delicious Spry-fried foods. 


Don't miss out on all this extra good 
eating. Be sure to get new better-than- 
ever Spry from your grocer today. ’ 


3 ounces chocolate, ¥, teaspoon soda 


cut very fine VY cup Spry 
¥, cup boiling water Ys cup thick sour 
1% cups sifted cake flour milk 
1% cups sugar 1 teaspoon 
Y, teaspoon salt vanilla 
Y2 teaspoon baking 2 eggs, unbeaten 
powder (or 1 fea- 18 marshmallows, 
spoon tartrate cut in half 
baking powder) VY. cup nuts, cut 


Put chocolate in mixing bowl. Pour boil- 
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melted. Cool... . Sift flour, sugar, salt, 
baking powder, and soda into chocolate 
mixture. ... Drop in Spry... . Beat 200 
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Scrape bowl and spoon. . . . Add sour 
milk, vanilla, and eggs and beat 200 
strokes (2 minutes on mixer at low speed). 

. Bake in two square 8 x 8 x 2-inch 
Sprycoated pans in moderate oven (350° 
F.) 30-40 minutes. While cake is warm, 
press marshmallows on one layer, turned 
bottom-side up. Spread with Minute- 
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top. Add nuts to remaining frosting, 
spread on top of cake. Decorate each 
corner with a quartered marshmallow. 


Place in saucepan 2 ounces chocolate, 
finely cut, 114 cups sugar, 7 tablespoons 
milk, 2 tablespoons Spry; 2 tablespoons 
butter, 1 tablespoon corn sirup, and 14 
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ing boil, stirring constantly, and boil 
briskly 1 minute. (On a rainy or very 
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Cool to lukewarm. . . . Add 1 teaspoon 
vanilla and beat until thick enough to 


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BENZ ESS PS OY 244 VAR SS 


(Continued from Page 6) 
day, though when he wrote them he was a 
boy of eighteen. 


Fan not the embers; 

Let them lie, they will not die 

When we remember today, tomorrow 
Whence was sorrow? 


With my love to all of you, 
DOROTHY BLACK. 


Divinity Students Look at Love 


Buffalo, New York 

Dear Sirs: 1 just finished reading your 
article, Sex Freedom and Morals in the 
United States, and I would like to offer 
words of praise for bringing the truth to 
the fore in the minds of American parents 
I am twenty-three years of age, a divin- 
ity student, and a part-time youth director 
in a local church. I have seen problems 
running rampant with my “‘kids"’ in the 
church, with my friends in college, and 
with my contemporaries here in school. I 





have had a well-rounded background from 
a liberal home (socially speaking), have 
dated as the average girl, and know the 
“facts of life,’” but still have problems my- 
self, 

1 am contemplating marriage with a 
man of twenty-eight, who has had a simi- 
lar background to my own, and we have 
many of the same adjustments to make 
that the ‘“‘ young fry’’ do. 

What I (and my future husband, who is 
training for the ministry) hope to teach, 
is that it is the right and responsibility of 
all parents to give their children a well- 
balanced and intelligent approach to the 
beauty of sex, not the problem of sex. 





Sincerely, 


(Name withheld by request.) 


Glad to Pay Doctors 


Oxon Hill, Maryland. 

Dear Editors: We, too, belong to that 
vast “ white collar"’ group with income un- 
der $5000 per year, but we've always been 
able to afford regular and adequate medical 
care for our family of six. We feel that our 
busy doctor earns every penny for coming 
out in the middle of a cold, wet night to see 
our sick baby. We're glad to pay his fee, 
which is exactly the same as it was ten 
years ago. 

Of course, we do not feel that we can 
afford expensive television-radio-phono- 
graph sets, a luxury-class car, furs or jew- 
elry. We budget a definite sum per week 
for our sickness fund. How many families 
set aside any amount for medical care? 
But, by golly, those same families, making 
no provision for cost of illness, usually 
have all those luxuries aforementioned. 

Sincerely, 
MARGARET W. ANDERSON 


Color in the Library 


New York, N.Y. 

Dear Editors: There are, as you know, 
40,000-odd (some, very odd) public li- 
braries in the U.S.A. The vast majority 
are huddled away on side streets in aus- 
terely shabby brick or cut-stone build- 
ings. 

In the small towns, most libraries are 
in renovated “carpenteresque” homes. 
They look as though they had been dec- 
orated, personally, by Queen Victoria the 
week after Albert died. 

Little wonder, then, that so few people 
go to the library regularly. Many never 
enter a public library after leaving school. 

Last fall, the library at Teacher’s Col- 
lege was, in accord with tradition, high- 
ceilinged, shadowed, pillars of paneled 
oak, Tudor carvings, study lamps, a gen- 
eral atmosphere of a funeral home. One 
of New York's best interior decorators was 
called in to “dispel the gloom.” 

Mrs. McClelland proceeded to splash 
paint all over the place. Now, the reading- 
room walls are paneled in sunlight yellow, 
vivid rose and Bermuda tans. The flying 
buttresses are an April-elm green. Ceilings 
and cornices have been similarly bright- 
ened. The place gleams with the friendli- 
ness and charm of a Pennsylvania Dutch 
kitchen. 

Consequently, book circulation has 
zoomed, reading-room tables are jammed 
and, as one of the librarians assured me, 
““We practically have to sweep them out 


at closing time.” j 
> < Sincerely, 


ROBERT WEST HOWARD. 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


After All these Years... 


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RED-FEATHER FABLE 


OR as long as the children could remember, 

the great chest, scarred but still sturdy, had 

been in the village. It stood in an easily acces- 
sible spot in the town hall and the lid was never 
locked. Everyone made use of its contents at one 
time or another, and learned to help himself. Old 
people found comfort there, the crippled found 
crutches and the sick found the means to health. 
Children were constantly taking things out of the 
chest with no thought of putting them back. For, as 
everyone knew, there was something miraculous 
about the chest. No matter how much of its con- 
tents was removed, the chest was never empty! 

No one had ever seen what was at the bottom 
of the chest, but everyone in the village knew the 
secret of its endless capacity. Everyone except one 
person, only one person in the entire village. He 
was a dull-witted man, incapable of accepting ex- 
planations based on faith. 

“There is no miracle about the chest,” he 
said. “Only a fool would believe it cannot be 
emptied.” He swore that he would find out what 
was at the bottom of it. 

So one night he stole into the town hall and 
began haphazardly to throw things out of the 
chest. He had not worked long when he came upon 
an object he could not remove. It was a stone, 
small but incredibly heavy. He heaved and strained, 
but he could not lift it out. He could not empty 
the chest. 

Without restoring any of the contents of the 
chest, he slammed the lid shut in disgust and 
went out into the village street. 

He met an old man entering the town hall 
with a package under his arm. “Your legendary 
community chest has a stone at the bottom of 
it,” he told him jubilantly. “That is why it can- 
not be emptied!” 

“Everyone puts into the community chest at 
least as much as he takes out,” the old man re- 
plied. “At the bottom of the chest is the heart of 
each of us. That is why it cannot be emptied.” 

—GLENN WHITE. 





Gi 

















Never Underestimate 
the Power of a Woman 


By DOROTHY THOMPSON 





HIS slogan of the Lapies’ Home JournaL—one of the most 

effective ever invented—is notably neglected in Germany, where 

I spent a month of very active and intensive research last summer. 
The future of Germany is still uncertain. Will it become a “peace- 
loving” nation, or will it—this time not alone, and probably not as the 
leading power—become again a highly centralized and autocratically 
organized military state? How much progress has it really made on , 
the road to “democraey”—and, in a world where so many contra- 
dictory meanings are attached to that word, what kind of democracy? 

None of these questions is yet answered. Yet on the answer rests 
the question of whether the world’s greatest and most terrible war 
was fought for the victory of humanity and civilization, or whether 
it was lost, and its “peace” merely a pause in hostilities. 

What was needed in Germany was a balancing of the ledger of 
every individual on the question of his own guilt or innocence in 
regard to the Nazi regime. The western Allies, in my opinion, have 
prevented, rather than helped, this soul-searching. The de-Nazifica- 
tion processes reduced a deep spiritual question to a matter of formal 
membership and answers to printed forms. But Nazism cannot be de- 
fined by mere party membership. The formalizing of vice or virtue 
according to questionnaires resulted in such obvious and crass 
injustices—together with some of the more horrible phenomena of 
totalitarianism itself, such as political denunciations of persons by 
their rivals—that the whole nation turned away in disgust and dropped 
the urgently necessary self-analysis. 

There is always, in every people, a yearning after justice. The 
Germans have been, and are, no exception. The German today looks 
round, upon ruined cities, distracted youth, millions of penniless 





fugitives, and his four conquerors, and the great question which 
every halfway sensitive mind asks itself: “What is truth?” is not 
answered by the mounting production statistics, the currency reform 
and increased purchasing power. He knows that one can have these 
things and still be hell-bent for ruin. 

So the spirit that rules Germany today is of skepticism; even of 
cynicism. Nothing the Germans see appeals to idealism or awakens 
any sacrificial fervor. Germans work—it seemed to me—because work 
is something tangible, good in itself, and the only anodyne against 
going crazy through unsolved questions. 

Yet there is a great body of Germans who still hope, still believe, 


and in sacrificial silence merge individual interests in the life of 





humanity—or at least merge them to a far greater extent than any 
others: the German women. In their deep maternal instincts the criti- 
cism of society slumbers largely unspoken; in their love and hope for 





Executive Editor, Mary Bass ® Managing Editor, Laura Lou Brookman ® Associate Editors: ugh MacNair Kahler, 
Bernardine Kielty, Ann Batchelder, Wilhela Cushman, William E. Fink, Alice Blinn, Richard Prait, Henrietta 
Murdock, Louella G. Shouer, Mary Lea Page, Maureen Daly, Dawn Crowell Norman, John Godfrey Morris, Joan 
Younger, Lonnie Coleman, Margaret Davidson, Nora O’Leary ® Contributing Editors: Gladys Taber, Louise Paine 
Benjamin, Gladys Denny Shultz, Barbara Benson, Margaret Hickey ® Assistant Editors: John Werner, Charlotte 
Johnson, Donald Stuart, Ruth Mary Packard, Ruth Shapley Matthews, Alice Conkling, June Torrey, Lily 
Glendinning, Joseph Di Pietro, Anne Einselen, Glenn Matthew White, Betty Niles Gray, Jan Weyl, Jeanne Scribner, 
Elizabeth Goetsch © Editorial Assistants: Alice Kastberg, Iris Wilken, Betty Coe, Jeanne Lenton Tracey, Cynthia 
McAdoo, Eleanor Pownall Simmons, Adrina Casparian, Virginia Price, Marion Plummer, Lois Witherspoon, Philippa 
Herman, Jeanne Stiles, Elizabeth McFarland, Polly Toland, Elizabeth Crawford, Marthedith F. Stauffer, 


Virginia Brown, Victoria Harris, Robert N. Taylor, Helen Schmidt Kennedy. 









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I. 


their children is a force more potent than 
the forces of intellect, if tapped and 
aided. But, as perennially in German so- 
cieties, they are disregarded, pushed aside 
and once again consigned to their ‘‘place”’ 
in the eternal German scheme of things. 

Before Hitler, I knew Germany in- 
timately. What struck me then, and what 
struck me again this last summer, was the 
lack of balance in German society, between 
the spirit and mind of women and that of 
men. The whole of Germany has practiced 
a cult of masculinity—and perhaps that, 
more than anything else, is what has been 
wrong with it. Years ago—in the last 
century—George Meredith, the English 
novelist, in his famous Essay on Comedy 
and the Uses of the Comic Spirit, pointed 
out this fact about the Germans, which he 
thought accounted in large measure for 
their rigidity and militarism: that women 
never were allowed to exercise the moderat- 
ing and common-sense influence which is 
necessary to a truly civilized and cultivated 
community. 

Yet it was among women, in Germany, 
that I found the real soul-searching, the 
lack of which I have deplored elsewhere. | 
found that women were far less concerned 
about outward forms—the parliamentary 
state, political parties, rival economic 
systems and ideas—than they were about 
the human content of their society; about 
basic values; about fundamental human 
relations. To them, ‘“‘democracy”’ is not 
something made in the United States (to 
fit the United States), or made in Britain 
or France or the Soviet Union, and growing 
inevitably out of the his- 
toric experiences and 
problems of those coun- 
tries. What is basic to > Be always 
democracy —they argued 
to me earnestly and tim- 
idly—is love; the recog- 
nition of the common 
destiny of people on this 
earth; the recognition of 
what each person owes 
himself, in his struggle to become his best 
self, and what each owes his neighbor, in 
his neighbor's struggle to realize his best 
self. To them democracy means the re- 
alization in the state—and outside the 
state—of the principles operating in a 
good family: the authority of the father, 
mitigated by the loving sensibility of 
the mother; the obedience of the chil- 
dren, lightened by consideration of their 
need for freedom and for self-control as 
fundamental to growth; the duty of the 
stronger to protect the weaker, and of the 
weaker to respect the stronger; the kinship 
of the family, then, extending to the com- 
munity, to the brotherhood of the nation, 
and beyond it to the brotherhood of man- 
kind. 


abidest. 


It was among the women, too—and 
women of all faiths—that I found the 
deepest conviction that no community can 
flourish in virtue without a profound re- 
ligious basis; without acceptance of the 
truth that above all worldly authority is 
the higher authority of God, in Whom 
alone are ultimate truth and daily guidance. 
“The beginning of all real reconstruction 
in Germany,” a German woman said to 
me, “has to begin with the individual 
human person. One cannot make over a 
society by making over its system; one 
can only make it over by making over 
human behavior; and that can be re-formed 
only in the image of an ideal.”’ 

Now, what women think in Germany— 
what they yearn for, what they respond 
to—can be decisive for that uncertain 
country. For women outnumber men in 
Germany in the most astounding fashion— 
and will outnumber them in all the mature 
age groups until the youth at present under 
18 become old enough to take active posi- 
tions in German life. It is only among 
children under 13 that the numbers of 
males and females are equal. Between 14 
and 19, also—the years of birth before 
Hitler came to power—there are only a 
few more female teen-agers than male. 


displeased at 

what thou art, if thou de- 
sirest to attain to what thou 
art not: for where thou hast 
pleased thyself, there thou 


oeplember, PIV 


But among Germans from 20 to 40, the 
years of greatest activity and power, the 
preponderance of women over men is 
startling. 

In the British zone, for instance—and 
the figures are approximately the same for 
all zones—in the age group 20-24, there 
are 173 women for every 100 men; betwee 
25 and 29, there are 172 women for ae 
100 men; between 30 and 40, there are 154 
for every 100 men; and for all ages over 19 
there are 139 for every 100 men. 

Women, furthermore, are in proportion- 
ate majority the breadwinners for German 
families. In Berlin, for example, 53 per cent 
of all families are supported by women 


Many of these women were never 
trained as anything but housewives. Left 
with young children, and with their hus- 
bands fallen in the war, hopelessly crip- 
pled, or still prisoners abroad, they have 
had to take whatever work their lack of 
skills opened for them, including heavy 
manual labor. When the Western Allies 
built an extra airport to enable the airlift 
to bring supplies into Berlin, 40 per cent 
of the heavy labor was done by women! 

The circumstances of their lives make it 
impossible for these women to think about 
themselves. They must perpetually think 
of others. They have to fulfill double duty, 
as fathers and mothers; as breadwinners 
and housekeepers. I seldom saw in Ger- 
many a dirty, ragged or ill-nourished child. 
That, of course, is due to American aid. 
But it is also due to German mothers. In 
3erlin I talked with sixteen women who 
are leaders in the wom- 
en's divisions of trade- 
unions. I asked how 
many, even today, four 
years after the war, live 
in dwellings where more 
than one room has glass 
in the windows. Not one 
single woman raised her 


—ST, AUGUSTINE. 


ye ee ee hand. 


In the winters of 1946@ 
’47 and ’48, when electric current was on 
for only a few hours during days and 
nights, women rose at dawn, cleaned up 
their crowded homes, wasfied, dressed 
and fed their children, and tied door keys 
around their necks so they could let 
themselves in after school (the phrase 
** schluessel-kinder’’—key children—is cur- 
rent all through Germany), and then 
went to work for eight hours. Since, when 
they returned in the late afternoon, there 
would be no gas or electricity for cooking 
dinner, these women usually cooked the 
evening meal before they went to work, 
rigging up all sorts of odd fireless-cookers, 
out of blankets and pillows, to keep the 
food warmish, at least, until evening. Then, 
at night, after the children were in bed, 
when electricity and gas came on again at 
one to three A.M., these women rose to 
wash dishes and clothing, iron and mend. 
Much has been written about the heroic 
resistance of the Berliners during the siege 
of Berlin, but no public testimonial, as far 
as I know, has been accorded to those who 
suffered most and overcame the greatest 
handicaps—the Berlin women. 

An article I wrote months ago in the 
LapDIES’ HOME JOURNAL resulted in a 
movement in the United States called 
WOMAN (World Organization of the 
Mothers of All Nations). Quite unstim- 
ulated from here, this movement caught on 
in Germany and assumed unique forms. 
In America, it was concerned with strength- 
ening the United Nations to illegalize war 
and create enforceable peace; the German 
movement, while accepting the same prin- 
ciples, has also gone about many homely 
tasks. It has founded a branch called 
“Women Help Women,” opening a per 
manent bureau where women can brin 
their problems to other women, and get 
aid in meeting them; creating a “young 
mothers’ service” to send trained or 
practical nurses to young mothers who 
have to be delivered at home because hos- 
pitals are so inadequate and overcrowded; 

(Continued on Page 185) 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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” 


nder-C Yover Stull 


By BERNARDINE KIELTY 


YOME September, ourthoughtsturn 
C to school—perhaps even to educa- 
tion. And to what a low ebb has 
education fallen when a Middle West- 
ern university finds it mecessary to 
offer a course, in its Education Depart- 
ment, to teach prospective teachers 
how not to be boring: how to elimi- 
natethedead-panexpression, thenery- 
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tone and the indistinct pronuncia- 
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What pupils are asleeb? As a matter of 
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and getting more so. They don’t need to 
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Earl Reed Silvers, dean of men at 
Rutgers University, declares that with 
former servicemen in college classes, the 


( 


whole tone of the classroom has im- 
proved. These young men, ranging from 
20 to 36, are serious of purpose, regu- 
lar in class attendance, and more inter- 
ested in the content of courses than in 
marks. Because of them the campus 
playboy is no more. The attitude of the 
whole student body is changing. 


Although SON OF TOMORROW is a 
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is today’s high-school graduate too young 
for college? From his own observations 
Dean Silvers has come to the conclusion, 
and apparently many other sound educa- 
tors agree, that boys of 17 and 18 are too 
young. Better have an 18-month term in 
the service, says he, or even take a job for 

(Continued on Page 16) 


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(Continued from Page 14) 
two years, between high school and college. 
To get the greatest good oul of a college ed- 
ucalion, the boys must first grow up. 


Frank Lloyd Wright, the octo- 
genarian architect nonconformist, sug- 
gests that all education above the high- 
school level be halted for a period of ten 
years. “‘As a people,” said he, in an ad- 
dress some time back, in Princeton, “‘ we 
are educated far beyond our ca- 
pacity. Now come our G. I.’s, 
devastated by war, to be further dev- 
astated by four years of education.” .. . 
Someone ought to take Mr. Wright 
down to Rutgers. 


is to the girls, the new tendency 
seems to be todriftinto coeducational 
colleges. Is this a serious-minded con- 
cernas to the greater intellectual pos- 
sibilities in large universities, or is it 
misguided practicality: object, matri- 
mony? Four more or less sequestered 
vears will hurt no one, is our sincere 
belief—not even in the matter of 
Wellesley, Smith, 
Vassar, etal., have plenty. 


dates, of which 


Incidentally, Wellesley contempo- 
raries may be entertained to know that 
while the original college was being 
built, the workmen were forbidden to in- 
dulge in profanity, loud talking and 
fighting. Also that when the college 
formally opened, the girls got up at 6 
A.M. and lights were out at 10 P.M. 
WELLESLEY: PART OF THE AMER- 
ICAN STORY, by Alice Payne Hack- 
ett, isa pleasant history which alumnae 
will be especially interested in. For all 
that they'll find the account amusing, it 
bears thinking upon that Henry Durant, 
a Boston lawyer, decided in the '70’s to 
devote his wealth to the advanced educa- 
tion of girls—who were to be the future 
teachers of young America. 


\ new note was struck by a 19-year- 
old, 6 4”, 200-pound American G. I. 
who beat up seven Russian officers, 
including two colonels, in the Inter- 
national Zone in Vienna. Private Ed- 
ward Touhey was trying to take pic- 


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: Tough-man Touhey 


tures of Russian officers taking their 

: ease in the lobby of the Imperial Ho- 

———— tel. The Russians objected strenu- 

; ously, but they reckoned without 

mr A . Touhey, who knocked them all down 

© and beat two unconscious. In fact, 

Private Touhey was so indignant that 

it took twelve MP’s and a doctor to 

a 2 get him out of the hotel. This is by 

“ - - . Famous cutting edge no means a deed to approve of, but it 

tears easily gives one pause. In World War I, 

American soldiers were said to be 

~ scornful of the French soldiers. They 

called them Frogs. Nor did they think 

much of the British Tommies. They 

had more respect for the Canadians, 

it / and they wouldn’t go out of their way 
i ® (Continued on Page 18) 


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18 








LADIES’ HOME 


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JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 16) 

to pick a fight with the Australians. 
They knew their equals when they saw 
them. Moreover, the South Africans 
were so tough that the doughboys, we 
hear, were downright seared. Those 
were the days of simplehearted 
brawn. But this matter of Russian of- 
ficers and a wild American is some- 
thing else. Just what, we're not quite 
sure. 


Be careful of the hour on which 
your child is born. One young mau 
we know was born at 1 A.M. on Janu- 
ary 1, 1944. His parents had planned 
to enter him in kindergarten this 
year. But to get in he had to be 5 on 
January 1—5 at the moment the day 
began. And what about the child who 
is born at 12:45 A.M. Daylight Saving? 
Is she Monday’s or Tuesday’s child? 


The age of 11 is the safest year of life, 
according lo the Metropolitan Life In- 
surance Company, which knows! Al that 
age the hazards of infancy and early child- 


REPRINTES 


COURTESY SATURDAY EVENING POST 





hood have passed, and the chronic disor- 
ders have not begun to take their toll. After 
11 the probability of surviving from one 
birthday to the next diminishes slighily 
with each advancing year! 


But there are compensations. Middle- 
aged men are dancing up the aisles these 
days after seeing 54-year-old Ezio Pinza 
as the most romantic lover on the 
Broadway stage—the successful suitor 
of enchanting Mary Martin in South 
Pacific. 


And still older men must be quietly 
happy over the news item about a cer- 
tain employer in Connecticut, who 
finds his best workers are in their 
60°s. One of the very best is 64 and has 
seventeen grandchildren. This par- 
ticular employer used older men dur- 
ing the war because he had to, found 
them more reliable, and has kept 
them on. ; 


Also on the keep-up-your-spirit side: 
Goldsmith Maid, the most amazing 
trotting horse that ever lived, was a 
farm animal until she was 6, raced but 
once before she was 8, made her fastest 
time at 19, and was still a champion 
at 20. 

c 


You Can ALWAYS TELL A FRESH- 
MAN, by Elizabeth Ann Hudnut, 
is a good gift for the girl starting 
off for college. The author wrote it the 
summer following her own graduation, 
so the pros and cons are fresh in her 
mind. It is light and airy and makes 
sense. ‘“The folks back home will usually 
put up with you for better or for 
worse. ... At college people take you or 
leave you according to whether or not 
you are a desirable character. 

You can’t shrink into some shadowy 

corner behind the pages of Life maga- 

zine and expect people to form a line 
(Continued on Page 21) 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


September, 1949 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 18) 
out in front waiting for your auto- 
graph. You’ve got to make an extra- 


curricular project of friendship. . . . * 


If you are definitely untalented along 
these lines, a smile goes a long way.... 
Popularity is always tied up with 
friendliness. . . . Blue jeans—no mat- 
ter what the deans of glamour say— 
are here to stay.” 


On the general subject of adolescents 
the best book, we believe, is ELM- 
TOWN’S YOUTH, by A. B. Hollings- 
head. Doctor Hollingshead has been a 
teacher in several colleges, he is an ex- 
perienced researcher in sociology, and 
was one of the men who worked with 
Kinsey on the now-famous sex-behavior 
study. In fact, ELMTOWN’S YOUTH is 
quite as important in its field as the 
Kinsey report, and high-school teachers, 
community workers and interested par- 
ents will do well to read it. 


Doctor Hollingshead and his wife 
lived for a year in a Middle West com- 
munity in the Corn Belt, a town of ap- 
proximately 6000 souls, which they 
call Elmtown. Here they made a thor- 
ough laboratory investigation of the 
habits and problems of adolescents, 
and of the families from which they 
came. It is an analysis of the way the 
social system organizes and controls 
the social behavior of high-school- 
aged adolescents. It describes the re- 
lationships existing among the 735 
boys and girls from 13 to 19 years old, 
and the positions occupied by their 
families in the five social strata of the 
community. It covers the school, the 
job, the church, recreation, cliques, 
dates and sex. The methods of investi- 
gation were strictly scientific, but the 
report is written for the layman. And 
what a shocking disclosure it is of 
power and privilege! 


COPYRIGHT 1947, THE NEWSPAPER P. M. INC. 





**Not any one teacher—let’s make 
it something denouncing 
formal education in general.’’, 


THE MUDLARK, by Theodore Bon- 
net, is the best book we’ve read in a 
long, long, long, long time! A novel about 
pudgy Queen Victoria; suave, shrewd, 
clever Mr. Disraeli; a very properly 
brought up young lady in waiting; a 
most indiscreet young Grenadier Guard; 
the brawniest, burliest Highlander on 
record; and a seven-year-old Mudlark— 
a London slum lad who found his way 
from the mud of the Thames to the pri- 
vate dining room of his Queen. The 
amazing thing is that it is all true! Or 
most all. There was such a boy and he 
turned England pretty nearly upside 
down. Besides everything else, it is writ- 
ten with inimitable charm, wit and ur- 
banity. 

® 


Another Journal poet, Eunice Mil- 
dred LonCoske (THIS IS THE Hour), 
sings domestically (like a cricket on 
the hearth) about little girls, straw- 
berries, merry-go-rounds and mead- 
ows, with strong emotional appeal. 





21 


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CITY 


Homes to Live In 


By MARGARET HICKEY 


ORE than 10,000,000 individuals in our nation today live 
in what the experts call “substandard dwellings,” and 
over 3,000,000 families are doubled up with in-laws or rel- 
atives. “Substandard dwelling” is a fancy term for slum. A very 
large percentage of these people could afford decent homes at 
reasonable prices if homes were available. Unfortunately they 
are not. The shortage of low-cost homes is still our nation’s 
most serious domestic problem. 

How does the housing shortage affect the lives of these fam- 
ilies? Does it tell on their records of health, their harmony, 
their natural growth? The Family Service Association of 
America, made up of 247 family-service agencies, has the an- 
swer: “The country has incurred already a heavy charge 
against the future in the care for those families physically or 
emotionally crippled by lack of decent, adequate housing.” 
Urging speedy construction of low-cost housing units, this 
agency further points out that the housing situation is not im- 
proving. “As a measure of the severity of the housing short- 
age,”’ it says, “31 per cent of the family agencies said that the 
need for homes in their communities was greater than a year 
ago, and 52 per cent said that the demand was about the same. 
Only 17 per cent noted some improvement.” 


The Dream Can Be Realized 


More private investors and state and local communities will 
be encouraged to enter the housing field as a result of the new 
Federal Housing Act. But the 810,000 low-rent units called for 
will not end the housing shortage. It’s up to public-spirited cit- 
izens to continue to push ahead on this No.1 postwar problem. 

The New England States didn’t wait for Congress to make 
up its mind about postwar housing. In Connecticut and Massa- 
chusetts, state aid is guaranteed to local authorities who issue 
bonds for housing. Over 100 cities in Massachusetts have ap- 
plied for aid under the new housing program to which a fund 
of $200,000,000 has been allocated. One of the newest state- 
aided developments now under construction is a 972-family 
project in Boston, planned for families with as many as eight 
or nine children! 


Slum Clearance Pays 


The greatest obstacle to slum-clearance and public-housing 
programs is the sharply critical attitude of many who do not 
have the housing facts. “Publichousing is socialistic,” they say; 
or, “Public housing destroys incentive.” Few of these critics 
would defend their stand if they actually knew the facts. 
Blighted areas, slums, are focal points for crime, delinquency 
and infant mortality. Their cost is greater in the end to the tax- 
payer than the cost of clean, sound dwellings for people who 
need homes. Let’s tell the doubters about that. THE END 


Across the street, another world. Tenants of a 
cold-water flat in a crowded tenement house 
look toward Stuyvesant Town, an attrac- 
tive new housing project for 8755 families. 





ay Geen eu ' 
; amen 
PUBLIC AFFAIRS DEPARTMENT ¢ Edited by MARGARET 
aper NG RLb ee el. eee ae eek eee 


SLUMS... 


Before and After 


MERICA is faced today with the dramatic choice—allowing one third of 
its children to grow up in filth and squalor, or providing them with de- 





cent homes and a place in the sun. 
No one deliberately chooses to live in a slum. Yet today more people are 
worse housed than at any time in U.S. history, simply because slums are the 
only place they can afford to live. 

Hardest hit are the young married veterans. Bill Thomas, after five years 
in the Army, returned to this country with his fresh-cheeked British war 
bride and baby. Unable to find a place to live, they moved in with his family 
in a lower West Side tenement in New York City. 

Into the dark, cluttered five-room apartment crowded Bill’s mother, two 
unmarried sisters, a married sister and her husband, and Bill and Olga and 
their baby. As in many old New York tenements, there were no doors be- 
tween any of the rooms, and to get from the cot-crowded front living room to 
the bathroom required walking through the bedrooms. To the young couple, 
reunited after months of fearful separation while Bill was fighting in Italy, 
the worst thing about their tripled-up tenement home was the utter lack of 
any kind of privacy. 

Money was another problem. Bill, still in the Army, received a private’s 
pay of $80 a month, half of which went to his mother for their keep. In 
England, Olga had considered $80 a month an adequate amount of money. 
But New York prices took her breath away. ““We could spend that just in 
a week,” she found. 

When the jam-packed Eighth Avenue tenement became intolerable, and 
Bill’s mother requested them to leave, they were without any funds at all and 


Olga was again pregnant. (Continued on Page 230) 


JOHN EBSTEL 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 25 





































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26 


Making Yfarria 


oe Work 


ee 


By CLIFFORD f. ADAMS 


Ph.D., Pennsylvania State College, 


Department of Psychology 


Lhe first taly guarantees buf fpunes only li 
lhe husband and wife prpurcd le work fer the 


That First Baby 


O experience has a more far-reaching effect 

upon a marriage than the advent of that first 

baby. Showered with congratulations and 
wishes, the proud father rejoices with his wife; the 
mother, basking in the attention lavished upon her, 
looks forward eagerly to resuming her normal life, 
after nine months of tedious waiting. 

But often a rude shock attends her initial attempts 
to take over the household. A baby’s first months of 
life are seldom easy for anybody concerned, especially 
for the mother. While still below par physically, she 
must assume the care of a newborn infant, an exacting 
and fatiguing task for which she may have neither 
training nor experience, and which, in her jittery 
state, often seems an oyerwhelming responsibility. 

After a day of struggling with the formula between 
trips to the bassinet to see why the baby is crying, or 
why he isn’t; of getting the baby’s wash on the line 
only to have a shower come up; of pricking unaccus- 
tomed fingers each time she changes.a diaper, is it any 
wonder if she dissolves in tears when her husband 
comes home and asks, “How soon’s dinner?” Dinner! 
She may not have paused for lunch! , 

Confronted with this situation, the wise husband 
takes over for the evening. He knows his wife’s out- 
burst is partly due to fatigue, partly due to the post- 
pregnancy blues which afflict so many young mothers. 

Though these fits of depression may center about 
conscious anxieties—she’s lost her looks, she’s cut off 
from her friends, she’s caught in an endless routine— 
there is also a genuine physiological basis. Her glandu- 
lar system, after nine months of pregnancy, must re- 
turn to normal; the shock of transition may produce 
the blues at the very time when she expected to be 
happiest. ; 

Both husband and wife should be prepared for these 
moods, and accept them, like the foibles of pregnancy, 
as merely another troublesome but temporary con- 
comitant of having a baby. 

This is not to say that the wife need make no effort 
to regain her poise. On the contrary, she must con- 
sciously seek diversions, pleasures, interests within 
her confining routine. To conserve her energy, she 
must eliminate all nonessential household tasks. And 
she must encourage her husband’s help with the baby. 

The husband, in turn, must use initiative and imag- 
ination in adjusting to the new situation, and in help- 
ing her to do so. Knowing her need for diversion, he 
will sit with the baby an occasional evening so she can 
go out. Realizing her fatigue, he will not expect too 
much attention to his personal comfort. Understand- 
ing her discouragement, he will make light of her in- 
eptitude, real or fancied. 

Above all, he will share, and show that he shares, 
her feeling of responsibility for the well-being of their 
child. From the moment of conception onward, a baby 
is a joint enterprise of husband and wife. If either par- 
ent disregards that fact, the child can become a source 
of conflict. In many unhappy marriages, the process 


of spiritual separation begins with faulty adjustment . 


to the first baby. 

On the other hand, if both parents accept their re- 
sponsibility, the baby becomes both the symbol and 
the substance of a new unity between them. Such 


parents have much to look forward to, And remem- 
ber—the first three months are the hardest! 


Husbands are Like That 


apo many husbands just don’t understand their 
wives. This lack of insight, partly due to basic 
sex differences, is aggravated if the husband is thought- 
less, or preoccupied with himself. According to 
wives who consult us about their problems, the 
commonest areas of misunderstanding are these: 

He doesn’t realize how dull her day can be. Though 
his work may be routine, at least he travels to and 
from his job, he sees people, and his life has move- 
ment, interest and variety. But his wife’s duties con- 
fine her to the house, and are the same from one day 
to the next. Washing the dishes, sweeping the floors, 
laundering and making beds are repetitious and unin- 
spiring tasks. The day may pass without a single con- 
tact outside the family. 

He doesn’t understand her need of sentiment. Birth- 
days, anniversaries and other family occasions are 
more important to a woman than to her husband, 
partly because she is more romantic by nature, but 
also because such events are the milestones by which 
a wife marks the family’s progress. But they lose sig- 
nificance for her unless he shares in their observance. 


Are You a Good Wife? 


Being a good wife depends upon many things, some 
psychological and social, others domestic and practi- 


cal—also upon the husband you have. Answer with 
SWese” or “No.” 


1. Does he think you are affectionate and loving? 
2. Are you proud of him and the things he does? 
3. Does he like the meals you serve him? 

4. Can you cheer him up when he is depressed? 
5. Do you manage to stay within your budget? 


6. Can you accept his viewpoint when you two dis- 
agree? 


7. Do you frequently tell him of your love? 

8. Are you usually happy and good-humored? 

9. Does he like the social life you provide? 
10. When he is tired, do you see that he rests? 
11. Does he take a real interest in the home? 
12. Are you two able to save a little money? 
13. Do you enjoy talking things over with him? 
14. Are you responsive to his gestures of affection? 
15. Do you welcome your husband’s friends? 
16. Have you any habits that greatly annoy him? 
17. Does your temper often get the best of you? 
18. Is there friction between you and his relatives? 
19. Do you often *‘check up”’ on him and his actions? 
20. Are you frequently tired and irritable? 


Credit 1 point for each Yes to the first 15 questions and 
each No to the last five. You should be proud of a score of 
17 or more, since 14 or 15 is about average. Something is 
wrong if-you score 12 or less. You may still be a good 
wife but you need to analyze incorrect answers to find 
how you can make improvements. 

He overlooks her need for reminders of his love. Affec- 
tionate behavior limited to the sex relationship is not 


enough for a wife, simply because such direct associa- 
tion was not present before marriag:. She needs assur- 
ance of love, apart from sex, throughout her life. 

He doesn’t try to lighten her load. Though a woman 
has one third less strength than a man, her energies 
must be stretched over more hours of the day, seven 
days a week. For him to put the youngsters to bed, 
help with the dishes, attend to some of her errands 
and chores, not only eases her burdens but also gives 
her a deeper feeling of sharing with him. 

He doesn’t provide companionship. Here is husbands’ 
greatest failure. Marriage is a partnership demanding 
close communication. A wife wants to know the events 
of her husband’s day, and he should want to hear her 
news. Unless he tells her about them, how can she 
share in his successes, understand his failures, and 
give him praise and encouragement? How can he be 
critical of her performance unless he understands her 
problems? Any husband who won’t recognize these 
facts isn’t living up to his marriage responsibilities. 

If your husband, like many others, feels that earn- 
ing a living is all that is required of him, perhaps you 
can help him develop more insight. Here are ap- 
proaches which some wives have found effective— 
though progress is usually slow: 


e@ Instead of complaining about your dull days, set 
about making them more interesting. Encourage friends 
to drop in; plana time for social telephoning; cultivate 
anew homemaking skill, like flower arranging or hand- 
work. Read along the lines of his interests, as well as 
your own. You will be rewarded doubly: your days 
will be newly enjoyable, and will yield conversational 
material far more interesting to your husband. 


e Wives are often responsible for their husbands’ 
failure to show their affection. Because they were 
trained to let the male take the initiative, wives often 
find it difficult to respond wholeheartedly to their hus- 
bands’ caresses. Are you sure you meet him halfway? 


e Don’t expect your husband to be “as sentimental 
as a woman’; it’s against his nature. But you can 
arouse his interest in family rituals by letting him 
know why they are important to you. Jog his memory 
in advance, and give him a chance to be a participant, 
rather than a spectator. 


e@ In seeking your husband’s help with the house- 
work, follow three rules: 1—Avoid requests at times 
when he is engrossed in something else; 2—Select 
tasks that you can perform together; 3—Praise his 
achievement, no matter how inadequate, and thank 
him for his effort. 


@ Make sure that you are a good companion for him. 
Remember that companionship and conversation are 
not synonymous. Don’t assume a martyr’s role if he 
occasionally prefers reading the paper to your recital 
of neighborhood gossip. 


e Finally, realize that your problem is not unique. 
Many wives, and many husbanus, feel that their mates 
don’t understand them. If you are really understand- 
ing, sooner or later he will gain some comprehension 
of you. 


Do You Agree? 


I have been unhappy most of my life because 
of my maladjusted parents. Will marriage change 
all that? 


It is very doubtful. Marriage alone rarely changes 
anyone very greatly. But if you don’t expect a miracle, 
and accept your full share of responsibility, the mar- 
riage can be successful. 


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OU may never get elected “Miss Class of ’53” or 
“The Girl With Whom I’d Like Most to Split a 
Malted”’ by the male half of the senior class, but 
at least you can try! You’ll earn yourself a big E 
for effort from your friends, and some fun on the side. 
Maybe your senior year is still four years away— 
well, a smart gal launches her personality campaign 
early, while there’s still time to plan and make an im- 
pression on the crowd. So if you’re starting as a first- 
year greeny or even as a sophomore who'd like to do 
better this year, paste these suggestions on the inside 
of your notebook where you can look at them every day 
before school and twice on Saturdays. Before Septem- 
ber’s over you shouldn’t need them any more. 


The way you look. . . . Watch out for clothes 
fads. Fads in high school are fun and one or two a year 
won’t hurt you, but they can be expensive. Maybe it 
seems to you that everyone in the right crowd is sport- 
ing platinum key chains or wearing mink-trimmed ski 
mittens—but don't fall for it. Fads come and go and if 
you indulge too often you'll be left with nothing but 
holes in your clothes budget and a drawer full of knick- 
knacks that nobody is wearing any more. 

When you’re shopping, take it easy on joey clothes 
that can clutter up your wardrobe. Most schools don’t 
allow slacks or shirts and jeans for school wear, so save 
your shekels for the skirts and sweaters that do rank at 
the head of the class. And give the “‘no sale”’ sign, too, 
to rah-rah fashions that can set you apart as too 
grown up or sophisticated. Earrings, high heels and 
slinky dresses may be deadly after dark—but since 


THE SUB-DEB e EDITED BY MAUREEN 





























when does it start getting dark round eight-thirty- 
class time in the morning? 

And speaking about morning—thal’s the time to 
start the day right. If you look untidy when you dash 
for the bus, think how you'll look before the day is over! 
No pins in the buttonholes, hair in curlers and tur- 
ban, or skirt with wrinkles. Give yourself a full fifteen 
minutes of careful grooming in the morning, with five 
minutes out of your lunch hour for a repair job. This 
midday pickup can make a new girl out of you—and 
by twelve o’clock noon, it’s time to make that change! 

If you’re lucky enough to be shopping for a new 
school wardrobe, or just adding an item or two to last 
year’s closetful, start out with a paper and pencil and a 
couple of fall fashion magazines to study as guides. 
Make a list of what’s already in the drawers and 
closets—then keep the whole wardrobe in mind every lime 
you buy one garment. Two new slips, one pull-over 
sweater and a tailored white blouse will go farther than 
a yellow corduroy jacket that demands a new skirt and 
has to be dry-cleaned every week besides! 


A friend or two add spice. . . . Maybe 
you’ve been doing some happy hoping about the joe 
-toys who'll crowd your locker and ask to walk you 
home that first day of school—well, slow up on those 
daydreams! In high school it’s your girl friends who 
count! It’s hard to explain why, but a girl must be 
liked by other girls before she is also accepted by the 
boys—and liked by all. So pick yourself a gal pal or 
two, make yourself generally friendly before you start 
rolling your eyes toward the male date material. 


DALY 


Get set, too, for some stiff competition in the new 
school. Not only in the date-bait department but in 
class, on the gym floor, in the clubs and everywhere. 
You may have been big-time in grade school, but high 
school is bigger and all the top competition is gathered 
together now. Watch out for hurt feelings (yours, that 
is!), get set to let everybody play. 

On the other hand, high school can mean a brand- 
new start. Perhaps grammar school wasn’t always just 
what you wanted. It seemed to you that the crowd 
from Jackson Street were the ones who ran all the 
affairs—and had all the fun. Well, now is the hour to 
make a change. You're new to the teachers and to most 
of the students too. If you ever had a flair for art, march 
down to the poster committee for the freshman dance 
and offer your services. Or join the call for volunteers 
to direct traffic in the cafeteria. Get busy and useful. 
A head start can mean a new start, you know. 

But for the first few weeks, don’t go foo fast. Just 
don’t make up your mind completely about anything, 
and especially about friends. Of course you'll find 
someone to chum around with, but don’t get tied up 
in one of the cliques that can mark you as either in or 
out of the crowd. Wait until you get achance to find out 
who you really want as friends before you identify 
yourself with a single group. 


Boys come mext. . ~~ Let’s lead off with the 
No. 1 dating rule in any high school; Freshman girls 
must not date junior or senior boys. Why? The answer's 
easy. You're fresh material round school and hence a 
kind of novelty. Older boys may go for you like a gold 
rush. But who will the upper-class girls date if you take 
their men? This year you'll be branded as a No. 1 
wolfess, and when the boys are graduated you'll have 
a hard time finding high-school boys to date. So unless 
you get starry-eyed about a senior as appealing as 
Montgomery Clift, stick to the boys in your own class. 

And watch out for the fast boys, even im your own 
class. Because you’re new at school you'll be eager to 
make an impression by having a date with just about 
anybody. But it’s better to stay home and listen to 
Frankie Laine recordings than to ruin your reputation 
right at the start by running with a fast crowd. What 
to do? Just don’t be too ready Hedy when the 
smooth boys come round. Wait until you feel you 
know the boys before going date-crazy. 

Same ‘‘easy does it’’ goes for smoking and hanging 
round the favorite after-school spot. Most high-school 
boys don’t like girls who smoke any way, and when they 
see freshmen smoking in public they just get date- 
scared. They may think you’re old for your age—and 
even a little too old for them! Treat yourself to a 
malted at the hangout once ina while, but don’t become 
a fixture overnight. The hangout was a favorite with 
the three other classes still in school, so give them a 
chance to decide to move over and let the freshies in. 
But round school itself, it’s easier to become part 
fm of the crowd if you follow the crowd—especially 

in the beginning. Most schools give a mixer dance 
or two in the gym round the first weeks of school. 
Be sure you’re there even if you have to dance 
with girl friends. Latch onto the football team as 
a good way to get with the crowd on Saturday 
afternoons. Join the rally before the big game, be 
seen at the game yelling your lungs out for the home 
team. Get the idea across that you expect to have 
fun. Little by little (and don’t get discouraged if it 
doesn’t happen overnight), come the end of Septem- 
ber, you’ll begin to think, “‘This is my school now.” 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 29° 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


I Married Again 


HE announcement of my second mar- 
riage caused a hubbub of discouraging 
reactions among my family and friends. 
At fifty-five I was a widow, comforta- 

bly off for our small town, with two sons, a 
daughter and four grandchildren. 

“Honestly, mother—at your age!”” My 
daughter didn t try to hide her mirth. My 
daughters-in-law, though less frank, appar- 
ently shared her amazement. I believe the 
idea of romance for a woman of my years 
appeared to them both obscene and silly. 

The viewpoint of my married contempo- 
raries astonished me. The ‘girls’ agreed 
that I’d gone out of my mind. According to 
them, Hugh was a nice person, but I didn’t 
need a man to support me. I had children 
and friends to keep me from being lonely. 
Therefore, why should I tie myself down? 
As time went on, Hugh’s health might fail 
and I’d have to nurse him. I’d be a lot 
better off just as I was with—here they 
sighed—my freedom. 

I suppose theirs is a case of the other pas- 
ture, but I have seen both sides. I am one of 
those women who made their families their 
entire life. I had no outside interests, no 
hobbies. After my husband’s death I com- 
pensated for his loss by an increasing ab- 
sorption in the children. But our congenial 
group changed inevitably with the years. 
One by one the children married, had their 
own homes and families. I was very fond of 
my young in-laws, determined not to inter- 
fere in any way with their lives. Of course I 
took care of the little shavers when their 


@ parents wanted a night out. Then my sons 


went overseas. One daughter-in-law de- 
cided to take a defense job, and I looked 
after her little boy. 

Lonely? If loneliness is a lack of real com- 
panionship, of engrossing activity, I was 
the loneliest person in the world. I had 
grown beyond the point where child care 
can fill the gaps. I had never been a club- 
woman. I had lived my life in those I loved, 
and now only the house remained. 

Freedom? Hardly. Though I welcomed 
the responsibility of Bobby, it meant added 
household tasks, less time for the walks I 
enjoy, or movies. 

Something else my friends had over- 
looked in their arguments. Hugh might get 
sick, but why should I suppose myself im- 
mune from ills of the flesh? After all, he is 
only three years older than I. 

Hugh and I were married for a reason 
that seems trite. We both felt that the pros- 
pect of life without the other was unthink- 
able. In short, we were in love. 


Our marriage has been an education for 
both of us. I am glad that our house is 
smaller than my former home, that it has a 
large garden. Hugh takes pride in raising 
the biggest vegetables in the county. I used 
to enjoy amodest pansy bed—all I had time 
for. With Hugh’s help, I’m now becoming 
an expert flower gardener, belong to the 
local garden club. Last summer my flower 
arrangement won second prize at the club’s 
annual show. I don’t know when I’ve felt so 
elated by anything I’ve ever done. Egged 
on by Hugh, I’m determined to win first 
prize next year. 

In this adventure of our marriage, I am 
constantly making delightful discoveries. 
Couples of our age who have lived together 
ior thirty years are apt to know each other 
too well. Lack of surprises can make life 
pretty dull, but Hugh’s stories, little 
crotchets are all new to me. And I’m not so 
old-hat to him that he neglects the small 
niceties and attentions. It all makes me feel 
gay. I’ve found, also, that the hours I spent 
in bedtime reading to my children yield 
dividends when I read to an appreciative 


at Hilty-Five 


Hugh. The deepest emotions in our natures, 
long unexpressed, have found fulfillment. 

Since Hugh is a widower with married 
children, he enjoys, as I do, a new freedom. 
A freedom from responsibility, from loneli- 
ness. Unlike young newlyweds, we have 
been trained in the art of living with an- 
other. We have learned to recognize those 
traits in ourselves that caused friction, and 
can avoid them. We know that happiness is 
not something you look for in another per- 
son. Rather is it a quality of mind that you 
have yourself, and is intensified by sharing. 
When a newly grafted rose has begun to 
grow, I run for Hugh to gloat over it with 
me. He can hardly wait to tell me an amus- 
ing thing that happened in the office. Small 
joys bubble around us, bring color and 
laughter to our lives that are so much 
richer for the living together. 


We have that most precious element— 
time. By that I don’t mean that we are 
idle. Hugh now has suc.: zest for his profes- 
sion that he says he will never retire. But 
we have a sense of time that doesn’t permit 
our wasting it in social gatherings to “‘keep 
up with the Joneses.’’ We have time for 
each other, for our hobbies. 

Some months after Hugh and I were mar- 
ried I received letters from my sons. 
“Swell, mom! Mcre power to you,” they 
rejoiced from the Pacific. They are glad 
that I have regained my life as an indi- 
vidual. It took the rest of my family and 
friends longer to recognize this, but they do 
now. Hugh and I smother complacent grins 
when we’re referred to as “those happy 
Barkers.” 

Since my own marriage, I have noticed 
other couples who have married late in life. 
From these marriages and others I’ve read 
about, as well as from my own experience, 
I’m convinced it takes more courage to 
marry late in life. The memory of either 
failure or success in a past marriage is hard 
to overcome. Chances are, the person is 
comfortably saturated in his own habits so 
that he fears readjusting to a new person 
and way of living. With the passing vears 
one’s world becomes smaller; it’s harder 
to meet new people or to see in a different 
light those we have known a long time. 
Lastly, public opinion, that “goodness, 
you old fool” ridicule, can be a powerful 
deterrent. 

But people who can successfully skirt 
these stumbling blocks are the lucky ones. 
Such a marriage is more likely to be a suc- 
cess that one undertaken in tumultuous 
first love. For one thing, the urge of Nature 
is not so strong as toblindone tosuch draw- 
backs as incompatible temperaments. And 
people are likely to have less to gain ma- 
terially. Many girls are so anxious for a 
husband that by the time they’re twenty- 
five, they become panicky, marry the next 
man who asks them, no matter what. Since 
the older woman does not suffer from sucha 
goad, she can afford to be far more critical. 
Statistics show that the majority of di- 
vorces take place during the early married 
years of people under thirty. 

One out of every five marriages in the 
United States now ends in divorce, but 
my guess is that it won’t be the mature 
marriage. This is understandable, for older 
people must be extraordinarily compatible 
to take what public opinion considers a risk 
at their age. 

But love isn’t bounded by age. The rip 
tide of young passion ebbs with the years. 
I have what is to mea more enduring love— 
the satisfying knowledge of real compan- 
ionship. The hand in the dark. For I mar- 
ried again at fifty-five and I have never 
been so happy. THE END 


31 





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the family with a cake like this. Use 
Calumet for all your baking... for won- 
derful biscuits, muffins, waffles, too. 


MOCHA LAYER CAKE 


Preparations. Have the shortening at room 
temperature. Line bottoms of two deep 8- 
inch layer pans with paper; grease. Start oven 
for moderate heat (375°F.). Sift flour once 
before measuring. 


Measure into sifter: 
134 cups sifted Swans Down 
Cake Flour 
214 teaspoons Calumet 
Baking Powder 
34 teaspoon salt 
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar 
Measure into mixing bowl: 
14 cup shortening 
Measure into cup: 
*Milk (see below for amount) 
1 teaspoon vanilla 
Have ready: 
2 eggs, unbeaten 
*With butter, margarine, or lard, use 24 cup 


minus 1 tablespoon milk. With vegetable or 
any other shortening, use 24 cup milk. 


Now the Mix-Easy Part! (Mix by hand or 


CALUMET-BAKING POWDER 
with Ting bubble double-action 


Calumet is a product of General Foods 


at a low speed of electric mixer.) Stir short- 
ening just to soften. Sift in dry ingredients. 
Add milk and mix until all flour is damp- 
ened. Then beat 2 minutes. Add eggs and 
beat 1 minute longer. (Count only actual 
beating time. Or count beating strokes. Al- 
low about 150 fullstrokes per minute. Scrape 
bowl and spoon often.) 


Baking. Turn batter into pans. Bake in mod- 
erate oven (375°F .) 25 minutes, or untildone. 


Frosting. Spread Mocha Frosting between 
layers and on top and sides of cake. 


Mocha Frosting 

Sift together 314 cups sifted confectioners’ 
sugar, 14 cup Baker’s Breakfast Cocoa, and 
14 teaspoon salt. Cream 14-cup shortening 
(part butter). Add part of sugar mixture 
gradually, blending after each addition un- 
til light and fluffy. Add remaining sugar, 
alternately with about 6 tablespoons cold 
coffee, until cf right consistency to spread, 
beating well after each addition. Add 4% 
teaspoon vanilla. 


(All measurements are level.) 





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Dd rate ap ‘a%e OD ADS OD Ap Boe) 
wR ay ry TYUY Vy Ay aa Ry a cy 











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Fifty = Ago 
fn 
The Journal 





N September, 1899, Dreyfus was 

pardoned and Admiral Dewey re- 
ceived a bang-up ovation in New 
York with a land and harbor parade. 
Edwin Markham was hailed as a 
great poet with his Man With the 
Hoe. Painted petticoats were all the 
rage, and Cornelius Vanderbilt died. 


The September, 1899, JOURNAL ex- 
plains Why Six Million Letters Go 
Astray Each Year. One of these let- 
ters was addressed: ‘“To my son He 
lives out West He drives a red ox 


The rale road goes By Thar.”* 


Care of children’s hair: “Wash the 
hair thoroughly once a month, using 
green soap dissolved in alcohol.” 


Believes Mrs. Rorer: “A family of 
four in Philadelphia need not spend 
$12 a week for marketing. They can - 
eat very nicely for $8.” 


Electrical toys: ‘‘A telephone, over , 
which messages may be sent, cests, 
$15. It is complete with batteries, 
bells, and 150 feet of wire.” 


“Do not take a tub bath of hot water 
more than once a week,” advises the 
author of Five Minute Talks on Good 
Health. “Not once a month if you are 
nervous. Not only is magnetism wasted, 
but the ends of ‘the nerves are thrown 
into a state of excitement.” 


Salaries for schoolteachers: ‘“*The 
average grade-school teacher earns 
$700 a year. High-school teachers 
earn from $1000 to $1500 a year.” 


First flashlight: “A recent invention 
is a small portable electric lamp with 
a little battery. It may be taken into 
dark clothes closets or any place 
where one would hesitate to carry an 
open light. It costs $3.” 


Suggests Mrs. Rorer for a company 
breakfast: *‘Fruit, sweetbreads, 
broiled chops with peas and to- 
mato sauce, salad, wafers and 
cheese, charlotte russe and coffee.” 


OK) 








¢ 





PHOTO BY HOWELL CONANT 


Journalettes Marion Plummer (Mass.), Dotty Robinson (Va.) look for home news. 


Gossip about people vou know, 


editors you like, 


and what goes on in New York. 


F the roughly seventy-five people 
here at the Workshop, editors 
and all, only eight or so are 

native New Yorkers, though quite a 
few others of us might as well be by 
now, even though we come, alto- 
gether, from every part of the country, 
with the Middle West, headed by the 
Goulds, somewhat in the lead. Which 
is why a lot of the Workshop staff keep 
stopping at the out-of-town news- 
paper stand in Times Square where 
almost four hundred places all over 
the United States have their papers 
on daily sale in one enormous rack, 
like a map of the nation in headlines 
and local happenings. Regular pa- 
trons from the office here get all kinds 
of stories from the guy in charge: of 
courtships started when couples meet 
to pick up the news from home; of 
numberless old friends reunited; of 
culprits, too curious, being taken into 
custody; and of people like the old 
fellow from Ogden just waiting there 
every day for a familiar Utah face. 


Mrs. Gould was telling some of us 
about having left London recently with 
one less hat than she’d taken along, the 


PHOTO FROM EUROPEAN 





The Astors: for her a new hat. 


same as on a previous trip several years 
back; she having been able on neither 
occasion to resist the rapt admiration 
each hat had elicited from her friend 
Lady Astor, now the happy possessor 
of both hats—the more recent one a 
black lace hood... . ““May I tell you 


what I think of the hat you’re wearing 
right now?” the outspoken Ann Bat- 
chelder at this point asked Mrs. G., 
who, ready for anything, said, ‘“Why 
yes.” ... “I think it is perfectly lovely!” 
said Miss B. 


As she was leaving for her home in 
California after her first visit here, 
JOHN MORRIS asked MARY ELAINE 
SHIPP (on this month’s cover) how 
New Yorkers compared with Cali- 
fornians from what she’s seen. “‘The 
girls here seem much, much dressier; 
but after the bright-colored clothes 
men wear on the Coast,’’ she said, 
looking at John, *“‘the New York men 
look positively drab.”’ 


Tf you lack a television set but would like 
to let on that you have one, there’s a man 
uptown here who makes your pretending 
pretly inexpensive. He manufactures 
dummy aerials for $2 apiece. 


For the first time in ten years, the 
U.S. liquor bill declined last year—the 
$8.8 billion spent in 1948 on liquor was 
9 per cent under 1947, according to 
Department of Commerce figures. . . . 
The U.S. owns 87 per cent of Nevada’s 
land, 73 per cent of Arizona, 72 per 
cent of Utah, 64 per cent of Idaho, 53 
per cent of Oregon, 51 per cent of 
Wyoming, 46 per cent of California. .. . 
Intelligence tests show that most peo- 
ple underestimate their abilities. While 
large numbers of high-school and col- 
lege students feel they have below-par 
ability in chemistry, English, foreign 
languages and math, tests show they 
have good or superior ability. About 
nine persons out of ten—and especially 
women—greatly underestimate their 
mathematical ability. 


Somehow we never figure that one of the 
JOURNAL’S famous painting reproduc- 
tions is going to create a curious coin- 
cidence; but listen to this. Remember the 
1780 George Romney portrait of Miss 
Willoughby in May? Well, we’ve heard 
from a girl working for Nash-Kelvinator 
in Detroit, who has, it seems, a friend 
named Muriel Willoughby in the office 
there who can trace her ancestry back to 
the little girl in the painting; and what's 
more, this Detroit Miss Willoughby is the 
secretary to an executive named George 


v 


Romney, a direct descendant of the great 
English artist! 


You’d never know from the pictures of 
the How America Lives families this 
month that anything extraordinary had 


PHOTO BY JOHN BRYSON 





Gordon Coster: — for Life. 


occurred while Gordon Coster was 
out there in Cape Girardeau photo- 
graphing, but that’s because on a 
JOURNAL story we learn to take the 
unexpected in our stride. This time it 
was only one of the worst tornadoes in 
Missouri’s history, with both our fam- 
ilies well out of its path, we’re glad to 
say; and as the whole thing happened 
in the evening, Gordon got right back 
to the Middletons and Austins the first 
thing next morning. Ours was a lucky 
assignment for Gordon, who was 
phoned out there by the editors of 
Life magazine to take for them some 
news pictures of the tornado—and 
lucky, too, for Life. 


When Henrietta Murdock stopped 
in downtown a week or so ago to see 
the furniture designer who used to 
do reproductions for Williamsburg, 
she found him working on some mod- 
ern chairs, and in attendance an ex- 
tremely tall young man and a very 
short young woman; the two of them 
trying out the chairs by sitting in 
them and assuming various postures; 
the designer checking their individual 
comforts and discomforts and mak- 
ing notes for modifying the chair 
shapes to satisfy both extremes. “‘Why, 
you’re just the person I want to see,” 
he said, looking up as Miss M. entered 
the studio. “Sit right down and tell 
me how these chairs feel to a person 
of normal size.”’ 


“*i°m fine,”’ he said. 


°c All I need is a kiss.”’ 





LET GEORGE 
bor 
if its Tough... 
If its Dangerous... 
Af its Embarrassing... 
If its Ticklish... 
If you dont want 
to doit... 
LET GEORGE 
 . porrl 


By GERTRUDE SCHWEITZER 


IBBIE did not get down into the village until the 
|, third day of her vacation at Sky Lodge. She spent 
the first two days reconnoitering, after which she 
acquired a very attractive young man named Hal van 
Ingen. 

Hal was deeply tanned, though it was the middle 
of January, and he had innumerable beautifully cut 
sports jackets that looked as though they had 
never been pressed. You could tell, even without ob- 
serving the deference of desk clerks, bellhops and 
waiters, that he was the kind of man who took winter 
jaunts to places like Sky Lodge in his stride. He had 
not, like Libbie, practically had to stand on his head 
to wangle a vacation at this time of year from the boss; 
nor would it take most of what was left of his savings, 
after buying the right clothes for Sky Lodge, to pay 
the resort’s bill. 

Libbie had gambled everything on meeting some- 
one like Hal. Contrary to all that she had been led to 
believe, the offices of the city were not teeming with 
splendid, rich young bachelors, eager to marry a 
pretty and charming young secretary. None of the 
places to which Libbie ordinarily had access was teem- 
ing, or even drizzling, with such men. Her summer 
vacation at the Shore House last year had produced 
nothing better than an anemic shoe salesman with 
whom she sometimes, in desperation, went to the 
movies. 

And she was not getting any younger. She would 
be twenty-three on her next birthday. Before she knew 
it she would be thirty, and then it would be practically 
hopeless, even for someone with natural honey- 
blond hair and peach-down skin and a whistle-stop 
figure. If she was going to find a rich husband, she 
would have to hurry and begin looking in the right 
places at the right time. The shoe salesmen went 
to the Shore House (cooking just like home and 
ocean bathing right from your room) in July, but 


TED BY JON WHITCOMB 


the bosses went to Sky Lodge in January. Libbie 
would go to Sky Lodge in January. 

When she found Hal, the second day, she knew 
she had been smart. He was exactly the kind of man 
she had pictured when she repeated to herself the 
truism that it was just as easy to fall in love with a 
rich man as with a poor one. He was tall, blue-eyed 
and amiable, and his father owned a railroad, and when 
he met Libbie he appeared to cast both himself and 
the railroad at her feet at first sight. They seemed, 
Libbie thought, made for each other. 

The third day, the day they went down to the 
village, she was coming back from a walk around the 
lake when he appeared on the steps of the Lodge, 
looking for her. He was freshly shaved and he had 
a nice aroma, a blend of shaving lotion and tobacco 
and -good tweed. She was sure he would always be 
like this in the morning, clean and smiling. 

“Hello,” he said. “You look like a canary—the 
yellow dress and your hair and everything.’ A new 
warmth came into his eyes and his voice vibrated. 
“You look beautiful.” 

She smiled. It was much more satisfactory to be 
told you look beautiful by a railroad owner’s son 
than by a shoe salesman. You didn’t have to work 
any harder at it, either. 

‘You have a wonderful smile,”’ he said. ‘“‘Libbie, 
will you ” For a moment she thought that he 
was going to propose then and there, but he just took 
a puff of his cigarette and finished, “Will you drive 
down to the village with me? My car’s making a 
queer noise and I want to have it looked at by a 
mechanic.” 

The car, a long, low convertible that strongly re- 
sembled a plane, might have chosen any place to give 
out, but it stopped, with a gasp and a stutter, directly 
in front of a small neatly painted shack on the edge 


of the village. In front of the (Continwed on Page 178) 








by MARGARET MEAD 





Are American boys and girls being educated toward — 
or away from—happier, more successful years as husbands 
and wives? Margaret Mead, renowned anthropologist, makes 
open-minded, scientific comparisons between training of 
youth in matters of sex, love and marriage, here and in 
seven Pacific civilizations. From her years of experience in 
Samoa, Bali and New Guinea, she offers some vivid com- 
ments on basic emotional life in the United States today. 


Editors’ Note: Margaret Mead, Associate Cura- 
tor of Ethnology at the American Museum of 
Natural History, has studied the way primitive 
societies prepare their young people in sex. The 
JOURNAL publishes this illuminating discussion in 
the belief that, while some parts may be unusually 
frank, mothers will find it valuable background 
knowledge in educating their own children for 
future happy roles as men, as women—as hus- 
bands, as wives. 


OW are men and women to think about 

their maleness and their femaleness in this 

twentieth century, in which so many of our 
old ideas must be made new? Have we over- 
domesticated men? Have we cut women off 
from their natural closeness to their children, 
taught them to look for a job instead of the 
touch of a child’s hand? In educating women 
like men, have we done something disastrous 
to both? 

These are questions which are being asked 
in a hundred different ways in contemporary 
America. In the mgving pictures beautiful girls 
in tortoise-shell spectacles and flat-heeled shoes 
are first humiliated for competing with men, 
then forgiven, loved and allowed to be glamor- 
ous only when they admit their error. Men are 
now ‘told how they, if they wear the right hat, 
may be the chosen one, the loved one—a role 
that used to be reserved for women. In every 
pair of lovers the two are likely to find them- 
selves wondering what the next steps are in a 


Copyright, 1949, by Margaret Mead. This is a condensation of 
a book shortly to be published by William Morrow & Co., Inc. 


ballet between the sexes that no longer follows 
traditional lines. When he is insistent, should 
she yield, and how much? When she is de- 
manding, should he resist, and how firmly? Who 
takes the next step forward or the next step 
back? What is it to be aman? What is it to be a 
woman? 

Talking about our bodies is a complex and 
dificult matter. We are so used to covering 
them up, to referring to them obliquely with 
slang terms or in a borrowed language, to hid- 
ing even infants’ sex membership under blue 
and pink ribbons. So to make it possible to 
think vividly, and yet at a comfortable distance, 
of the way in which our bodies have learne’ 
how to be male, how to be female, I draw upo: 
the seven South Sea cultures I have studied. 

Their basic learnings are the same as our 
basic learnings. The boy may grow up to carry 
spears and bows and arrows instead of brief 
cases and fountain pens, but also he must woo 
and win and keep a woman. The women may 
wear the scantiest clothing, and spend their 
days in the simplest tasks, but in their accept- 
ance of their husbands, and in their childbear- 
ing, they face their essential womanhood as 
surely as the woman who bears her baby in a 
modern hospital. 


hie book is being written from the stand- 
point of a woman of middle age, of an Amer- 
ican, and of an anthropologist. It is part of the 
whole argument that women will see the world 
in different ways than men—and by so doing 
help the human race see itself more completely. 


+ ial 














The Pacific Islands are an area where groups 
of men separated from each other by sea and 
mountain range have developed strikingly dif- 
ferent ways of life. I will attempt to introduce 
each people briefly. 

The Samoans are a tall, light-brown-skinned 
Polynesian people. Young and old plant, reap, 
fish, build, feast and dance in a world where 
no one is hurried, food is plentiful, and life is 
harmonious and unintense. They have been 
Christian for over a hundred years, wearing 
beautifully starched cottons on Sunday, but 
still barefoot, and proud of their own way of life. 

The Manf® people are a tribe of fishermen 
and traders who build their houses on piles in 
the salt lagoons, near to their fishing grounds. 
Tall, brown-skinned, lean and active, they have 
uilt a high standard of living by continuous 
hard work. 

The Arapesh are a mild, undernourished 
people who live in the mountains of New 
Guinea. The greatest interest of both men and 
women is in growing things—children, pigs, 
-oconut trees—and their greatest fear is that 
each generation will reach maturity shorter in 
stature than their forebears, until finally there 
will be no people under the palm trees. 

The cannibal Mundugumor trade with and 
prey upon the underfed bush peoples, devote 
their time to quarreling and head-hunting. The 
women are as assertive and vigorous as the 





men; they detest bearing and rearing children, 
and provide most of the food, leaving the men 
free to plot and fight. 

The Tchambuli people, who number only six 
hundred in all, have built their houses along 
the edge of one of the loveliest of New Guinea 
lakes. Tchambuli women, brisk, unadorned, 
managing and industrious, fish and go to mar- 
ket; the men carve and paint and practice 
dance steps, their head-hunting tradition re- 
placed by the simpler practice of buying victims 
to validate their manhood. 

On the big, slow-moving river, into which 
the Yuat River drains, are the villages of the 
latmul head-hunters. Rich in sago swamps that 
provide a steady food supply, well fed on fish 
that the industry of the women provides, they 

@ave built magnificent ceremonial houses and 


MA 





beautifully carved war canoes, and accumulate 
in their big villages the dance steps, the myths 
of all the lesser peoples about them. 

The Balinese, numbered in hundreds of 
thousands, are not a primitive people. Light, 
graceful, with bodies every segment of which 
moves separately in the dance, they have a 
highly complex and ordered way of life. 
Crowded on a tiny island with a beautiful, 
highly diversified landscape, they have turned 
all life into an art. The air is filled with music 
day and night. 

This is the cast. They do not represent by 
any means all the ways in which the relation- 
ship between the sexes can be handled. But 
among these seven there will be found enough 
to make one pause, to wonder, to quicken our 
imaginations about what our lives might be if 
they were not as they are. 


I. discussing men and women, I shall be 
concerned with the primary differences be- 
tween them, the difference in their reproduc- 
tive roles. Out of bodies fashioned for comple- 
mentary roles in perpetuating the race, what 
differences in capacities, in sensitivities, in 
vulnerabilities arise? How is what men can do 
related to the fact that their reproductive role 
is over in a single act, what women can do re- 
lated to the fact that their reproductive role 
takes nine months of gestation and, until re- 
cently, many months of breast feeding? 

Of the child’s first experiences within the 
womb, we still know very little. The Arapesh 
say the baby sleeps until ready for birth and 
then dives out. The Iatmul believe an unborn 
child can hurry or delay, as it wishes. “Why 
do you rail at me?” said Tchamwole to her hus- 
band. “This baby will be born when it likes. It 
is not like a pig or a dog to be born when others 
say it should.” “The birth is hard,” said the 
Tchambuli, “because the mother has not 
gathered enough firewood.” 

It is possible that there may be deep bio- 
chemical affinities between mother and female 
child, and contrasts between mother and male 
child, of which we now know nothing. So, at 
birth, whether the mother kneels squatting 
holding on to two (Continued on Page 128) 


PHOTOS BY RALPH STEINER AND MARY MORRIS 

















Is love really worth the heartbreak of experience? 


WISH I knew what to do. I wish I knew how you take things 

like this. But ’'m not smooth. ['m not smart. I don’t know 
any of the answers. What were you thinking, Ann, last spring, 
when all of us were out on dates, and the long, soft night came 
into the window, while you sat up there on third under the hot 
study lamp with your typewriter pounding, pounding? How 
did you manage to laugh when we came in and sat around on 
the sun deck, as if what we said about the dances we'd been to, 
the dates we'd been on, were fun for you too? You made a good 
story about the night Jack asked you to return his fraternity 
pin. Irememberthe crack that youmade when Milly Stevenscame 
back from the Triad and said he’d putit out on that blond Omega. 
Your act was so good the girls believed you. I was the only one 
who knew you were living on aspirin and your own particular 
kind of courage. I was the only one you talked to, and I re- 
member what you said. You said, “‘There is always one girl in 
this college every spring who makes a fool of herself, Sally.” 
That was all you said, even to me. 

I wish I could talk to you, Ann. You'd tell me what to do. 
For I'm the one this year. I'm the one who's made a fool of her- 
self this spring. 

It all started that warm day in the middle of March. That 
kind of day is dangerous. I was sick of my Soc class any- 
way. We’d been out on a field trip to a shack settlement in 
Eastview, and what we saw there was pretty bad. Grinslade 
was making the course as tough as he could. He and I had 
had a run-in several times during the semester. So when 
we got back he said something I didn’t agree with, and I 
spoke up—mad, you know—before I thought. That did it. 
He told me I was flunking the course, that I was trying to 
get by on my looks and personally he’d see I didn’t. He laid 
me out for all the class to see. I shut up quick, for I had to 
have the credit to graduate, but I stayed mad. 

sy the time he was through with me the hour was up, 
and we all went out the door, but fast. Carran, the big, dark 
fellow who sits in the back row with his feet up, walked out 


the door with me. He stopped when we got outside, sort of 


~ 





ILLUSTRATED BY COBY WHITMORE 

















blocking my way down the steps, and stood looking at me. 
He’s tall, you know, and I had to look up at him. 

“T love to see you when you’re mad,” he said. 

That was all. He went down the steps and over to 
the Deke house. I went on to the Sweet Shop, and some 
of the kids were sitting in the second booth and I sat 
down with them. I listened and drank my malted, but I was 
still seething inside. Now I know it was something more 
than temper. 

About four o’clock I was up on third working on this 
Eastview layout, when they buzzed my number. I went 
down to second to the phone and it was Tim Carran. 

He said, “*Miss Shaffner, I wonder if we could do a little 
more research on that Soc project tonight. I'd like to check 
up on some of the conditions over in town.” 

I didn’t get it. ’m never very sharp, and of course | 
missed the point. I said, “I’m sick of Soc! One field trip a 
day is enough. Why don’t you get.some of those eager 
beavers in the back row to go with you?” 

“They are all of the male sex,” he said. “I want to in- 
vestigate the dance at Riverside. But maybe you don’t like 
to dance.” 

I didn’t know my heart could act like that. It flew up to 
the top of my head and came down on a Radio City express 
elevator. I didn’t have any breath to answer with. 

He said, “No go, huh?” And waited. 

Then it all came out in a rush. “Oh, yes!’’ I cried. “I'd 
love to! I love to dance. Dancing a 

“O.K.,” he said, “you like to dance. So we go. I’ll be 
around at nine. And keep those she-wolves in the Alpha 





house off my neck.” 

Milly Stevens was standing by the phone booth. She’d 
been standing there all the time. She was the one who had 
called me to the phone. 

“That was Tim Carran,” she said, looking at me in that 
steady way Milly does. I said defensively: 


“You're pretty sharp today.” (Continued on Page 204) 

























MMi me CCC 


Ma siya tae te Co cele 





+" 


» 


» 
> 





If you have ever slapped a 


a 

The Journal == = “‘Why can’t Charles go?” 
pce Phillip said. ‘‘He’s bigger’n I 

amie -_ am.”” He had seen Charles 
ee £ ride around the driveway 
APPEARANCE 


Se AE with a handful of comic 
books a few minutes before. 
“T’d rather he go,” his mother said, “but I 
can’t find him. Now you go along and hurry. 
Mrs. Spence needs the bread.” 

“Can I ride my trike?” 

“Oh I suppose,”? his mother said, “but be 
careful.” 

“T will,”? he said, rolling up his pants leg like 
Charles did when he got on his bicycle. 

He rode halfway up the street and let the 
trike coast onto the grass. He climbed off and 
parked it on a mound of roots by a large shady 
maple tree. It leaned perilously and he smiled 
with satisfaction. 

“Filler up,” he said. 

Stooping down he picked up a long dead 
maple branch and walking over to the curbing 
squatted down looking at the dirt in the gutter. 

When it rains, it’s a big river that’s dangerous 
and runs fast and cowboys have to take lots of cows 
across because it’s dangerous. Now it’s a dried-up 
river and the cowboys don’t worry any more. Men 
in dirty trucks and dusty clothes come and haul the 
dirt away. They use shovels that hurt your ears 
when they scoop the dirt and then they throw it 
high over their heads into the back of the truck. The 


By WILLARD LINDSAY 


front of the truck is painted red and on the doors is 
“Crusoe City” in big yellow letters. ’'d rather drive 
the truck than shovel. 

Phillip looked up just as Charles stepped on 
the brake of his bike and slid sideways into the 
curb. 

“Where you going, Phillip?” 

“Store,” Phillip said, looking at Charles’ bike 
basket. ‘“Where you get all the comic books? 

“Ted.” 

“Can I look at some? 

“Yeah,” Charles said. “I guess. If you give 
them back.” 

“Want to play cowboy?” Phillip asked. 

“Naw, that’s for babies. Besides, Ted and me 
are starting a gang. We’re going to build a club- 
house today.” 

“Yeah?” Phillip said anxiously. “Can I be in 
it?’? He dropped his hand to his gun holster. 
**Can I be in the club, Charles??? 

Charles reached in the bike basket for one of 
the brightly pictured magazines. He leafed 
through one, hunting, then finding the place 
showed it to: Phillip. ““There’s the clubhouse 
we're building. It’s got plans and everything.” 

“Boy,” Phillip said. “Can I be in the gang?” 

“Aw, Phillip. You’re too little.” 

“T’m not neither.” Phillip lowered his voice. 

“T got to go,” Charles said. “See you later.” 
He threw the comic book back in the basket and 
rode off. 





“Oh boy for you, Charles,” Phillip mumbled 
after Charles’ receding back and squatted down 
on the curbing again. 

A car stopped on the other side of the street 
and a man stuck his head out the window. The 
man’s face looked fat and Phillip wondered if 
he was fat all over like he was in the face. 

“Say there, Phillip,” the man said smiling. 
“Can you tell me where Kummers live?” 

Phillip watched him a moment and looked at 
the long black car. It had a wheel set in a slot on 
the front fender. How’d he know my name? It 
must be a gangster car. 

“Up there,” he said, pointing up the street. 

“Up where?” said the gangster. 

“Where that funny stone thing is,” he said, 
staring again at the onetime cowboy river. 

The fat man looked up the street for a funny 
stone thing. ““You mean that hitching post?”’ he 
asked. “Is that the house?” 

“T guess,” Phillip said, and he and the fat 
gangster stared at each other for a moment. 

“Thanks,” the gangster said. “Thanks a lot.” 

“That’s all right,”’ Phillip said, looking at the 
back of the car. He picked up the dead branch 
and walked toward the sidewalk. Turning he 
watched the gangster drive across the street to 
the end of the block. 


Phillip watched him as he worked his fat 
stomach from under the steering wheel. When 
he stood up he looked 


(Continued on Page 157) 





eat sik é 









i 


hth 
oN 


“This is my tree!” , & 


Phillip said. “It’s mine!” PN 


ILLUSTARTED 


BY 











Do we work harder than grandfather did? 


Do we save more? Will this prosperity Last? 


These answers may surprise you. 


By Seymour E. Harris and Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. 


OW and again when we’re sitting around, the 

talk turns to the high cost of living. Some- 

body always brings up the fact that he can re- 
member—and not so long ago, either, he always 
notes—when roast beef, prime ribs, was twenty- 
one cents a pound. Then somebody else brings up 
the five-cent hot)dog—and the quarter haircut. 
Everyone sighs and laughs and says something 
about those days being the good old days, gone 
forever now. 

Now, we all know that we are turning out more 
food, more clothes, more motorcars, more radios 
than at any time in the nation’s history. We also 
know that wages have risen steadily. But the 
thing that seems to overshadow all these things is 
the rise in prices—and we feel as if higher costs 
have canceled out our thicker pay envelopes, our 
greater productivity. The question is: Are we in 
hard fact any richer today as people than we used 
to be in our less streamlined, less chromium- 
plated and cellophane-wrapped past? Have we 
' more comfort, more food, more security than we 
used to have? 

The answer is yes. Mr. and Mrs. Average Citi- 
zen are a good deal better off today than they were 
ten years ago—and much better off than they 
were twenty years ago. And we can prove it. 

Economists and historians have long been ac- 
cumulating statistical data on wages, prices and 
living standards for all periods of American his- 
tory. From this information, we can get a fairly 
exact picture of how well off the average citizen is 
today in comparison with himself ten or twenty 
years ago, or with his father or grandfather. 

Take a look at Joe, the factory worker. In 1929 
his average weekly pay was $31. Just before 
World War II, after ten years of depression and 
falling prices, his pay was $27—which was worth 
$35 in 1929 dollars, in the shops. Today his pay is 
almost $60. Since prices are up by 39 per cent 
since 1929, the $60 is not worth twice as much as 
$30 in 1929, but only one third more. Still, $60 
at present corresponds to forty 1929 dollars when 
it comes to buying your food, clothing and other 
consumer goods. 

But maybe Joe is not typical. The factory 
worker, we are told, protected by his union and 
by the Government, is a special case. Yet when we 
glance into the envelopes of the average worker, 
union or nonunion, we discover that the average 


weekly pay is up from close to $28 in 1929 to $48 
in 1948—an advance of $20 as against one of $29 
for factory workers. But the most spectacular gain 
of all was made by the largely nonunionized farm 
laborer, whose weekly pay increased from a 
wretched $8 in 1929 to a still inadequate $28 
today. 

But is this still just what economists call the 
“money illusion’’? 

No. 

Prices are higher, yes. But Mr. A. C.’s income 
has jumped much more than the prices he has to 
pay. 

Calculations (we won’t burden you with the 
details, but they have been carefully checked) 
show that the prices of most things we use (con- 
sumption goods) are up by only 39 per cent over 
1929, while at the same time Mr. Average Citizen 
receives 86 per cent more dollars in his pay en- 
velope. This means that on the average we re- 
ceive 86 per cent more dollars and pay out only 
39 per cent more for the goods we buy. In simple 
arithmetic, the average pay buys about one third 
more in goods—in groceries, clothing, housing, 
utilities, and the other big items in your budget— 
than it did twenty years ago. So you’re much 
better off. 

Moreover, the things that Mr. Average Citizen 
can get are better in quality than they used to 
be. Compare the $2500 automobile of 1929 with 
the $1700 car today. There’s much more caf 
for less money. The same is true of radios. 
Our refrigerators are also better; our washing 
machines do almost everything for us, at the push 
of a button. Dishwashers are a smoothly working 
commonplace. Our vacuum cleaners not only 
clean the house, but double as paint sprayers. 
Not only do we have more to spend today, but our 
dollar buys better goods. 

But there are other questions which have to be 
considered before we can say that we are really 
better off than we use to be. Do we work harder 
today? Do we save any more and thereby have 
more security? Are we any more immune to the 
long spells of unemployment which used to dis- 
sipate our savings in times past? Is income dis- 
tributed as widely as it used to be? Does taxation 
take a larger slice of our income than it did of our 
grandfathers’? Let us consider each of these 
questions in turn. (Continued on Page 108) 





MISS ELEANOR URQUHART 


By Raeburn 










ef 


Flaubert’s admonition to artists, 
regular and ordinary in your life, like a 
bourgeois, so that you can be violent 
and original in your works,” might 
serve as a description of Sir Henry Rae- 
burn (1756-1823). Art was a business to 
this most distinguished of Scotch paint- 
ers, and from nine to five-thirty it kept 
him regularly in his studio, where he 
painted a succession of three to four 
sitters a day. When he left his easel, it 
was to speculate in real estate or to play 
golf. But conventional as was his life, 
there was nothing conventional about 
his portraiture. 

As a young man Raeburn decided to 
record only what he saw in front of him 
and never to trust his memory, even 
when painting a subordinate part of 
the picture. This practice, common to- 
day, was contrary to the regular pro- 
cedure of eighteenth-century portrait- 
ists. They used instead a pre-established 
tone for flesh, a traditional arrange- 
ment of high lights and shadows, and 
other fixed conventions. Raeburn, rely- 
ing on actual observation and not on a 
memorized formula, developed a style 
which foreshadowed 
painting. 





























contemporary 






But while he anticipates the goal of 
modern portraitists, seizing in his best 
works on the salient features of the sit- 
ter and rendering them in the moment 
of conception, his technical perform- 
ance at times goes beyond the attain- 
ments of any contemporary artist. It is 
amazing that in portraying Miss Ur- 
quhart, for example, he did not have to 
change a single brush stroke. Success 
in direct painting of this type depends 
on the swiftness and certainty of the 
artist’s hand. The moment he falters, 
renders a false shadow, fails to find the 
correct contour, misses the right color, 
the passage must be repainted and the 
freshness is gone. 

Raeburn himself failed more often 
than he succeeded, and his work fre- 
quently suffers from the same faults 
that plague modern portraitists: either 
the pigment is thick from reworking, 
or the shadows too black, or the colors 
dull. The National Gallery painting is 
an exception; and it is easy to imagine 
that on this occasion, fascinated by the 
beauty of Miss Urquhart, the artist 
forgot all hesitations and afterthoughts 
and put down a premier coup the image 
of an aristocratic and charming 
woman, creating spontaneously one of 
his greatest masterpieces. 


—JoHN WALKER, 
Chief Curator, National Gallery of Art. 









































Zz 
° 
= 
3 
Zz 


GALLERY OF ART, MeL 


NATIONAL 


MISS ELEANOR URQUHART 


AINTED BY SIR HENRY RAEBURN, 1756-1823 








Hank likes the school auto shop, for there he works 
with things he can see and feel, has freedom of 
speech and movement and a chance to stretch. 





XCEPT for slouching posture, Hank (Enrico Luigi Lorenzo) Polsi- 
KE nelli is a handsome young man who could easily pass for 21. He is 
just under six feet tall, weighs 160 pounds but looks heavier. He is 17, 
a senior majoring in auto mechanics at the Woodrow Wilson Voca- 
tional High School in Jamaica, Long Island. Scholastically he ranks in 
the lower third of his class; in social maturity he is older than some of 
his teachers. Hank leads neither a home- nor school-centered life. 

He is usually well groomed and particular about what he wears: for 
school, slacks with pegged cuffs and a sport shirt with the collar but- 
toned; for dressier occasions, a maroon lapelless jacket worn over a 
white shirt, with a maroon knit tie, Windsor-knotted, and a yellow 
pocket handkerchief. His word for a pleasing costume is “sharp.” 
When he wore the maroon jacket the first time, his mother told him he 
looked like a gangster. “I gave you twenty-two dollars for that?” she 
said. Hank often asks his mother’s opinion of his clothes, but he 
doesn’t always follow her advice. 

For example, the only shoes he had to wear with the Tuxedo he 
rented for his cousin’s wedding were thick-soled pattern-toed sport 
shoes. “You think these will go all right with a Tux?” he asked her. 
“They black enough?” 

“Theyre black, all right,” Rosa Polsinelli admitted. She speaks 
broken English, made especially attractive by her wisp of a smile. “Why 
don’t you borrow some black dress shoes? What if they do hurt your 
feet a Louple of hours? You come right home after the wedding and 
take them off.” 

Hank stood on one leg and took a shoe off to inspect it more closely. 
“T believe these will be all right,” he said. “Who’s going to look at my 
feet? Besides, the pants will cover most of them up.” 

His mother laughed, shaking her head. Among other things, she 
cannot understand why he buys brown shoes, then uses black polish on 


them. A real Italian mother, she believes it is her main business to cook, 





PHOTOS BY MORRIS ENGEL—SCOPE 


Hank is never more at ease than with a beautiful 
girl on his arm. He dressed in five minutes without 
a mirror to serve as usher at his cousin’s wedding. 


Hank buys a newspaper every day and reads the 
' sports and comic sections thoroughly. For school- 
work he reads little, though his oral reading is good. 








It takes all kinds of young people to make up the teen-age 
| world. This is the fourth of a series of articles about teen- | 
agers and we still haven’t found any two alike. What’s done 
in Iowa may be frowned on in Idaho; the hit dance step in 
Columbus, Georgia, may be old stuff in Columbus, Ohio. | 
Objectively, candidly, we are presenting young people as 
, we find them, in the high schools they work in, the homes | 
they are growing up in, places where they find their fun; at | 
their best and at their worst—twelve Profiles of Youth. 





ee | tf 


keep house and make a home for her husband and children and not 
ask too many questions. 

The Polsinelli home is a thirty-minute subway ride eastbound from 
midtown Manhattan, in the Jamaica section of Queens, one of the 
many communities of Greater New York that merge together in the 
maze of city streets. The house, part of a two-family frame twin, has 
eight rooms and two baths. Row houses and small businesses line the 
shadeless street, but the neighborhood is well kept. It is a practical but 
unlovely spot, like countless others in the sprawling city. Many Negroes 
live nearby. 

Frank Polsinelli, Hank’s father, bought the place eight months ago 
for $6500 and has already had the interior remodeled and has installed 
modern luxuries like the gleaming white gas range and cabinet sink. 
He plans to do more work on it himself. He has been with the same 
lumber company for nineteen years, working up from yardman to car- 
penter foreman at $70—$80 a week in their nonunion shop. He is a 
chunky, round-faced man, four inches shorter than his son, with silver 
gathering in his thinning wiry hair. In the early ’30’s his employer 
went bankrupt, and he had to work for the PWA, but when the business 
was re-established, Frank Polsinelli was among the first of the men 
to be hired back. 

He came to America in 1921, when he was 17, from a small town 
near Rome. He has never been back to Italy and has no desire to go. 


He knows America has been good to him. He courted Rosa by corre-— 


spondence, with the help of her father who was in the United States, 
and in 1930 she came from Italy to (Continued on Page 104) 





Sitting for hours at a time in desk-chair combinations which were designed 
for small children would be considered torture by any full-grown adult, and 
that’s what it is to these big boys, who have to take it but don’t like it. 


The Polsinelli doorstep in Jamaica, Long Island, is a gathering place 
for both children and adults. Next-door neighbors enter the house 
freely without knocking. Teen-age girl next door is like a sister to Hank. 


Asked what kind of girl he likes, Hank replied, 
“Pretty ones,” adding, after a pause, “‘all kinds.” 
Here he shares a light with prom-date Pegsy Kolk. 





**A fellow needs at least $10 to start at Coney Island, because you want 
to take lots of rides,” but cost rises “if you have an ‘I-want-this’ girl” 


as your date; on gang dates, girl pays own way on rides, boy buys food. 


“Tt will take me almost three months to earn 
ere. enough money to pay my father what he loaned 
me to go to the prom,” reports one New York high-school fellow who 
spent more than $65 that night. Teens at big-city schools estimate that 
each couple spends at least $100 for prom expenses, counting $10 Tux 
rental, dance bid, the corsage (a $7 orchid in seven out of ten cases), 
carfare or gas, and after-dance entertainment at one of Manhattan’s 
class niteries. Girls spend from $15 for material to make gown to $45 
for ready-made formal, shell out from $5 to $10 for small gold evening 
bag and high-heeled “naked slippers.” Biggest single expenditure is 
postprom night-clubbing; few boys get off with check smaller than 
$18, though one fellow kept his prom expenses down to $8 for a cor- 


sage—his date bought the bid, they doubled with a couple with a car 





and went to a private party after the dance. But most boys report they 
spend an average of $25—$35 at places like the Stork Club and Waldorf’s 
Starlight Roof. Since couples usually stay out all night and eat snack 
after dance plus sunrise breakfast before going home, expenses increase. 

And on Saturday Nights. However, the prom is a once-in-a-lifetime 
occurrence, and boys try to spend no more than $5 on ordinary week- 
end dates. A movie evening costs at least $3, counting two admis- 
sions, after-movie sodas and bus fare. Boy takes bus to girl’s neighbor- 
hood and sees movie there but can’t hope to spend less than $2.50 
despite economy. Broadway movies, complete with stage show, cost 
at least $6 ($1.60 each admission, plus food and transportation) and 
few teens attend legitimate theater because girls like orchestra seats 


(upwards of $5 each) and the food in the theater district is expensive. 


Vhen money runs out, couples 
‘just watch” the expensive rides. 


$1.60 admission per head means Broadway film 
and stage show; usually a subway ride home. 


$3 buys enough tomato-and-cheese pizza for 
eight; girls supply soft drinks for home party. 


Teen is refused liquor at Village jazz joint, 
but plain colas cost him almost as much. 





Bids for proms at Manhattan hotels go 
from $3.60 to $11.50 for dinner dance. 


“T started saving in fall for our June prom and my girl still had to help pay the check.”’ Couples 


a7 | - . 
Qe 





\ : may leave dance at 11; go to Stork Club till 3, ride to Jones Beach to “‘watch the sunrise.’ One 
high-school group drove to Connecticut, danced in village streets to car radio music till dawn. 


Bebop addicts go to bop houses on special dates, and spend at least $10 
for admission and minimum charge, though boys pay only 98 cents to 
sit in bull pen, an area set aside for listening only, when going stag. 
Roller skating costs $2.50 to $3, counting rink admission, skate rental, 
food and carfare; slightly less if couples own skates. Even after-school 
nibbling is expensive; the menu at one favorite ice-cream parlor lists 
sundaes from 40 cents up to a $1.50 Super Dooper for Two. 

Cheap But Fun. For those boys with budget troubles (and they are 
many, since the average allowance is $2-$4 weekly, supplemented 
by earnings from part-time jobs), inexpensive date plans are necessary. 
One fellow says, “My girls have to like Central Park and the museums— 
otherwise we don’t go out.” He takes his dates to the zoo on Sunday 


afternoons from two till five, avoiding meal checks but buying ice cream 





King Cole’s autograph is worth the 98¢ admis- 
sion, $1.50minimum and $2 picture at Bop City. 


and colas. Television parties at a friend’s home are increasingly popular 
(“Even Howdy Doody is fun if you watch him with a crowd’’) and car- 
fare is the only expense. Several fellows report taking dates by subway to 
free radio shows; one crowd attended a baseball game on passes and 
walked two hours to get home; $1.10 rents a boat for rowing in Céntral 
Park; one boy buys Italian food after dates “because it’s cheap, and you 
get lots of it—my dates like it or else.” 

Dutch-Treat Doings. Most girls carry 25 cents to $2 “mad money” 
on dates in case of arguments (one girl has kept the same quarter in 
her compact since she began dating), but occasionally use cash when 
fellow runs short. Sometimes a girl will take her steady out when he’s 
broke. Only one boy remembers suggesting a Dutch treat; “I couldn’t 


stand my blind date and I figured she should pay her own way!” 








After prom, hansom ride in Central Park costs less than dancing at Copacabana or hotel 
roof, but more than hour round-trip ferry ride to Staten Island, 5 cents each way. 


‘St I go to a trade school,” the boy said. “I know it’s different 
from high school, but for me it’s wonderful. I’m learning something. 
You know what happened to a friend of mine in high-school English? 
There was this book of plays. The teacher says read one, so he read it. 
He didn’t understand most of it, but he read it. Then she gives a test. 
What did you like about this play? she says. He said, nothing. So he 
flunked. He’s a bum for not liking it. What kind of learning is that?” 

In an auto-repair class, the boy said, things are different. “Nobody 
says, here’s a broken car, do something about it. The teacher, he shows 
me. He takes this part or this wrench, see, and he shows me. I know 
when it’s done right too. He smacks me on the back and says, okay, try 
it, and sure enough, it works, You know where you stand in that kind of 
a class and you learn something.” 

The shop teacher describes this pupil as a “good mechanic.” The 
English teacher says he’s ‘‘well, all right.”” His brother, who is all set to 





ce 5 
something.” 





“Se 


hire him when he graduates, says he’s “doing fine”’; after school, he is 
already working and he is good with the customers—friendly, well be- 
haved, reliable and honest. His mother is proud of him; he knows con- 
siderably more than she does about rules and regulations, taxes, pur- 
chasing, politics, the law, and what’s going on in the world, She says, 
‘‘My boy’s smart—he’ll get on.”’ His girl friends think he will too. “Some 
of the boys, they don’t learn anything in school and then they have to 
take just any old job. They can’t pick and choose. A boy who’s got a 
trade always has something he can count on,” one girl said. 

The principal speaks slowly about him. “It’s hard to say whether he’s 
what most people call smart or not,” he says. ““We haven’t any tests for 
social intelligence. He gets along with people. He knows what he wants. 
He’ll work hard. He’s willing to learn if you help him. He likes English 
class when it’s concerned with sport stories or stories of adventure, or 


knowledge he needs in his work. He likes (Continued on Page 213) 





By Harlan Miller 


A lifelong dream came true for our neighbor 
on the corner: he talked his wife into throwing a 
garden party in their back yard, complete with 
Chinese lanterns. (But the neighborhood cherubs 
perched atop his fence like little gargoyles and did 
their best to turn it into a nightmare.) 


ee 


I won an argument at the club by a vote of 5 to 
3: that a wife can be the most marvelous, bewitching 
woman in town and still be the worst housekeeper in 
the block. 


> + 


By a peculiar coincidence, I decided that spank- 
ing is old-fashioned and barbarie at almost exactly 
the same time I discovered that Jinior is two inches 
taller than I am. 


> > 


Since the divorce of a fourth-grader’s mom and 
pop recently, the youngsters at our school have 
kept a sharp eye on their parents. 

od > rs : ” 
Don’t you two dare get a divorce,” decreed our 
youngest, “while ’'m away at camp this summer!” 


> > 


The smoldering husband across the street tells me 
his wife keeps his favorite socks in her mending bag as 
long as three years. “She figures,” he theorizes, “that 
I won't wear ’em out so quick!” 


ee 


I felt flattered when the collegian down the 
block asked my advice. “Would it be eugenically 
sounder,” he inquired, “for a medium-sized man like 
me to marry a tall girl who wears flat shoes to make 
her look shorter, or a tiny girl who wears tall hats 
and high heels to make her seem taller?” 


> <+ 


Usually when my wife sees another man wear- 
ing a blue shirt (or any other color), she says he 
looks “distinguished.” But if I put on one with 
even a vestige of color, she acts discouraged till | 
change to a white one. 


On the hottest night in August we finally ful- 
filled our threat: all four of us moved into my wife’s 
air-cooled bedroom. (We haven’t been so cozy since 
the five of us cruised the Great Lakes in a pair of 6 
by 9 cabins.) 


aes 


I like cantaloupe and my wife likes watermelon, 
like her father before her, and all summer the cool- 
ers been jammed with gigantic watermelons. I’m 
just another modern husband who compromises for 
the foods his strong-minded father-in-law liked. 


eS 


The man next door confides that he never goes on 
a trip with his wife without packing a pair of pliers in 
his toilet kit. 

“Every wife expects her big, strong husband to 
do with his fingers,” he explains, “what he’s lucky to 
do with a monkey wrench.” 


<a 


Our newest father-of-three faces a tough 
choice: to get up half an hour early to bathe and 
shave, or to spend $1000 on a second bathroom? 


Yo Se 


As long as a wife is fond of expensive hotels 
with $5 dinners when they're traveling, a husband 
can always save a few dollars by carrying along a 
can opener, as he can open some sardines in his 
room. 


> <+ 


“Another reason why I dislike houses on fifty-foot 
lots,” explains Peter Comfort, washing the rubber-ball 
imprints off the white wail of his house, “is that I hate 
to hear the neighbors applaud every time I lose an 
argument to my wife.” 


Sa Se 


After years of travel I’ve learned never to un- 
dertip in the presence of my wife. I warn bride- 
grooms to remember this especially on their honey- 
moons. For a shortage of a dime or quarter an in- 


dignant waiter or bellhop can make you feel like a 
midget in front of your Dream Girl. 


> + 


Obviously, the busier a husband is, and the 
more money he earns, the greater’s the triumph 
when a wife can wheedle him into washing the 
dishes. 


> +> 


Hint to newlyweds who wonder what they'll 
have to talk about the next 50,000 meals: discuss 
your mutual friends. There’s no stronger bond be- 
tween husband and wife than disliking the same 
person. 


ee 


“Any man worth his salt,” reflects Betty Com- 
fort, examining a dent in the fender she knows she 
didn’t put there, “is well flavored with conceit. 
Even a humble man is conceited about being so 
humble.” 


2 Ce 


To nurture our cheery father-and-son relation- 
ship (the strangest in all Nature, at best), I’ve offered 
Junior $10 if he wins a set at tennis from me this 
summer. I think my $10 is safe; he seems to be en- 
joying the illusion that he’s Jack Kramer suffering 
a bad year. 


ee 


When you watch your wife at a party and mar- 
vel that she can be so decorative and piquant as well 
as worth-while . .. when your daughter, after five 
phone calls from boy friends, goes out to dinner 
with the family as if she enjoyed it... when Junior 
jumps to carry heavy suitcases or cases of ginger 
ale as if he were afraid you might strain a muscle . . . 
when your youngest writes from camp for a snap- 
shot of the old homestead, and you realize the shack 
has cast a spell on your young... then you don’t 
envy all the maharajas and all their concubines, 
are reconciled to your old suit for another year, 
and don’t grudge the $20 gold piece you gave the 
minister. 





Priceless tip to the newlywed husband down 
the street: a sudden, manly outburst of well- 
simulated wrath may do more to establish you as 
head of the family than weeks of desultory debate. 
(But you better wind it up with a wink!) 


. 


49 
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COl@CEOS HOUSE cur n. 


Architectural Editor of the Journal 


Wide modern windows overlook the Golden Gate; behind them, magnificent period furnishings 


In a San Francisco neighborhood notable for its mansions of a 
gaudier epoch, when it was customary for dignified dwellings to 
face the front, this house of today, with modern simplicity and 
poise, turns its back on the street and gives its attention instead 
to one of the world’s most wonderful views. The fabulous bay, 
the breath-taking bridge, the whole heady sweep of white city, 
blue water and olive-green hills are wine for the repast which ar- 
chitect and owner have prepared within. Your eyes keep sipping 
from the scenery outside while feasting on the effect indoors as 


you see it served up in these photographs. And look closely, for it 





MK WALTER HEIL, OWNER GARD 


is unlikely that you will ever see better Biedermeier than, say, the 
sofa in fruitwood and velvet which stands against the drawing- 
room wall of heavenly blue, But then each piece of furniture you 
encounter here recalls a triumph of collecting at home or abroad, 
The range is wide, from eighteenth-century English, through 


nineteenth-century German, Italian, French to twentieth-cen- 
tury American; all making a most harmonious medley ina selling 
designed with taste and skill to match. If after going through the 
house you were to guess the owner to bea fine-arts authority and 


an acc omplishe od gardener as well, you would, of course, be correct. 


NER DAILEY, ARCHITECT; PHOTOGRAPHS BY EZRA STOLLER 
oo 


TOME Ns Ea tee 5 AZ pee ay ‘I apeey, 
z wane 4 in 







bai a Viet 














In the upper floor of the house above 
are the drawing room and dining room, 
facing off to the view; the indoor gar- 
den is inside the glassed section; the 
casement opens into the kitchen; the 
bedrooms are below; a garden, under 
the trees, separates house from street. 


The dining room (right) shares the 
view with the drawing room through 
. the wide opening between them, the 
former being furnished with Empire 
table and chairs whose German ver- 
sion was named after a fictitious 
homebody figure called Biedermeier. 


Furnished in Empire, of which the 
feature is the four-poster found some 
years ago in Florence, Mrs. Heil’s 
bedroom (right) looks out upon her 
husband’s secluded outdoor garden 
of succulents, where the art-museum 
director rides his horticultural hobby. 


Left. Vying with the view at the oppo- 
site end of the drawing room is Doctor 
Heil’s glass-enclosed garden, filled 
with subtropical greenery, against 
which furnishings of Chippendale, Di- 
rectoire and more Biedermeier find 
themselves most effectively at home. 





‘Please don t think i’m so stupid as 
to misconstrue this.’’ Connie said 
"It’s evident that your absurd explanation 


of that girl’s presence in your 


bed is perfec tly true.’’ 





harley s Ofpowmnrd, 





Don’t believe what you hear about Charley— 


his interest in women is strictly artistic. “By , tS Rummel 


HARLEY DRIVER, Cal Tech ’39, a tall young man 

with a sad face and mild blue eyes, found himself ear- 
marked for the altar by Miss Constance Ashby-Cummings, 
a handsome, dynamic blonde dedicated to service and 
uplift on the higher levels. 

Matrimonially, Charley had a number of assets and 
only one drawback. He made twelve thousand a year 
worrying about production for the Burt Oil Refineries, 
which Constance considered marginal but not hopeless; 
he’d passed some pretty rugged tests for social grace at the 
Ashby-Cummings town house and country place; he had 
an interesting scar on his forehead, acquired while skip- 
pering a PC boat on Atlantic patrol; and he was completely 
manageable. Constance treated him kindly; and Charley, 
never having experienced the blasting effects of true love, 
accepted the feeble flutter aroused by her embrace as the 
normal reaction of a civilized man. 

Constance announced their engagement and set about 
correcting his one great fault, which was his tendency to 
make cool, chaste and utterly ravishing photographs of 
suitably designed models supplied by his collaborator, 
Pete Morris. This Pete was an extroverted sports writer 
for the Herald-Times, with a crew cut and an ability to see 
more than normally meets the eye. Charley had one kind 
of know-how, Pete another, and their joint struggles had 
won for Charley, who signed the prints, a reputation, 
among serious photographers of the nude, equal to that of 
Heifetz among fiddlers. 

Using the gifts of persuasion and leadership that had 
carried her to high office in the Junior League, Constance 
aad no great difficulty in securing Charley’s promise to 
restrict his pictorial subject matter to flowers, wagon 
wheels in the snow, and old men with full beards. As it 
worked out, Charley, on the grounds that what was hap- 
pening to him had happened to better men since time be- 
gan, gave up photography altogether, and gradually, over 
the months, slipped into a state of gentle, uncomplaining 
melancholia. Pete saw the change and didn’t like it a bit. 


Charley was in his apartment at the Greyhurst one fine 
night in April, marking passages in Schopenhauer’s Essay 
on Women, when he heard Pete’s knock. He carefully 
inserted a bookmark, put his feet in his slippers and 
opened the door. Pete had a girl with him. 

“Hiya, Carlos,” Pete boomed. “Honey, this is Charley 
Driver. Charley, Jean Patton.” 

“How do you do?” Jean said. 

“How do you do?” Charley said. “Won’t you come in?” 

“Two old photographers,” Pete announced. “I thought 
you ought to meet.” He flopped down in Charley’s big 
chair with the delighted expectancy of a small boy who’s 
just lighted a firecracker. 

Jean sat down and crossed a pair of perfect legs. The 
rest was in keeping. She had shoulder-length chestnut 
hair; warm, intelligent blue eyes; a full, rich mouth; and 
a figure engineered to the most exacting specifications. 
Pete, Charley saw at a glance, hadn’t lost his touch. 

“Pete’s building me up,” Jean said. “I’m really not a 
photographer at all. I just visit exhibitions when I get the 
chance, and make snapshots of houses.” 

“Houses?” 

“Yes. I suppose it’s because I’ve never lived in one.” 

“She covers the country on skates,” Pete explained. 
“Right now she’s down at the Barclay—star of the ice 
show in the Mural Room. First time I met Jean she’d 
just won the national junior figure-skating champion- 
ship, and it cost me a banana split to get the interview. 
Ten feet off you couldn’t tell whether she was a boy 
or a girl. Now look.” 

. “Tam,” Charley said, and Jean met his eyes and smiled. 

Pete picked up the Schopenhauer. “‘Listen to what the 
poor guy’s marked. I quote: ‘In our part of the world 
where monogamy is the rule, to marry means to halve 
one’s rights and to double one’s duties.’ Gad! What a 
brilliant mind!” 

“IT wouldn’t argue with Gloomy Gus,”’ Jean said, “but I 
can’t see he’s had much effect.”’ (Continued on Page 118) 


ILLUSTRATED BY ROBERT PATTERSON 


teas 
















te 


| 
a 




















meee _— % 


hewL- ite IN fas LION 


BY WILHELA CUSHMAN 
Fashion Editor of the Journal 


The angle is the thing. A coat in brilliant 

color is swept to one side in a long oblique line. 

A gored tweed skirt has a diagonal closing. A black 
crepe dress is side-draped. Pockets are on the 
slant, and one is newer than two. A wrist-to-elbow 
muff is carried on one arm. You'll tilt your 

hat to its most becoming slope, clasp your pearls 
on the side, tie the bow of your blouse at 

an angle, turn your collar up slightly off-side, 


toss your fur scarf over one shoulder. 


This new aspect of fashion gives you a provocative 
profile, a totally changed way of wearing your clothes, 


\) 


Side-tied taffeta over- 


a 


skirt gives a slim black wool 
jersey dress a second silhouette. 


By Pauline Trigere. 


x 0 


Black coat with pocket panels, 
belted with black calfskin, dramatized with 


the jaguar muff. Christian Dior, New York. 





sy. 
ne 
Significant diagonal-line coat in a blue-green tweed 
| with deep wrist-to-elbow raccoon cuffs, worn with a brown velours 


helmet pulled sharply over one ear. Dior, New York. 





Autumn-blue suit with the very narrow shorter skirt, 


red-russet silk bow blouse, side-tilted triangular pockets, side-slashed 
velvet bicorne. Ben Reig original by Omar Kiam. 


PHOTOGRAPHS BY WILHELA CUSHMAN 


ee eS eee 












le-draped and buttoned 
ick rayon-crepe dress with 


ick fox muff. / 


f 





Na 
i 





bs ere a 


Y 


still in fashion, puffed and pocketed over the hips below a basque top. This is the silhouette 


iy 


Your hemlines are rising. Now 14 or 15 inches from the floor, possibly more before the 


year ends. The very narrow skirt can be walked in because it is shorter. The full skirt is ) 


' 
of the significant short dinner and evening dress—in taffeta, velvet or satin. The fashion 
of the coat-dress is for many hours, depending on the fabrics—dressmaker tweed, 
ottoman faille, velvet. Velvet crops up everywhere—in a pocket flap, a garnet-red blouse 
with matching wool suit, the little velvet hat with a veil that goes with everything. Buttons 






sme elec 
ne 


TAs 
0 OOM 


ke peel HR 





Fashion of garnet-red velvet, 


deep-neckline dress. Both by Dior, 


The short box jacket in checks, over black wool 


dress, high quill hat. By Lilly Dache. 


New 


accent the silhouette, which is often double-breasted—coat. suit or dress. 


Autumn blues give you new color ideas 





a bright Persian-blue blouse 


with a russet suit, a smoky-blue faille dress with black furs, 


Oxford gray is a good day color, red-rose red for day or night. 


Pheasant and farmyard feathers fit your own smooth head in helmets 


and toques. Iie black calfskin belt has replaced the patent leather. 


The long crushed-down capeskin glove is its companion piece, 


York. 





PHOTOGRAPHS BY WILHELA CUSHMA 


ie a 
\ bh tee 
eae E! 
Seneaeei 
Sus’. Sees. 
(2a e. 2 od 
oa. 2 ee 
(eer toe 


atta 
Bee &. 


est*, 
 Peeeeettt 
Seer 


’ 


ae 
2 
z 










Castillo’s taffeta with wing collar and 


flared back-panel apron, buttoned at the side. 


Navy-blue faille, rounded hipline 


tapered to a narrow hemline. By Castillo 


of Elizabeth Arden. 


The fashion of brown Persian lamb with red duvetyn twill 
dress and bolero jacket. Tuxedo collar wrapped at an angle, 


arabesque fur hat. Christian Dior, New York. 


Blue cocoon—the finger-tip coat and slim black dress— 
to wear as a suit or a separate coat. Matching velours helmet 


hugs the head. Costume designed by Pauline Trigere. 


58 


Ak 


By WILHELA CUSHMAN 


Fashion Editor of the Journal 


xe 
_ 







The tremendous appeal of an 

amber velours pillbox 

in a cloud of veiling, worn 
with brown velvet, baroque | 


pearls, by Lilly Dache. 


PHOTOGRAPH BY WILHELA CUSHMAN 


>it 


PHOTOGRAPH BY WILLINS-DERUNJINSKI 


tilt of a Breton in plaid tweed with a brush of. feathers, made for a suit in plaid and dark green, by Lilly Dache. 


De 5 . : . 5 : . ni . 
Pheasant-feather toque, engagingly tipped, blending with russet wool. A Ben Reig original by Omar Kiam. 


The 








PHOTOGRAPH BY WILLINS-DERUNJINSKI 


Tipped tricorr—Pauline Trigere’s garnet-red velours 


in exciting combination with purple tweed, red gauntlet gloves. 





PHOTOGRAPH BY WILLINS-DERUNJINSKI 


Painter’s beret, pulled to the shoulder . . . purple plaid tweed 


worn with a shawl with fringed-flower ends. By Mr. John. 


+l 


“ee 





PHOTOGRAPH BY WILHELA CUSHMAN 
Dipped wing—fashion of parchment beige in 
beaver felt, quill at a new angle, by John Frederics. 


Esther Dorothy’s mink choker. 


The side-sweep hat will have many modifications. 


~ Satin-bound black felt, edged with tulle, by John Frederics. 


; \ PHOTOGRAPH BY WILHELA CUSHMAN 





“TE MADE TP MYSEDE 


boast millions of teen-agers 


It’s fun to sew. It’s like painting a picture or baking a cake... it is what 
-YOU do and how YOU do it that make it a success or not. If you select a 
simple pattern and a pretty fabric, and don’t try to hurry too much, you're 
bound to have a success on your hands! Be bold in your selection of color 
... perhaps a canary-yellow corduroy housecoat or a red jac!zet. Most of you 
have an opportunity to learn how to sew in school. Don’t miss it! You'll 


soon find out that you can be your own designer ... that your own little 


touches make the clothes you make really yours. * By Nora O’Leary 





7 Homewo 


Vale bs 










hinchilla cloth, lined with Teddy-bear “‘fur,”’ to keep you warm 


s toast on coldest days. Vogue Design No. S-4011, 12 to 20. 


“ 
ee, 





i 
es 
’ 






**Easy-to-Make” blouse, No. 6724. 
12 to 40. Hat and bag, No. 6831 
hat, 21%s to 2235; bag, one size. 


['wo-piece dress in printed wool challis. “‘Easy-to-Make”’ Junior 


Vogue Design No. 3306, 9 to 15; velveteen vest. No. 6854. 12 to 20. 


guy Vogue Patterns at the store which sells them in your city. Or order 
hem by mail, enclosing check or money order.* from Vogue Pattern 
service, Putnam Avenue, Greenwich, Conn:: or in Canada from 198 
ypadina Ave., Voronto, Ont. (*¢ lonnecticut residents please add sales tax.) 
; Pretty wool flannel suit. The jacket lining and blouse 


are of striped chambray. Vogue Design No. 6836, 12 to 18. 


Other views and prices are on Page 154 


© VOGUE 





S 
Leg 





Corduroy jacket to wear with a plaid skirt. Can also 
be worn unbelted. Vogue Design No. 6847, 12 to 20. 






Homework will be easier and more comfortable in an ‘‘Easy-to- 


Make” housecoat. Vogue Design No. 6851, small, medium, large. 


. PHOTOGRAPHS BY FRANCESCO SCAVULLO 





Tiny jeweled buttons sparkle down the front of a velvet- Bare your pretty shoulders in a checked taffeta evening 
een date dress. Junior Vogue Design No. 3302, 9 to 15. dress, ribbon sash. Vogue Design No. S-4007, 12 to 18. 


62 


By TAYLOR CALDWELL 


CONCLUSION 


T his right, as he climbed, lay the brilliant sea, 
shading from cobalt to aquamarine as it ap- 
proached the horizon, to merge with a sky no 

less flaming. Matthew climbed steadily, sometimes 
pausing to look over the low wall at the sea. What 
had Fra Leonardo called this country? ‘“This shining 
land, this singing land, this resplendent vision of 
heaven!” 

Not too far in the distance, Matthew could see 
Sorrento, crowded with tiny white, yellow and pink 
houses perching like a flock of birds on the face of 
the mountains, roofed with red tiles, blazing in a hot 
sun of polished brass. Behind him lay the little vil- 
lage where he lived, on the face of the grayish-black 
cliff. At his right a high wall climbed with him, tum- 
bling with cataracts of white, pink and red roses. 
Above mounted the terraces of silvery olive trees, 
and vineyards, and a scattered villa or two. Women 
and children passed him, barefooted, smiling, herd- 
ing loaded donkeys. Politely they stopped to let him 
go on unhindered. They knew this American well, 
this man with the sunburned face, the tall slight 
body, the strange eyes and reluctant smile. They en- 
countered him nearly every day. 

Sometimes, on the terraces above, Matthew saw 
iemon and orange trees sheltered under thatches of 
straw, and sometimes, when the wind brushed his 
face, he could smell the almost unbearably poignant 
fragrance of their blossoms. The narrow road dropped 
and rose. Now, Matthew saw the walls of the Con- 
vento di S, Francesco. About it lay its vineyards, its 
red-earthed gardens, terraced, every inch cultivated. 
Its campanile joined the bells in Sorrento; the air 
trembled with the sweet andjoyous chorus. 

There was a gate in the high stone wall about the 
convento. Matthew opened the gate, climbed the an- 
cient stone steps. At a little distance he saw the 
monks in their chiostro, pacing, meditating, their 
hands folded, heads bent. They saw him too. Gentle 
smiles greeted him, but he did not speak, nor did 
they. He went on to the vineyards, the groves of trees 
and the gardens. Here he found Fra Leonardo busily 
tying up vine tendrils and singing to himself. A 
hymn, possibly. Knowing Fra Leonardo, Matthew did 
not believe this. It was probably from some opera, 


Copyright, 1949, by Reback and Reback. The complete novel, a Literary 
Guild selection, was recently published by Charles Scribner’s Sons, 


some love song dedicated to life and joy. Fra 
Leonardo would say: “I am unorthodox. The abbot is 
doubtless very much annoyed with me at times. But 
I sing, and if I sing softly, who knows what I sing 
to God?” 

Fra Leonardo was short, incredibly wide and fat, 
and very old. When he worked, he tucked his habit 
high in his rope girdle, so that his thick legs became 
brown in the sun and were shamelessly exposed, 
He also rolled up his sleeves, “to keep them clean,” 
as he said. But he loved the sun on his arms. The 
other monks managed to toil more 
decorously clad, but Fra Leonardo 
was a _ peasant, and apparently 
the abbot had grown tired of 
rebuking him. 

In exchange for casual lessons in 
English, given as Fra Leonardo 
worked, the old monk had taught 
Matthew Prescott the dialect of “Basso Italiano,” 
softer, more liquid than the language of North 
Italy. Matthew would greet the monk in English; he 
would reply, with mellifluous gravity, in Italian. He 
always waited for Matthew to come near sunset. If the 
young man disappointed him, as he did occasionally, 
Fra Leonardo was very unhappy. 

Now he saw and heard Matthew, and his face be- 
came a gay cobweb of a thousand wrinkles. They 
greeted each other with careful politeness. The other 
monks had gone. Fra Leonardo knew this was because 
the abbot encouraged him in cultivating the rich 
American who monthly gave a vast sum to the con- 
vénto and the convénto school. The abbot, being a 
Roman, was shrewd and astute. Because of the 
American, he did not always insist that Fra Leonardo 
attend evening meditations. The convento was poor, 
and the school for the village boys needed the funds. 
The lire from the hands of the American signore 
were more than welcome. 

“How pleasant to see you, dear friend,” Fra Leo- 
nardo said. “Il read that book of American poems 


this morning, signore. I thank you from the bottom 


oD? 
of my heart.” 
“I have sent for some more books for you,”’ replied 


Matthew. “That bookshop in Rome is very obliging.” 
He sat on a warm stone and watched Fra Leo- 


nardo. Fra Leonardo tried to (Continued on Page 74) 














Se eect momo eo eRe 


a OCCT emails 


Ui eo hy oe ee 


ILLUSTRATED BY 


PRUETT CAKTER 








64. 


Beauty 


at Home... 


with the stars 


BY DAWN CROWELL NORMAN 


Beauty Editor of the Journal 


They diet and exercise, do their own hair, 
worry about their complexions and 

prefer to work out their beauty problems 

in the privacy of their own homes. 

The four star beauties shown on these pages 
illustrate a new trend toward a natural, 
fresh-faced look which far outshines that 


of the artificial glamour girls of yesterday. 





ELIZABETH TAYLOR, seventeen-year-old movie beauty, says, “‘I 
think most girls with naturally curly hair will agree that it always looks 
prettier when you do it yourself—you know how to cope with its stubborn 
ways.”’ She proves her point by forsaking the facilities offered by her studio 
salon in fayor of doing her hair at home. Here are tips from Elizabeth 
to help you turn your curly crop into the blessing it is supposed to be. 

Use an oil shampoo. Since curly hair is inclined to be too fluffy, an 
oil-base shampoo will help control that flyaway look. 

Go with the wave nature gaye you. If you comb a wave or set a 
curl in the opposite direction from which it grows, your hair will fight 
back and produce a fuzzy hair-do. 

Try a short eut. Any naturally curly-headed girl who has longed for 
a sleek look can have it with a close-cropped hair-do. Elizabeth’s hair is 
cut from 235 to 3 inches in length all over her head. She has it trimmed 
every two to three weeks, and “I snip off stray ends between trimmings, 


=~ 
to keep it even all the time.” If you have your hair cut, be sure to 





ne 





PHOTOGRAPHS BY JOHN ENGSTEAD 


have it shaped close to your head instead of straight across. Thick hair 
should be thinned for a smoother, well-groomed look. 

Once a week Elizabeth gives herself two shampoos, using warm water 
and lots of scrubbing, followed by two plain rinsings and an extra rinse 
with the juice of a lemon diluted in two quarts of warm water. To achieve 
the brushed-up, feathery hair-do photographed above—as well as a page- 
boy or a cap cut with her hair combed smoothly forward to curl toward 
her face—Elizabeth sets her hair when it is wet. From a side part she 
divides her bangs into three equal sections, rolling each thick section 
into a fat curl, pinned in place with one bobby pin. “If I let the curls 
sort of sit up while my hair dries instead of pinning them flat on my 
head, my bangs will fluff up and give me added height.” The rest of her 
hair is set in two rows of forward pin curls which graduate down in the 
back. It takes Elizabeth about an hour to do her hair. When it is dry, she 
brushes it vigorously up and away from her scalp for at least five minutes 


before combing into place. Elizabeth Taylor’s next picture, Conspirator. 


Attra 
| in Ih 
mat 
do ar 
youn, 
their 
ml) gest 








How would you like to lose ten pounds in one month, 
take two inches off your waist and reduce your hips 
an inch? With four weeks before ‘shooting time,” 
JANET LEIGH learned she was to play the part of 
a slim and appealing refugee in her next film. Too 
plump to play the part convincingly, Janet quickly 
enlisted the advice of her studio exercise expert and 
her doctor, and embarked on a reducing program .. . 
and here are her new hourglass measurements: 
height—5'7”;_  weight—114; bust—35”; waist—21”; 
hips—35”". “I was so delighted with the results,” 
says Janet, “that I still follow the diet and the exer- 


cises.”’ Janet’s reducing regimen is given on page 198. 





Attractive, soft-spoken BRETSY DRAKE illustrates perfectly the new trend 
in Hoilywood of looking as natural and unaffected as the girl next door. 
“Pll never make a good beauty subject,”’ Betsy told us, ‘because I really don’t 
do anything unusual!”? Betsy could have been speaking for most of today’s 
young movie beauties. Since their lack of affectation and artificiality tells 
their beauty story, we have given you a list on page 198 of their beauty sug- 


gestions, beginning—appropriately—with what they don’t do! 





DIANA LYNN (left), blond and pretty, takes special pride 
in her flawless skin. ‘I had more than my share of ado- 
lescent skin trouble,” says Diana, ‘and even though it’s 
all cleared up, I’m still not taking any chances!’ Diana 
advises girls who are also troubled with excessively 
oily skin and other common skin imperfections, to: 
Be a soap-and-water girl. Diana washes her face three 
times a day with soap and water to offset the stil- 
persistent oiliness. Use warm water and soap on a 
sudsy facecloth and massage your face and neck, really 
nudging at the oily areas around your nose and chin. 
Other beauty tips from Diana are described on page 198. 


(Continued on Page 198) 





66 


TO ATL i} By 1.7. WILLIAMS 
BACK f , hid 


This Picasso print, typical of the new reproductions so fai 
ful to the originals that you can even feel the brush marks. 
deservedly hung as importantly as the masterpiece it's taker 


from in this deep, gesso-coated frame faced with gold leaf, 


Broadsides of pictures are decoration news. Professional secret: Arrange your pictures first on taped- 
I : Be ) I I 

together wrapping paper the size of wall space to be covered, mark on it where hooks will go, tape 

to wall, hang pictures, tear down paper. Result: Planned effect without damage to the wall. 


= 
< 
Zz 
< 
z 
= 
2 
- 
Lh 
L 
- 


(TOP ROW) BY JOSEPH FrLocH 





67 


Because of its size and brilliance, this painting could be the 
only picture in aroom. Its modern feeling agrees with the tra- 
ditional sofa because its gilt, rococo frame is painted white. 


INC. 





BY NICOLAI CIKOVSKY—ASSOCIATED AMERICAN ARTISTS, 


Forsaking grandmother’s red-plush album and taking to the wall, family photographs 
can have great charm as well as nostalgic associations. Don’t be afraid of patterned 
papers and colored fabrics for some of your mats. Scale group to furniture below. 


“WHITE ANEMONE” 





OW that pictures are back in a big 
way, it’s well to remember that they 
can make a room—or mar it. And 

the fresh look that adapts them to contempo- 
rary interiors comes from having the courage 


ST 


of your personal taste. If you adhere to the 
traditional, lift it out of the rut with a touch of 
individuality. You might try grouping tradi- 
tional pictures by subjects. Hang those from a 
single country together. Or group some old 
prints showing various means of transporta- 
tion—carriages, trains, balloons. The little 
pictures of the Victorian era look new again, 
and a double row of these used as a border 
around a couple of larger pictures makes a 
brand-new impression. Deep heavy frames on 
small pictures focus attention and rescue them 
from insignificance. Pictures of various peri- 
ods ean be unified by framing them all alike. 


Here is what some of our editors have done with 
prints of famous paintings that have been appearing 
for years in the Journal art series. Differences in style 
and period are reconciled by means of identical frames. 


PHOTOS BY HAROLD FOWLE 





68 





By JESSAMYN WEST 


What is it that girls today look for in marriage: 


disappointment and frustration conditioned by a generation of mothers who believe in 


“the age of innocence’; or love and self-expression 


encouraged by learning facts and understanding reality ? 


Y opportunity to speak of love comes be- 
cause I spent two afternoons a week for 
months in a tuberculosis sanitarium 
visiting my Cousin Reverdy. Reverdy died at the 
end of November, leaying one husband, two ex- 
husbands and a daughter. The daughter was the 
child of Reverdy’s marriage to her third husband, 
a man who, insofar as any outsider could judge, 
was as nearly an exact duplicate of Reverdy’s first 
husband as she had been able to discover. 

Frank and serious speech with Reverdy was 
easy, for the ill, having been abruptly warned that 
life is not durable, are anxious to discover the 
means by which they may make the best of what 
is left to them. And the minute one begins to ex- 
amine one’s life to discover what makes it good, 
one speaks of love. 

The bond which united me with Reverdy was 
close because I had spent two years in the same 
sanitarium in which she was now “‘curing.”’ I, too, 
had watched the slow passages of the seasons from 
that mountainside: watched the yuccas lift their 
enormous creamy candles in the spring, and in 
summer gazed down through the endless-seeming 
nights onto the blazing neon networks that 
marked the cities of Los Angeles and Pasadena; 
and, saddest of all to those who are alone and bed- 
fast, watched the cars homeward bound in the 
early dusk of the fall and winter evenings. 

I first went to see Reverdy toward the end of 
June. Already the hills were brown and the cicadas 
were trilling in the delicious shimmering heat of 
early summer. As I came into Reverdy’s room— 
she was lying on a high hospital bed—she ex- 
tended her hands toward me. 

“I knew I could count on your being here the 
minute visiting period began,” she said. 

I sat down beside her and thought, as I had 
when she was a girl, that if ever a person had 


been designed for happiness in life, it was my 
cousin. 

“You look lovely,” I said. 

She did. Not well, though she was much im- 
proved, but lovely. Reverdy was small-boned, so 
that her loss of weight was hidden. Her dark hair 
was tied away from her face with a cherry-colored 
ribbon, and if she still had a little fever it only 
made her dark eyes brighter and her cheeks pinker. 

“Say that again, won’t you?” she asked. 

I said it again. “You don’t need to be told, 
surely?” 

“IT need to be told. Sometimes I think every- 
thing would have been different if I’d been told.” 

I looked at her inquiringly. 

“If mother had ever told me that. Oh, I suppose 
she couldn’t and tell the truth. I must’ve looked 
like a big-eyed bird, a crow, I guess, when I was a 
kid. But mother was always speaking of my bad 
points. You didn’t know what a horror I had of 
my looks as a girl, did you? You know: a face not 
even a mother can love—that sort of humiliation 
and fear? And I wanted so much to be loved. 
Sometimes I think that’s where the trouble 
started.” 

Reverdy didn’t say what she meant by trouble, 
but I thought about her ‘I wanted so much to be 
loved” as she went on talking. Was that where 
“the trouble” had started for others besides 
Reverdy? And had we been taught as girls, Rev- 
erdy and I, to value “being loved” too much and 
“loving”’ too little? 

Much that Reverdy told me of herself and her 
mother was surprising, though I had believed I 
knew both well. Reverdy’s mother, my Aunt 
Miriam, had married into a Quaker family, and 
like many converts had embraced the tenets of 
her adopted faith with a rigidity which birthright 
members couldn’t match. It had probably’ an- 





PHOTO BY PHILIPPE HALSMAN 





peared to Aunt Miriam that Reverdy wa. what 
was called, when Reverdy and I were girls, ~us- 
ceptible: that is, that she responded with a good 
deal of enthusiasm and emotion to people and 
events. This, Aunt Miriam had considered a 
threat to her daughter s morality, and for + unt 
Miriam, as I suppose for most women who were 
having their first children in the early 1900’s, there 
was for girls but one essential mora ity, the morai- 
ity of sexual inn ence. A girl could be “rumed”?* 
in one way only; this, of coarse, implied that a 
girl's value lay in one attribute only, and that the 
value of this attribute was in inverse ratio to its 
use. Somehow the corollary also developed: that 





The minute one begins to examine on 


the best way to prevent a daughter’s being ruined 
was to convince her that she was surrounded by 
the threat of ruin, while simultaneously refusing 
her any knowledge of the nature of this threat. 
It was an anomalous situation: as if an army 
were instructed ceaselessly to resist an attack 
upon a treasure of whose nature and location 
it was unaware. 

The girls, however, did know one thing: they 


@ knew whom they were resisting—men. But the 


situation was further complicated for them by the 
fact that, while resisting these, their natural 
enemies—who, if given half a chance, would in 


mysterious way ruin them—they should at 


mf 
ete 
a 


Fi Oe: 


the same time be atiracting them. Thus their 
attitude toward men, in so far as it was condi- 
tioned by their mothers, was one combining fear 
and shrewdness: as if man were a beast, danger- 
ously wild in his natural state, but capable under 
a proper system of rewards and punishments of 
being tamed and even, in many ways, made useful. 

Reverdy, however, had been spoken to by 
neither mother nor father. “I not only didn’t 
know a thing when I was married,” she said, “but 
I was proud of my ignorance. Mother had trained 
me so thoroughly that I avoided every chance I 
had to learn. I thought marriage would be more 
exciting that way. Like Christmas, you know. 


’s life, to discover what makes it good, one speaks of love. 


What would be the fun of Christmas if you knew 
what you were going to get beforehand? Actually 
I suppose I had the most carnal upbringing in the 
world, one that put its whole emphasis on some 
one mysterious act. An act which would in mar- 
riage magically transform and unite two people.” 
But Aunt Miriam had not only believed that she 
could protect Reverdy by keeping her ignorant; 
she had hoped that by implanting in her daugh- 
ter’s mind the idea that she wasn’t very attractive 
she could keep her pretty much away from the 
boys during the dangerous years of adolescence. 
“What made me sad then,” Reverdy said, “was 
that I believed 


(Continued on Page 221) 





orn Soup 


Cheese Soufflé 
Sautéed Tomatoes 
Broccoli 
Ripe Olives Watermelon Pickles 
Toasted Onion Rolls 
Peach-and-Grape Salad 


Steamed Marmalade Pudding— 


Golden Sauce 


Coffee 
(Serves 6) 





By ANN BATCHELDER 


UMMER is about over. Real summer, | mean. When August is in the bag, so to 

speak, we can begin to count the days till the first frost comes. Only we don’t 
do it. For it’s hard to let summer go, hard to see the days grow shorter and the 
dusk come earlier, and to know that already among the bird population the annual 
exodus is on and that soon it will be still in the trees where only a little while ago 
there was much chatter and song. 

FAIR DAYS. It’s September. Any of you remember the county fairs? 
Here and there around the country they still make September a month to look for- 
ward to. Three days, four days of pure enjoyment. Those were Fair days. Nothing 
could be more glamorous than the carnival itself—and what we didn’t see we re- 
membered from other years and we found it good, very good, indeed. 

Well, since there isn’t any Fair to go to, and you’re probably staying right at 
home entertaining relatives, we may as well look into what I think is a wonderful 
meal for a September day. It’s a souffle—the souffle of the month, as light as a 
feather and as delicious as your heart could wish. 

OLD FAVORITE. I love soufflés, anyway. Any kind. Theyre such frivo- 


lous things, and temperamental too. They take no back talk from anybody, and 


you'd better step lively when they say “Ready.” For soufflés are as short on 
patience as the best man at a wedding. “JVhat are they waiting for? Make 
it snappy, can’t you?” (Continued on Page 117) 


PHOTO BY STUART-FOWLER 





~] 


1) 








wohine a Dayo 


By ANN BATCHELDER 


I A friend returning this summer from Copen- 
hagen, Denmark, brought me a sandwich 
menu. Nothing but sandwiches. The menu, 
printed on a single sheet of paper, is exactly 
forty inches long. By the way, the sandwiches 
are “open face.” Thought you ought to 
know—in case. 


2 Hot sandwiches—any fish or meat or cheese 
or combination thereof you can think of your- 
selves—served with a salad or broiled to- 
matoes, with fruit for dessert, and coffee, are 
the best simple whole meals I can think of. 


3 How does this one strike you? Sauté canned 
shad roe lightly. Break up with a fork and 
mix with mayonnaise seasoned with a little 
curry powder. Spread on white bread. Clap on 
another slice of bread and run the sandwiches 
under the broiler, turning to brown all over. 


A Variation on the café-au-lait theme. Scald 
21% cups milk. Add 1 slightly beaten egg and 2 
to 3 teaspoons sugar. Heat until hot—but do 
not boil. Stir in 1% cup hot strong coffee. A rich, 
delicious drink that sets you up no end. 


« Ever hear of a banana and strawberry or 
raspberry shortcake? Neither did I until re- 
cently. Sugar enough crushed berries to go be- 
tween and on top of your shortcake. Be lav- 
ish. Slice thin about 2 or 3 bananas. Mix the 
berries and bananas, and you know the rest. 
Plain or whipped cream—your choice. 


G A dandy little what-have-you made by bak- 
ing thin, crisp griddlecakes. Sprinkle them with 
nutmeg, and spread with softened vanilla ice 
cream and roll up. Serve with fruit sauce. 
Crushed and sweetened peaches, for example. 


‘7@ 1 can’t wait for oysters. I should have them 
now if I felt reason tottering for want of them. 
But I hang on, always, and wait till October. 
A habit. Oyster stew is a habit too. 


#% A luncheon dish is done like this: Make a 
fritter batter. Slice, not too thin, some fine, 
very firm tomatoes. Season them with salt, 
pepper, a little sugar and some sweet basil and 
drain them. Dip the slices in the batter and 
bake on a greased hot griddle, turning once. 
Serve with crisp bacon or grilled ham. 


I feel I must say something about spinach. 
Cook your spinach and drain it as if you meant 
it. Chop it fine. Put it in a greased casserole 
and add a tablespoon of tarragon vinegar. 
Cover the spinach with a richycheese sauce. 
Over the sauce arrange peeled, sautéed mush- 
room caps. Sprinkle the whole thing well with 
grated cheese, little crumbs of butter and 
brown it in the oven. That’s all for spinach. 
But it’s not bad, not bad a-tall. Good, in fact. 


10 Now fora salad or two. Don’t expect me to 
go heavily for meat and potatoes this month. 
Plenty of time for those later. Still hot here. 


Il How about a ring mold of tomato aspic, in 
which you have put to bed 6 or 8 deviled eggs, 
on a fine green salad with Russian dressing to 
take care of everything? Well, how about it? 


12 Or, pick out the nicest, tenderest lettuce 
leaves in the pack. Have them very crisp and 
cold. On the lettuce arrange little artichoke 
hearts with peeled oranges separated into seg- 
ments. A lemon French dressing goes here, and 
toasted crackers and Swiss cheese. 


133 You sometimes come across strange things. 
I ran into this one. A receipt for cooking new 
peas country style. It called for bacon, onion 
and lettuce. Salt, pepper, sugar and flour. And 
it said “‘cover and cook slowly one hour.” 
(Don’t you ever try that one.) 


14 Ever see a sunrise? I see them often. One of 
my bedroom windows: looks sunrises right in 
the eye and J look out the window. 


1% Split and butter and toast some English 
muffins. Now put on each half muffin a nice 
thin slice of broiled or boiled ham. Cut to 
measure, you understand. On top of the ham 
put a perfectly poached egg, neatly seasoned. 
Cover with hollandaise sauce and you have 
Eggs Benedict. Serve hot. 


1G A wonderful Frenchman bequeathed us 
Eggs Brillat-Savarin. Here’s how. Make 2 cups 
rich cream sauce. Season well. Prepare some 
cooked asparagus tips and about 8 mushroom 
caps sliced and sautéed. 


17 Part 2. Poach 2 eggs for each serving. Sea- 
son. Put the mushrooms on toast, then the 
eggs, cover with the sauce and surround with 
the asparagus tips. Serve hot with a salad. 
This is a luncheon dish. 


18 Cereals can do a lot of things you never 
heard of at breakfast. Take any cooked cereal, 
left over from breakfast or whipped up on pur- 
pose, and mold it in a glass pie plate or shallow 
pan—square one is best. Chill it thoroughly. 


19 2nd Chapter. Slice your cold cereal, in 
Y4-inch slices, dredge the slices with flour and 
fry them. Have them crisp outside, soft inside. 
Serve along with fried or roast chicken, or ham. 


FAITHFUL AND TRUE 


fT love Belinda still, 
Indifferent though she be, 

And much against my will 
Cherish her memery. 


™ IT love Belinda still 
And love will not resign 
Its most imperious will— 

And I—not mine. 


20 What could be nicer than rice, perfectly 
cooked, each kernel white and separate from 
its fellows, as a base for chicken a la king, or 
lobster dishes that have a sauce? 


21 Speaking of different things to go with ham 
and steak and chicken, there are bananas. Peel 
and split. Brush with melted butter or mar- 
gerine, dust with powdered sugar, and enough 
lemon juice to know it’s there. Put them in 
a buttered glass pie plate and bake them, 
turning once or twice and maybe basting with 
lemon juice and sugar mixed. Bake until ten- 
der. Very good. 


22 Split small hot baking-powder biscuits, 
butter, spread with soft cheese and cover with 
ginger marmalade. Very good with tea. 


2:8 Broccoli cooked until tender—drained— 
seasoned with salt, pepper and nutmeg. Put on 
a glass platter. On top of the broccoli put slices 
of steamed chicken, cover with rich cream 
sauce. Sprinkle with grated cheese. Run under 
the broiler. What a dish! 





24 From an old cookbook: ‘Too many women 
are prone to grant too easy access to cooky jar 
and doughnut pan to children.” O.K. But I’m 
glad my mother never read that book. 


25 To complete your appetizer setup, add 
curried peanuts. Roast them on a cooky sheet 
so they’ll be hot. Do them in salad cil lightly 
touched with curry. Got to salt while hot. 
Drain well. Can you imagine? 


26 Shall I mention cheese Melba toast? That 
depressed, usually cold, mostly burned scrap of 
stale bread that’s an insult to Mme. Melba? 
Well, to snap out of it, slice your bread like a 
wafer. Spread with melted butter. Sprinkle 
with grated Parmesan cheese. Toast in the 
oven. Take my word for it. 


27 You've asked for it and here it is. Deviled 
crabs. Use fresh or frozen crab meat. Flake it: 
Make arich cream sauce. Season well. Add pre- 
pared mustard to taste. Fill crab shells or rame- 
kins, full and heaped—cover with buttered 
cracker crumbs and bake until the mixture 
bubbles and browns. There you are friends. 


28 Soufflés and croquettes, which need a thick 
cream-sauce base, take kindly to canned con- 
densed cream soup used just as it comes from 
the can. Saves you the bother of making the 
sauce—and adds flavor to the dish. Try 
mushroom or cream of chicken for this purpose. 


29 For creamed eggs, dried beef and the like, 
half a can of milk added to the can of soup 
makes a sauce of just the right consistency. 


$0 Thirty beautiful days hath September. 
Thirty days when the curtain call of summer 
is on the lips of the great prompter. It’s cur- 
tains for summer. And, for the nonce, for me. 


BORDER DESIGN BY JOHN URBAIN 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 
















More and more today, teachers and parents realize 
the important bearing that good meals have on good 
health ...and good marks. The immense energies 
that children use up in study and play have to be 
replaced. That is why dieticians recommend a sub- 
stantial hot dish in each schoolday lunch. 


Soup is ideal for this... appetizing, nourishing, 
easily digested. And, for lunch at home or lunch at 
school, a variety of pleasing meals can be planned 
round soups from Campbell’s 21 Kinds. Here are two 
soups that are special favorites with the youngsters. 






LOOK FOR THE REO=AND-WH 





LUNCH AT HOME— When the children 
up come home for lunch, watch their eyes 

0 light up at sight of a steaming bowl of 
5 Campbell’s Vegetable Soup! Fifteen 
tempting garden vegetables in good 


\ . beef stock —it’s almost a meal in itself! 
= Have Campbell’s Vegetable Soup often! 








LUNCH AT SCHOOL—TIf the children 
take their lunch with them to school, 
try giving them a vacuum bottle filled 
with piping hot Campbell’s Tomato 
Soup, prepared with milk! This way, 
their favorite soup is extra-delicious, 
extra-nourishing, too. They’ll love it! 





TA 


“L Qeess fort a square dance. 
at & olock wm the morning: 


7,“At work, | feel like a ‘best dressed busi- 
ness woman’ in my smart black jacket 
with clear, clean-cut lines above a pumpkin- 
colored skirt. [ add a black belt, an orange 
silk scarf, and, of course, I rely on gentler, 
even more effective Odorono Cream . . 
because I know it protects me from perspira- 
tion and odor a full 2b hours?” 

New Odorono Cream brings you an im- 
proved new formula in a bright new pack- 
age. Stays creamy-smooth too... even if 
you leave the cap off for weeks! 







LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





2. “At the party, the jacket comes off and 
my pretty, boat-necked jersey blouse makes 
its appearance. Highlighted by the gold of 
my necklace, bracelet and belt buckle, it’s 
perfect with my pretty pumpkin skirt! Pm 
confident of my charm all evening, too, 
thanks to new Odorono Cream . . . because 
I find it gives me the most effective protection 
Ive ever known!” 

It never harms. fine fabrics, and is so 
gentle you can use it right after shaving! 
You'll find it the perfect deodorant! 


New Cdorono Cream 


saleQ, slops perspirdlion 
Ee and odor a {a2 24 fours! 


(Now in new 25¢ and 50¢ sizes. plus tax) 


, 
ee 


i" 


September, 1949 


LET LOVE COME LAST 


(Continued from Page 62) 


make up for his lack of piety in toil. He con- 
tinued to work industriously as he talked. To 
Matthew, his curious mixture of unworldli- 
ness, wisdom and intelligence was an eternal 
pleasure. There was a piquancy in their con- 
versation which would never have been there 
had Fra Leonardo been a more sophisticated 
man. 

He had explained to Matthew that though 
he could read and write fairly well in his na- 
tive language, he had read few books. Mat- 
thew, who had never done anything for any- 
one before, had been moved to send for 
packets of books from Rome. Some instinct 
told him that Fra Leonardo would rejoice 
most in poetry, so Matthew procured the 
very best Italian translations of the major 
dead and living poets for the old man. Fra 
Leonardo was overwhelmed with gratitude. 

He observed this evening, ‘‘ You remem- 
ber, signore, how I have always mourned that 
I could not teach the boys in the school, be- 
cause I am so very ignorant. It has been my 
dream to teach. Only this morning, when I 
felt most sad, the abbot came upon me and 
asked why I sighed. I confessed my dream to 
him. I was afraid he would laugh, but he did 
not. He said, ‘My son, I send you to the 
vineyards, and to take care of the vegetables, 
because you are a wise man.’ A wise man, 
signore! Was the abbot indeed laughing at 
me?” 

Matthew stared at him for a long moment. 
Then he said, ‘‘No, Fra Leonardo, he was 
not laughing at you. The 
abbot, too, is a wise man.” 

He picked up a handful 
of dry red earth and let it é 
sift slowly through his fin- 
gers. He was dressed little 
better than a peasant, in 
a coarse, faded cotton shirt 
and rough trousers, his 
bare feet thrust into sandals. His yellow 
hair was untidy; his fair skin was scorched 
by the sun. He appeared to have forgotten 
the old, fat monk. He looked beyond at the 
sea, and at Vesuvio, turquoise against a sky 
which had become pure lapis lazuli. 

Fra Leonardo, heaping the earth about the 
new lettuce, remembered how Matthew had 
first appeared to him three years ago. A 
young man with death in his face, the monk 
had thought, with pity. He had come one 
sunset, had looked up over the wall to the 
terrace where the monk was working, and 
Fra Leonardo had greeted him merrily. Of 
course it was evident that the stranger was 
an Englishman or an American, so the monk 
was not wounded when Matthew had not 
answered. Then, in a low and hesitating 
voice Matthew had replied to the greeting in 
excellent Italian. Before the monk could 
speak again, the stranger had hurried away. 

Fra Leonardo did not see him again for 
several days. Then once more he stood there, 
and greeted the monk be‘ore the latter had 
had time to call down to him. Here was a 
very shy spirit, a spirit full of terror and ill- 
ness, Fra Leonardo had reflected, out of his 
deep wisdom. He made no advances to Mat- 
thew, except to greet him. When some days 
later these brief exchanges expanded to an 
observation about the weather, Fra Leonardo 
felt intense satisfaction. But always he let 
Matthew make the overtures. 


Friend to 


Ir had taken nearly four months before 
Matthew had voluntarily opened the gate 
and climbed up the terrace. Fra Leonardo 
had received this visit with the utmost poise. 
His manner implied that it was customary for 
strangers to visit him, to sit down on those 
rocks and watch him work. 

The village was small, boasted no hotel, 
and almost never was visited by tourists, 
who went instead to Amalfi, Sorrento and 
Capri. At first, it was thought that the 
American had come here because he had 
little money. An old woman cared fo- his 
villa, bought his fish and cheese and wine 
and bread and spaghetti, and cooked for 
him. She reported that the American had 
magnificent clothing, which he never wore. 


“Tis a great Confidence ina 
tell him your 
Faults: greater to tell him his. 
—BENJAMIN FRANKUN, 


He had a gold watch and a diamond ring. 
He also had much money; but he cared 


nothing for all this. The American signore y 


wished to live quietly. He received few let- 
ters, but many books from London and 
Paris and Rome. His villa was heaped with 
them. Perhaps he was a poet, like those 
famous Englishmen who had lived at Amalfi 
and Sorrento. 


Bur the signore never wrote anything ex- 
cept an occasional letter to America. When it 
was reported that boxes containing canvases, 
paints and brushes had arrived for him the 
townspeople were curious, But the signore 
had not even opened the boxes. He had still 
not opened them, and he had lived here three 
years. In the meantime he was generous with 
his money, the abbot spoke sonorously of 
him, and that foolish old monk, Fra Leo- 
nardo, had become his friend and confidant. 
Matthew made no other friends, but he 
began to show slight signs of friendliness to- 
ward the villagers, when he discovered that 
they accepted his presence and looked at 
him with kindness. 

There will come a day when he will awaken, 
the old monk had thought. Not yet, not per- 
haps for a long time. But the day will come. In 
the meantime, I will pray for him, and leave 
him to God. 

One hot summer evening Matthew found 
his old friend gasping for breath, sitting on 
the rocks where he himself usually sat. Fra 
Leonardo said, “I am 
afraid I am very old, after 
all. Today, I did not rejoice 
in the sun. I panted in it.” 

Matthew regarded him 
uneasily. ‘“‘How old are 
you, Fra Leonardo?” 

The sunken black eyes 
twinkled. The monk 
pushed his huge bulk from the stones and 
stood up. ‘Pardon me, signore. Please rest 
yourself. How old am I? I must confess that 
I shall be eighty when the grapes are ripe.” 

“Eighty! But that is not possible.” 

“The signore flatters me.””’ The monk 
looked at his wide knotted arms, brown as 
earth. “‘ But one would not think I have lived 
eighty summers? No. I do not believe it my 
self. Eighty centuries, perhaps, but not 
eighty little summers. I think I have lived 
forever.”’ Fra Leonardo turned and looked at 
the sea and then toward the mountains, the 
convento, the vines and vegetablesand flowers. 
“It is not possible that I have seen this so 
short a time,” he said. “I was young when 
Italy was young. I shall live as long as Italy, 
as long as the world, and even when the 
world has gone.” The shadow left ius face; 
there was resolution upon it now, and joy. 
“‘One does not need a priest to tell one this. 
One knows in one’s heart.” 

Matthew followed the monk’s slow and 
seeking gaze. The sea was pure gold, still and 
motionless, the mountains black and green 
and gray, the village below a mosaic of many 
colors. 

He smiled at Fra Leonardo. “It is a 
pleasant thought, perhaps.” 

“Ah, no, signore, it is a conviction from 

What God? Matthew asked himself. What 
God is there? I have never known Him, and so 
He does not exist for me. 

The old monk turned to him. “The signore 
thinks I am an old and stupid man, without 
wisdom or knowledge? He thinks I am a child 
who speaks childishly?” 

“‘T did not say so,’”’ replied Matthew. 

Fra Leonardo sighed. And then he smiled. 
““Ah, signore, you are young, and I am old in 
this world. It is only the young who say, 


‘There is no God.’ It is only the young who" ” 


say, ‘There is nothing but pain and evil.’ 
That is because their years are few.” He 
waited, but Matthew did not answer. The 
monk chuckled. “A young man once said to 
me with such weariness, ‘I have seen every- | 
thing.’ And I replied to him, “No, my son. 
He who thinks he has seen everything no 
(Continued on Page 77) 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 








The Special Magic 
of her Inner Self glows through 


her lovely, expressive face 


Mrs. Ryan’s charming, sensitive face has 
a lovely way of showing you delightful 
pictures of her vivid self. Small wonder so 
many doors and hearts open wide for her 
everywhere she goes. 

Your face, too, is constantly telling what 
You are! It is the You that others see first 
—and remember best. Do help it to look 
always lovely and bright, and beckoning. 
Then, your own Inner Magic can glow 


through it joyously for everyone to see. 


Her skilled, beautiful riding has brought Mrs. Ryan high honors. She leads in another talent 
—her way of always looking especially smart and charming. 


Ja hidden, UGC SE. Yi within you 


— can transform your world 


Woes that wished-for-woman you'd like to be 
seem tantalizingly out of reach? She shouldn't! 
Every woman has the power to change herself, 
be lovelier. 

A wonderful force within You can help you. 
It grows out of the close inter-relation of your 
Inner Self and your Outer Self and the power 
of each to change the other. 

You sense this force in the glow of confidence 
you give out when you look your loveliest. You 
also know its feeling of inferiority, when you 
are not at your best. It is the basic reason why 
those special daily attentions that add to your 
outer loveliness can make so much difference to 
You—and to all who see you! 


Special **Qutside-Inside’’ Face Treatment 


Your face depends on you to make its loveli- 
ness come true. You'll find this “Outside-In- 


side” Face Treatment with Pond’s Cold Cream 
has a wonderful way of giving skin a cleanness 
and freshness other people notice. Always at 
bedtime (for day cleansings, too) cream your 
face this special way. Do it like this: 

Hot Stimulation—splash your face with hot water. 


Cream Cleanse—swirl Pond’s Cold Cream all over 
your face. This light, fluffy cream will soften, sweep 
dirt, make-up from pore openings. Tissue off well. 


Cream Rinse—swirl on a second, soft Pond’s cream- 
ing. This rinses off last traces of dirt, leaves skin 
lubricated, immaculate. Tissue off again. 


Cold Stimulation—a tonic cold water splash. 


Yes, this ‘““Outside-Inside”’ Face Treatment 
acts on both sides of your skin—From the Out- 
side—Pond’s Cold Cream softens and sweeps 
away skin-dulling dirt, old make-up, as you 
massage. From the Inside—every step of this 
treatment stimulates circulation. 


Mrs. Ryan says: “I find it a delightful beauty 


routine—Pond’s is the finest quality face cream 
that anyone can ask for.” 


Remember—it is not vanity to develop the 
beauty of your face. When you look lovely it 
has a magic way of rippling out to all who see 
you. It adds both to your happiness and to theirs. 
It brings the Inner You closer to others. 





P 


YOUR FACE IS WHAT YOU MAKE IT—Care for your face this 


~l 


nn 


rewarding Pond’s way. Get a big jar of Pond’s Cold Cream—today. 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL September, 1949 


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New Pyrex Hostess Oven-and-Table Set 


Beautiful to look at, exciting in color, perfect with any table oi “Te 8 
setting! Use it for every party on your calendar —and every other wf eu! 
day as well! Use it for salads, berries—every kind of oven-baking pea 
and table-service. 24,-quart open bowl with 4 matching individ- 
ual dishes, gift-boxed. Autumn-red or harvest-yellow. \o 


OVEN-AND-TABLE SET °2.95 por br 
Large bowl, and 4 individual dishes orvine 


wet (up 
pee every 
Joule 
unnatut 
f | do m0 


. —— 2 
a a ee oe oe 





Aes 


- 





Wonderful Pyrex Double Boiler tek vo 


Make your party-cake frosting in a Pyrex Double Boiler—and ove one 
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(Continued from Page 74) 

onger sees anything.’” He waited for Mat- 
chew to speak. When the young man re- 
nained silent, the monk sighed, and now it 
was a sigh of sadness. ‘‘I do not know why I 
speak so to the signore, for I am nobody, and 
ignore is a man of learning, and has seen 
orld. I can only say that I have spoken 
30 because there is an urgency in me, a hurry, 
s a man speaks who is closing a gate behind 
fim and must soon leave his friend.” 

“Leave?’’ muttered Matthew. ‘‘No. You 
are only tired, Fra Leonardo. The day has 
been very hot. Tomorrow you will not be so 
tired.” 

“The signore is right,” said the monk gen- 
tly. Once more he looked at the surging 
color all about him. ‘‘Ah, I have only one 
prayer—that I shall always see this place. 
How could I live without it, even in heaven?” 

“You are very melancholy tonight, Fra 
Leonardo.” 

“The signore must forgive me. Even I, who 
love God, have my sudden moments of sor- 
row and fear. It is a sin; I must do penance.” 
He sat down upon the stones, and his eyes 
drank in the panorama. He smiled, and 
sighed, and the rosy 
-\sky reflected itself 
upon his face. After 
ja time he mur- 
mured, “‘The signo- 
re will return home 
someday?” 

“No,” said Mat- 
thew quietly. 
“Never. You see, 
there is nothing at 
home for me. It is 
hard to explain. My 
father devoted his 
life to his children. 
But all of us—we 
are nothing, because 
we were taught we 
were everything. 
You will say lama 
‘@st unnatural son, 
for I do not love 
the father who loves 
me. But he debased 
himself in our eyes, 
because he asked 
nothing from us. I 
could not see him 
again, without re- 
membering. It is not good for a son to de- 
spise his father; while I am here I can think 


of him as a man who lived only for his chil-; 


dren, unselfishly. But only if I do not see him 
again. You think I am heartless, Fra Leo- 
nardo?”’ 

“No,” said the monk mournfully. “I 
think you are only suffering.”” He watched 
the young man with deep eyes as Matthew 
moved away a little. 

“*T do not love my mother,” said Matthew. 
“But I was cruel to her, when it was not her 
fault. I cannot see her again either. I only 
hope that she will forgive me someday. And 
there is my brother. If I never see him again 
I shall forget I hated him. There are my 
sisters, and they are strangers to me. I have 
no home, Fra Leonardo, but here, and no 
friend but you.” 

“You have God,” said the monk. 


Burt Matthew shook his head impatiently. 
“Not yet, Fra Leonardo. Perhaps there will 
come a day ——” He turned back to the old 
man. “‘For a long time, after I came here, I 
saw nothing. You have made me see, Fra 
Leonardo. It still is very dim, but I am be- 
ginning to see.” 

“You see because you have looked beyond 
yourself, signore.” 

“No.” There was vehemence in Matthew’s 
voice. 

‘Ah, but yes. You have given us so many 
[®@ for the convénto and the school.” 

“I did it for you.” 

The old monk smiled wisely, and spread 
out his hands. “How you deny yourself, 
signore! ‘I did it for you,’ you say, and just a 
moment ago you denied that you have ever 
looked beyond yourself.” 

The bells echoed over the ocean. The 
mountains beyond rippled in gold. 


NEXT MONTH 


HAT more can happen now?” 

Anyone of them—half-de- 
mented Angie; grim Mrs. Cove; 
Nancibel, with her blighted love 
for Bruce; Sir Henry Gifford; Mr. 
Palsey—who came to Pendizack 
Cove, with its strange tides and 
treacherous rocks, could have asked 
the question. Tragedy was the un- 


suspected companion of each of the 
guests, who pursued: their own 
devious intrigues, in the house 
above the cliffs. After that morn- 
ing, they could 


Never Look Back 


by Margaret Kennedy 


first of two parts 
in the October JOURNAL 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Fra Leonardo lifted himself heavily to his 
feet. He put his hand on Matthew’s shoul- 
der. “God be with you, my son. Good night.” 


Reverenrty,as if the big canvas were a relic 
of a saint, the two monks lifted it in their 
arms and carried it toward the convénto, with 
Matthew walking behind them. The abbot, 
a stern and dignified elderly man, met them 
in the convéento door. He did not reveal his 
curiosity. While Matthew had been painting 
in the gardens the abbot had not allowed 
himself to wander there for a single glimpse. 
It had been reported to him that no one in 
the village had ever seen the American paint, 
until two weeks before, and then only in the 
convento garden. 

The painting was finished now. The monks 
were bearing it through the shadowy halls 
toward Fra Leonardo’s cell, and Matthew 
was following. The abbot hesitated, then 
followed also. The little procession wandered 
through a colonnade of stone pillars looking 
out upon the chiostro, where the monks 
paced. Not a monk lifted his head. 

The abbot murmured, ‘‘Fra Leonardo has 
been removed to a high cell, where the eve- 
ning sunlight can 
strike upon the wall, 
signore.”” 

“Thank you, my 
father,” replied 
Matthew gravely. 
After that, they did 
not speak. 

The a) bibloit 
glanced swiftly at 
the young man’s 
face, so reserved, 
but, strangely, so 
alive and firm. He 
had not appeared 
so three years ago, 
when he had first 
come to the convénto 
garden. He had 
moved like one who 
is very ill and lost. 

The procession 
had reached the cell, 
by way of winding 
staircases and cor- 
ridors. The abbot 
himself opened the 
wooden door. In- 
stantly, the evening 
sunshine struck into the corridor in a blaze 
of glory. 

Fra Leonardo lay on his cot, eagerly wait- 
ing for his friend. He did not immediately 
see the abbot and the monks, and the 
burden they were carrying. He cried, ‘‘My 
friend, my dear friend! See, they were so 
kind. They have carried my old carcass up 
here, where I can see the sun, though, un- 
fortunately, I still cannot see the ocean and 
the mountains!’’ Then he became aware of 
the others and was much agitated. 

“Calm yourself, my son,” said the abbot. 
“No, do not move. It is forbidden by the 
physician. Your friend has brought you a 
gift.” 

Matthew was beside the cot where his old 
friend lay, and had taken one brown hand in 
both of his. Two weeks ago the monk had 
been stricken by apoplexy and ever since 
had lain on his bed, partially paralyzed. 
There was no hope; the paralysis was spread- 
ing upward from his motionless legs. His left 
arm was already helpless. But his mind was 
clear; he could speak and eat and drink a 
little wine and even laugh as he waited pa- 
tiently for death. The physician had ex- 
pressed himself as amazed at the old man’s 
vitality. 

“Dear friend,” he said to Matthew fondly. 
“‘Tell me, is the sea like wine tonight or like 
gold? Is there a plume of fire hanging over 
Vesuvio?” 

“The sea,’”’ said Matthew, “is both wine 
and gold. Vesuvio is sleeping, and the jas- 
mine fills all the air.” 

““Yes,”” said the monk. “I can smell it 
through my window.” He went on, with some 
anxiety, ‘“How is my garden?” 

“Waiting for you,”’ said Matthew. 

The evening sun struck vividly on the 
plaster wall. Now the monks were lifting the 





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78 


canvas and propping it up against the walls. 
Fra Leonardo stared. He attempted to lift 
himself, 

The abbot went to Matthew's aid and 
together they lifted the old monk to a sitting 
position. But he did not look at them; he 
could look only at the canvas in the blaze of 
evening light. 

Fra Leonardo could not speak. Slowly the 
tears began to drip from his eyes to the brown 
and sunken furrows of his cheeks. Then he 
lifted his right hand and crossed himself, and 
smiled, and sighed. 

The canvas had been painted from the 
gardens where Fra Leonardo had worked 
every day, and it had been painted from his 
favorite spot. To the left were the purple 
shadows of the mountains against a sky of 
medieval gilt, reflecting itself in far waters 
of flowing gold. Closer, to the left, were the 
varicolored roofs of Sorrento on the dark 
mountainside, which was patched with green 
and silver. Directly ahead, the deep violet 
waters of the sea glided to the blue of Ve- 
suvio. The slender sails of fishing boats were 
touched with scarlet. In the foreground the 
mountain fell away; there were a red roof or 
two, the side of a pink and white wall, far 
below. 

No one spoke in the cell. But suddenly, as 
though a signal had been given, the music of 
the campanile bells invaded the cell. 

Beautiful!’ murmured the abbot and 
involuntarily crossed himself. A miracle was 
in this room. The painting filled the little cell 
with radiance, as the sunlight beat upon it. 
It was like a great window, obliterating the 
plaster wall. Or it was a 
mirror reflecting what lay 
outside. 

Fra Leonardo tried to * AI other 
speak. But no words could 
come. His fingers clung to 
Matthew’shand. Hisdying 
face brightened until it had 
a light of its own. 

‘“‘T did it for you, Fra Leonardo,” said Mat- 
thew,‘ to bring what you love into this cell.” 

As the sunlight changed and fell outside, 
the painting appeared to change also. The 
colors became more vivid, but deeper, as if 
creating a twilight of their own. The gold 
became more intense, the purple stronger. It 
was alive, this canvas, thought the abbot, 
and crossed himself again. 

Fra Leonardo whispered, ‘“‘It is for me, my 
son? You painted it—for me?” 

“Yes,” replied Matthew. His voice trem- 
bled. ‘‘For you. And always, if you wish it, 
and the abbot permits, it shall remain here.” 

The abbot smiled. He said to the monk, 
“Through you, my son, a miracle has oc- 
curred.” 

Fra Leonardo looked deeply into Mat- 
thew’s eyes. He whispered, “Yes, by the 
grace of God, a miracle has occurred.”’ He 
leaned his head against Matthew’s chest, lay 
in the strength of Matthew’s arms. But his 
eyes clung to the painting. 

He died a week later, with Matthew beside 
him. To the very last, Fra Leonardo looked 
only at the canvas on his wall, and in the final 


minutes joy lay like the sun itself on his face.’ 


Two weeks after the old monk had been 
laid to sleep in the convénto cemetery, Mat- 
thew came to the abbot. His eyes were heavy 
with grief, but steadfast and quiet. “*I came 
to ask permission, my father, to paint in 
these gardens,”’ he said. “‘I shall continue 
to live in the village. There is so much to 
paint here.” 

“Yes,” said the abbot. 

Matthew put down a bundle of lire. ““My 
father is a rich man and I understand that 
he has established a large trust fund for me, 
in the event of his death. I want nothing of 
money, only enough to shelter me and to 
give me food. Above these, the rest belongs 
to the convéento. It was always Fra Leonardo’s 
wish that the convénto might have a finer and 
more beautiful chapel. Perhaps my money 
can assist in this dream of his’ He looked 
away from the abbot. He said, ‘““What I paint 
is for the convénto also—to be disposed of or 
retained, as you wish.” Then he added, “‘It is 
strange, but I do not believe Fra Leonardo 
has gone away.” 


restlessness seemed to 


knowledge is 
him who has 
not honesty and good nature. 


hurtful to 


ious. He smiled at 













Septembe 


It was more to see her old home agair 
any other impulse which had brought 
out on this cold winter day. Althoug 
came often—sometimes twice a w 
Barbara was not deceived that it was 
tion which brought her mother, except 
tion for the house, Perhaps unconscio' 
was also a refuge—a return to days wl 
was not so somber and desolate. 

Ursula sat in the little parlor in her 
ened sables, slowly removing her gloves 
gray suit seemed to emphasize her thir 
the tired anxiety of her face. Her gray 


f 


“| gt u 
jimen' 
gift a 


5 coe 
rose in a pompadour under her wide fel4 ™ le 
Jaden with crimson plumes. It, too, mad} yw (le 
face beneath more old, more weary. Dilan, 1 














































Barpara regarded her mother some 
sadly, her mist-colored eyes observant 
shrewd, Her young face was firm and 
ture; her posture, too, was firm and a 
uncompromising. 

The house was much the same as it 
ways been. Some furniture had been 
upholstered, but in coverings as near the ¢ 
inal ones as possible. The Aubusson cz 
had faded somewhat, but it was the s 
carpet. The books on the shelves had s 
there for a generation or more. The pan 
walls glimmered in the light just as they 
when Ursula had been a girl. 

“Shall we have tea now, mamma?" as 
Barbara. 

**No, dear. Not just yet,”’ said Ursula. 
was content for a while to be home. She 
not look at Barbara, or at the baby 
Barbara’s knee. She looked about her at 

familiar room and thet 


minish. 

Barbara fondled her + 
who was almost two ya’ 
old, abstractedly, He 

MONTAIGNE, 4 good child and very 

mother now. He had 
eyes and coloring; but he had Oliver’s gen 
ness of expression. He eyed Ursula thor 
fully, then squirmed and reached up¥ 
tugged at the golden chain about his m 
er’s throat. She tapped his hand decisiv 

“No,” she said, quietly but firmly, “ 
mustn't touch.” 

Ursula regarded her daughter and gr: 
son, and a slight frown brought her brows 
gether. 

Barbara said, ‘‘ This is one youngster w 
is going to learn how to behave. He’s not | 
ing to be a brat.” 

Ursula’s cheeks flushed a trifle. She h 
out her hand. ‘“‘Come to grandma, darli 

The baby stared at her, then looked up! 
his mother questioningly. She put him on 
feet, straightened his embroidered bib, pat 
him on the head, and said, ‘Go to grandmi 

He tottered to Ursula, carefully watc 
each step. She caught up the child and kiss 
him with trembling lips. He kissed her, th 
became engrossed in her watch, fingering) 
roughly. 

Billy,” said Barbara, with firmness. 
child subsided upon Ursula’s knee, lost | 
terest and yawned. 

‘He wasn’t harming the watch,” protes 
Ursula. 

‘He has to learn not to touch what does: 
belong to him,” replied Barbara. She 
her mother’s eyes straightly. ““He has } 
rights, of course, but only when they do 
infringe on the rights of others.” 

Ursula was silent. She loved Barb 
naturally, but she also disliked her for < 
obscure reason. Barbara was hard, she t 
herself. She was unbending. She was a wi 
and a mother, but there was somethi 
spinsterish about her. Obstinate, thoug 
Ursula. 

Barbara could guess her mother’s thoughi 
She was saddened, but she compressed hi 
young lips. She thinks I am implying a€¥ 
cism of papa, she told herself. Well, I a 
Poor, poor mamma! Long ago, she made 
her mind that nothing mattered but papa, a 
she set herself up as a protection between pa, 
and his children. That is why she is so chro 
cally anxious. She stood against us, trying 
shelter papa from us—after papa had made 

(Continued on Page 81) 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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(Continued from Page 78) 

vhat we were! She dishkes all of us, and fears 
wl of us, because of papa. But she dislikes me 
nos because papa cares least for me, and be- 
‘ause I can’t bring myself to lie to him, as Julie 
loes, or pretend lo admire him, as Tom does. 
Barbara touched the bell rope. ‘‘It’s time 
r Billy’s supper, and bed.” 

“Oh, it’s quite early yet,”” murmured Ur- 
ula, holding the child to her. 

Barbara glanced at the clock on the man- 
‘elpiece. ‘‘ Five,” she said. 

A nursemaid came in. Billy was not recon- 
riled to going, however. With a child’s acute- 
jess, he sensed the current between his 
nother and grandmother. He whimpered, 
uid his face against Ursula’s breast. 

“Billy,” said Barbara sharply. At that 
-oving but determined voice, the child lifted 
nis head, gave Ursula a resigned smile, 
slipped off her knee and ran to his nurse. The 
zirl bent, and the baby kissed his mother. 
“Good boy. Good Billy,” she said approv- 
ingly. ‘‘Now Billy will have his dinner and 
EO to bed. Say good night to grandma, dar- 
ing. 

The child obediently uttered the equiva- 
lent of this, laughed, and allowed the nurse 
to carry him off. 

Barbara touched the bell rope again. “It 
really is time for tea,’’ she said, smiling. 

But the subtle an- 
tagonism still per- 
vaded the air. ‘He is 
such a good child,” 
said Ursula coldly. 

““Thank you, 
mamma. But he isn’t 
agoodchildby nature. 
He is just being 
trained as well as I 
can train him.” 

A maid brought in 
the tea tray. It was 
Ursula’s own, as were 
the silver, the delicate 
old china. Barbara 
poured the tea, and 
its fragrance mingled 
with the scent of the 
burning wood on the 
hearth. She handed a 
cup to her mother. 

“How is papa?” asked Barbara. 

“He seems quite well,’ answered Ursula. 

“It is almost two years since his last at- 
tack,” said Barbara comfortingly. ‘‘Let us 
hope he won’t have another, ever.” 

“He won’t if he isn’t annoyed.”’ Ursula 





glanced at her daughter sternly. “That re- ° 


minds me, Barbie. Why haven’t you and 
Oliver and the baby been to see us? It’s al- 
most a month since you came. Your father 
remarked on that only last night.” 

But he doesn’t really want to see us, thought 
Barbara sadly. Nor do you, mamma. You only 
come here because of the house. Don’t you re- 
member you opposed my marriage to Oliver, 
because papa was so furiously against it? 
Don’t you remember that Oliver and I had to 
be married in an obscure rectory because 
papa would not come, nor Julie nor Tom? 
And you agreed to come only at the last minute, 
in spite of your real affection for Oliver. 

Barbara had learned to be tactful, but her 
mother’s last words were too much for her. 
She lifted clear gray eyes to Ursula’s face. “I 
never feel that we are welcome . . . at 
home,”’ she said. 

“Barbie! How can you say that! How 
cruel and how untrue!” 


Barpara was already regretful. “I never 
liked that house,’”’ she said with sincerity. 
“And Julie and Gene don’t like us. You can 
say that is ‘cruel’ and ‘untrue,’ if you wish, 
but you know it’s the truth. Julie and Gene 
have completely taken over the house. You 
and papa are almost boarders.” 

“Oh, Barbie! Julie has proved herself to 
». an excellent manager, and has relieved me 
enormously. And Gene is just like a son to 
your-father. No one could be more consider- 
ate, or more helpful.’’ Ursula put down her 
cup. She felt deeply angered against her 
daughter. 

“Yes,” said the younger woman. “Gene 
is all of that. I admit it.” 


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Ursula waited. When Barbara did not go 
on she said, ‘‘How sinister you make that 
sound, Barbie. Are you trying to quarrel 
with me?” 

“No, mamma, I’m not trying to quarrel 
with you. I just want you to: know why 
Oliver and I don’t come very often. Let us 
grant that you and papa are happy to see us. 
Julie and Gene are not. It would be a lie to 
deny it.” 

Ursula was silent. As Barbara knew, she 
was intrinsically a just woman. Her mouth 
drooped in a shame she could not repress— 
not shame for Julie, but shame for herself 
and William. She tried to forget William’s 
oath that Barbara and Oliver would never 
be allowed to enter his house again. And then 
there was herself, Ursula, terrified for her 
husband, upholding him in his fury, almost 
savagely denouncing her daughter and 
Oliver—Oliver, whom she, herself, loved. 


THERE was no forgetting Oliver’s grief at 
William’s rage, Oliver’s bewilderment at 
Ursula’s denunciations, even though eventu- 
ally he understood and forgave. He had for- 
given long before Ursula had come to visit 
her daughter and Oliver, where they lived in 
a small house in the suburbs, to tell them 
that Julia and Eugene Arnold were to be 
married, and that the ‘“‘family’’ wished 
Barbara and Oliver to 
be present. 

She remembered 
the grandeur of Julia’s 
marriage. Julia had 
had eight brides- 
maids, and among 
them had been Mary 
Blake, who had been 
married to Thomas a 
year later. Nothing 
had been spared for 


that rich and hideous 
house had been con- 
verted into an apart- 
ment for Julia and 
Eugene. William had 
almost doubled Eu- 
gene’s salary. 

He had been sin- 
cerely delighted over 
Thomas’ marriage to Mary Blake. This 
wedding, too, had been resplendent, and Mr. 
Blake had given the young couple a mag- 
nificent home on the mountain for their 
wedding gift. He had settled an income of 


. fifteen thousand dollars a year on his only 


child, and William, not to be outdone, had 
increased his son’s salary. 

It was shortly after this that Ursula had 
offered her home to Oliver and Barbara, who 
loved the house, as her mother had loved it. 
Ursula could have given her daughter noth- 
ing more valuable, in her own estimation. 
She had given Barbara something which 
was, to her, the dearest place on earth, which 
she would never, under any circumstances, 
have offered Julia or Thomas. 

Ursula was gathering up her gloves and 
purse. ‘Will you come to Sunday dinner, 
Barbie? Julie and Gene are dining with Tom 
and Mary.” 

“Then we’ll surely come,” Barbara said. 
She smiled and tried to think of some part- 
ing words to make her mother happier. She 
added, “I’m so happy over the news about 
Matt! Papa must be so proud of all those 
wonderful paintings, the one exhibited in the 
Royal Academy in London! And the won- 
derful things they write about him in 
Rome.” 

Ursula said, ‘““Yes, your father is very 
proud. He has bought the painting which 
was exhibited in London and it is on its way 
here.”’ 

What a struggle it had been to convince 
William that Matthew was actually happy 
and contented at last. William had been de- 
termined to visit his son, but his own illness 
had prevented. 

Barbara kissed her mother and Ursula 
drove away in her carriage, her gloved hand 
waving to her daughter on the doorstep 
where she, herself, had stood so many times. 
It was right, in some way, to see Barbara 
standing there. 


Julia. A whole floor of |, 









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Julia fastened the diamond-and-topaz ear- 
rings carefully upon her ears. Then she stood 
up with a rustle of topaz taffeta skirts. There 
were topazes and diamonds about her throat 
and upon her arms. They complemented the 
rich auburn of her hair, her amber eyes, the 
delicate flush of her cheeks. She turned 
swiftly, to smile at Eugene, who was watch- 
ing her from a distant chair. 

“Well, do I satisfy you, Gene?”’ she asked 
teasingly. 

He rose and came to her, put his hands on 
her shoulders. His colorless eyes took on 
depth. “ You always do, Julie.”” He kissed her 
lingeringly. 

Her arms went about his shoulders. ‘Oh, 
how I love you, Gene,” she murmured. 

“Not more than I love you, my darling,” 
he told her. 

She withdrew from his arms, her expression 
darkening. ‘‘I wonder how much longer we’ll 
have to wait. It isn’t fair.”’ 

Eugene glanced at the shut door of their 
large and luxurious bedroom. He said, “‘I 
think we’ve agreed ——”’ 

“Not to discuss anything in this house,” 
she finished for him petulantly. Then she 
kissed him again. ‘‘It isn’t fair to you, Gene.” 

Without answering, he picked up Julia’s 
sable cloak and put it about her shoulders. 
‘We are already late. The 
carriage is at the door.” 

They went out together, 
walked slowly, arm in arm, 
down the curving marble 
staircase. They reached the 
bottom of the staircase. 

“Bother!” said Julia. 
“It’s late, and we’ll have to say good night 
to papa and mamma.” 

They found William drowsing before the 
fire, slumped in his chair, exhausted. Ursula 
sat near him, embroidering. She looked up 
as Eugene and Julia entered, ready with an 
automatic gesture to indicate that William 
slept. 

Julia whispered, ‘‘Say good night to him 
for us, mamma. Poor papa—he needs to 
rest.” 

Ursula nodded and Julia and Eugene went 
out together. The embroidery lay on Ursula’s 
knee. She looked at the fire, and sighed. Wil- 
liam continued to drowse; once or twice he 
muttered feebly, as if in pain, and Ursula 
would start then, look at him with aching 
apprehension. How terribly he had aged! 
How weak he had become! 

In half an hour, Oliver and Barbara and 
the baby would arrive. She folded her em- 
broidery, gently covered William’s knees 
with the afghan. She went out into the morn- 
ing room, where she would receive Barbara 
and Oliver, as usual. 

In the meantime, one of the Prescott car- 
riages rolled up the mountain road with 
Eugene and Julia. She said, ““And now again 
we'll have to pretend to Tom that every- 
thing is going famously, and that one of 
these days, soon, he’ll be president of the 
Prescott Lumber Company! Oh, Gene, it’s 
almost too much for me to stand, when you 
and I know that you are going to be presi- 
dent! I love Tom; I’ve always loved him. 
But after all, he is not you. You are the one 
who deserves everything, and has worked for 
everything.” 


has 
youth. 


Eucene took her hand, held it tightly. “It 
won’t be very long now, Julia. And, of course, 
Tom mustn’t suspect anything. He has 
worked with me, and done everything I 
wanted him to. We can’t let anything go 
wrong now.” 

Julia frowned. “‘Why won’t papa give up? 
How long is he going to”’—she paused, halt- 
ing at the ugly word, and replacing it with 
another—“‘ force himself, when he isn’t well?” 

Eugene stared thoughtfully before him. 


“Your father won’t ever give up, not even to ° 


Tom. He’s going to make Tom a vice-presi- 
dent, but he’ll never resign the presidency.” 
Eugene tucked the robe about his wife. 
“Unless he is forced to.” 

Involuntarily, Julia shivered. Then she set 
her chin into hard lines. ‘You can’t wait 
much longer, Gene. You’ll have to do the 
forcing. You practically run the business 
now. Besides, it would be better for papa to 


EATS aT STS RR ce 
Almost everything that is 
great been done by 

—BENJAMIN DISRAELI. 


September, 1949 


resign. His health is declining every day. In 
the end, he’ll be glad.” 

Eugene smiled. They were approaching 
the big white house which was Thomas’s 
home. They saw it against the dying brass of 
the western sky. 

In the end, he'll be glad. Eugene con- 
sidered his wife’s words. The smile had lef 
his mouth; it lay in his eyes now, inimical 
and remorseless. Yes, it would be the end for 
the Prescotts, father and son. He could de- 
pend upon Julia. She was with him, Not fora 
moment did Eugene believe that she would 
turn from him, as a daughter and sister 
might do, when her husband betrayed her 
father and her brother. William had done his 
work well. He could expect neither pity nor 
help from his children. 


“ How is papa?” asked Barbara, as she 
removed little Billy’s bonnet and coat, and 
gave them to the waiting maid. 

“Resting,” answered Ursula. She stood 
beside Oliver, who had placed an arm about 
her shoulders. Once she had been comforted 
by his touch; now she could feel only the 
sadness of remorse. She had betrayed Oliver, 
long ago, because he and Barbara had threat- 
ened William’s precarious peace of mind. 

Oliver gently removed his arm. “I'll glance 
in at him,” he said. “If 
he’s asleep, I won’t disturb 
him.” 

He went to the drawing 
room and stood on the 
threshold. Ursula had 
turned down the gaslights, 
so that the room was in 
semidarkness. He saw William at a distance, 
sleeping, and moved closer, looking down at 
the lined face, the sagging figure in an atti- 
tude of desolation and abandon. Oliver 
sighed. He had forgiven, but he could not 
forget that this man, who had once loved 
him as a son, had come to have nothing but 
aversion and dislike for him. 

William stirred, opened his eyes and saw 
Oliver. He raised himself a little, said, ““Oh, 
Gene.” He was bemused from his sleep. 

Oliver turned up the lights. The young 
man said, “‘Good evening, father. It’s Oliver. 
Were you expecting Gene?” 

William put his hands over his eyes, drew 
them down over his face. He shook his head, 
as if trying to shake away cobwebs. “Yes. I 
was expecting Gene and Julie. They were go- 
ing out. They must have gone, not wanting 
to wake me.” 

Oliver said quickly, ‘I came to tell you 
some news before I told anyone else, even 
Barbie. Scott, Meredith and Owens have 
made me a junior partner. It will be Scott, 
Meredith, Owens and Prescott now. I thought 
you'd like to know.” 

William placed his elbow on the arm of 
his chair, supporting his cheek in his palm. 
He said, and his voice trembled, ‘‘I con- 
gratulate you, Oliver. But it’s no more than 
you deserve. ‘Scott, Meredith, Owens and 
Prescott.’ It—it has a good sound.” 

“Thank you, father. It came about be- 
cause the old gentlemen thought I did a good 
job before the Supreme Court in Washing- 
ton.” 

“You'll always do a good job, Oliver. I—I 
am proud of you.” 

Oliver was too moved to answer. 

William sighed, and the sound was almost 
a groan. “‘Oliver,”’ he said, ‘I haven’t much 
to leave you. I think you ought to know that. 
I’ve put everything into trust funds for my 
children. There’s only a few thousand for 
you. It was wrong, and I know that now. But 
at the time I didn’t think. It seems to me now 
that I never thought much at all.’ 

““You’ve done more for me than I can ever 
thank you for,” said Oliver quickly. “If I 
could live a thousand years, and could give 
them all to you, it wouldn’t be enough.” He 


hesitated. Then he said, ‘Father, I’ve a @ 


strange thing to ask. I want to hear you say, 
‘T trust you, Oliver.’” 

William regarded him curiously. ‘‘What 
is wrong, Oliver? Why do you ask me 
this?” 

“There’s nothing wrong. It’s just that I’d 
like to hear you say it.” 

(Continued on Page &4) 





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(Continued from Page 8&2) 

William shrugged. ‘‘ Very well. Frankly, I 
never distrusted you, though I don’t suppose 
my trust is worth much. All right, Oliver, I 
trust you.” He aroused himself. ‘Is Barbie 
here, and little Billy?” 

“Yes, They’re waiting for you. Shall I call 
them?” 


It was nine o’clock at night, on a cold eve- 
ning in the middle of April. In the offices of 
Scott, Meredith, Owens and Prescott the 
hearth was heaped high with logs, the air sim- 
mered with the fumes of tobacco, the heat of 
the fire and the blazing gaslights on the pan- 
eled walls. 

Nine old men, some of them very old in- 
deed, were gathered in the office, and one 
young man. He sat near the “three gray 
midgets,”’ as Messrs. Scott, Meredith and 
Owens were known among the more disre- 
spectful inhabitants of Andersburg. But 
“midgets” or not, these men compensated 
for their size by the vastness of their integ- 
rity, their combined wealth and formidable 
dignity. Beside them sat Oliver Prescott. 

The other men in the room appeared a 
somewhat disheveled company. Perhaps there 
was something a little too florid about Doc- 
tor Banks, Mr. Leslie and Mr. Bassett, some- 
thing too artificial about the saintliness of 
Judge Muehller, something too sly about 
Senator Whiscomb and Albert Jenkins. Per- 
haps their disheveled air rose from a kind of 
disorder, beset by fear and concern. 

Mr. Scott had just finished reading aloud 
a letter from the Northwest Lumber Com- 
pany, of Seattle. A long and panic-stricken 
silence followed the reading. Then Doctor 
Banks’ trembling hand passed over his white 
beard. He said in a voice that was 
little more than a murmur, “Ridiculous. 
Impudent. Not to be taken seriously for a 
moment.” 

Ezra Bassett seemec about to speak in 
agreement. Then he saw Oliver, and his round 
pink face turned malevolent. ‘‘Is it necessary, 
Mr. Scott, that Oliver Prescott be present?” 








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he asked. ‘I have no personal objection, but 
under the circumstances _" 

“Mr. Prescott is our junior partner,” the 
other said tranquilly. “In a few moments he 
will address this meeting. He has some infor- 
mation to put before you.” 

‘‘He is ——” Mr. Bassett started to say, 
then halted. 

Oliver spoke quietly and steadily. ‘Mr. 
Scott, Mr. Meredith and Mr. Owens are al- 
ready aware of a certain conversation I had 
with you, Mr. Bassett, a long time ago. In a 
few minutes you'll all know how the facts of 
my own case can be used in behalf of all of us, 
and the Prescott Lumber Company.” 

Mr. Owens touched Oliver's arm and spoke 
in his frail, clear tones. ‘Gentlemen, we have 
the highest regard and affection for young 
Mr. Prescott. I might almost say that we re- 
gard him as a son. We beg all of you to treat 
him rf 

But Ezra Bassett interrupted loudly, **Gen- 
tlemen, I am in possession of certain facts of 
my own. I ought to have told you before, I 
presume.”’ He shot Oliver a look of purest 
malignancy. ‘‘I ought to have told you that 
Oliver Prescott is the illegitimate son of 
Chauncey Arnold. He is Gene Arnold's 
brother.” 

An astounded silence fell upon the room. 
Bassett’s friends stared unbelievingly at Oli- 
ver, who remained composed. They strained 
forward in their chairs. 

Oliver folded his arms across his chest, 
crossed his knees. ‘I don’t propose to deny 
it, Mr. Bassett. I propose to use it, as you 
once suggested that you and I might.” 

Mr. Meredith said with stern dignity, * 1 
assure you, gentlemen, that if you attempt 
to injure Mr. Prescott you'll regret it. My as- 
sociates and I summoned you here today 
only after long pleading on the part of Oliver. 
He wants to save the Prescott Lumber Com- 
pany because of William Prescott. However, 
if any of you should ever speak of a certain 
unfortunate circumstance to anyone—even 
to your wives—I hope you have sufficient 
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lives, beyond your holdings in the Prescott 
Lumber Company. I propose that Mr. Pres- 
cott will now address you. You will hear 
him out, I am sure, in silence and in cour- 
tesy.”” 

Senator Whiscomb said, almost squeaking 

ith surprise and shock, ‘‘I refuse—I don’t 

ntend —— This is too much, for a man my 
age to have to listen to . . . Chauncey Ar- 
nold’s son! What is all this?” 

Mr. Meredith turned to Ezra Bassett. 
“Plotters always make the serious mistake of 
believing that only they can plot. Personally, 
I dislike the word ‘plot.’ This law firm has 
never engaged in anything nefarious, sir. We 
have never attempted to blackmail ——”’ 

“Blackmail!” stuttered 
Mr. Bassett, whitening. 

“Blackmail is what I 


Meredith with severity. 
“What else would you call 
your attack on our junior 
partner? You have used 
an ugly tone of voice, Mr. 
Bassett. You have uttered 
ugly words. In spite of our 
affection and regard for 
Oliver, if we hear a further 
attack from any of you 
upon our junior associate, 
we shall be compelled to 
ask you to leave immediately, and to take 
the consequences.” 

Doctor Banks and the others listened in 
dazed incredulity. Their instincts warned 
them that they were in some danger. But 
they could not accept the implication that 
Oliver Prescott was in any way concerned 
in all this. Their hypnotized gaze could not 
leave him. Ezra Bassett nervously clasped 
his tremulous fingers and tried to moisten 
his lips. 

Mr. Scott cleared his throat, and once 
more looked down at the paper in his hand. 
“You may be sure, gentlemen, that the North- 
west Lumber Company would not have writ- 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


lumber market and to absorb the Prescott 
Company unless they had reason to believe 
that it could be done. May I reread a passage 
in this letter: “We have, as our objective, the 
avoidance of the increasing danger of compe- 
tition, and the elimination of smaller compet- 
itors, thus stabilizing control of the lumber 
business in general in the important areas.’ I 
need not remind you that the Northwest 
is the largest lumber company in the 
United States. It is ‘big business.’ The 
Prescott Lumber Company was once 
‘big business’ also. It is no longer. We have 
it in our power to eliminate it entirely or to 
permit it to become a subsidiary of the 
Northwest Lumber Company.” 

“A subsidiary!’’ ex- 
claimed Judge Muehller, 
freshly appalled. 

Mr. Scott smiled. “‘But 
I am infringing upon Mr. 
Prescott’s territory. 
Oliver, will you address 
these gentlemen now?” 

Oliver stood up, and six 
pairs of eyes watched him 
with mingled apprehension 
and suspicion. He met 
them gravely. ‘‘Gentle- 
men,” he said, “‘Mr. Scott 
has not told you the date 
of the letter from the 
Northwest Lumber Company. It was written 
six months ago. Since then this firm has been 
inextensive communication with them. I want 
to say at the very beginning that I have only 
one reason for trying to save the Prescott 
Lumber Company—for the sake of my foster 
father. He is dying. He may die tomorrow, as 
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86 


losing much more. Your minds are so fixed 
upon profits that you have forgotten two im- 
portant elements—Eugene Arnold, and Tom 
Prescott. You have forgotten that Tom Pres- 
cott is married to Mary Blake, and that be- 
hind Tom and Mary are the Blake millions. 
Temporarily, you might overlook Tom, ex- 
cept in connection with Eugene Arnold. But 
you must not forget Eugene Arnold and the 
fact that he hates my foster father. He wants 
the Prescott Lumber Company for himself, 
and intends to have it.” 

“A lie!” cried Albert Jenkins, speaking for 
the first time. 

Oliver smiled. ‘‘Mr. Bassett won’t agree 
with you, will you, Mr. Bassett?” 

Bassett flushed crimson. He said, regarding 
Oliver with hatred, ‘‘ No, I don’t agree with 
Jenkins. I’ve been watching Arnold and it 
came to me years ago that he wanted the 
company. I think it came to all of us, eventu- 
ally. But he can’t have it. There’s no way he 
can have it!” 

“‘Oh yes, there is,” said Oliver composedly. 
“You see, there are the Blake millions, and 
Mr. Blake is very fond of Tom. Eugene has 
convinced Tom that he is his friend, that his 
sole desire is to see Tom president of the com- 
pany. He is using Tom. He might even allow 
Tom to become president, for the humiliation 
of my father. With Tom as president, there 
would always be Eugene Arnold behind him. 
But Eugene may not permit Tom to become 
president. I happen to know that he has an 
alternative. William Prescott assigned ten 
per cent of his holdings to Tom when he 
learned two months ago that Tom will be a 
father in less than seven months. He did this 
because Gene had suggested it to Tom, after 
Tom told him his father had asked what he 
would like in celebration of the news.” 

“‘How do you know all this?” the senator 
demanded. 

Oliver was silent for a moment. Then he 
said, ‘‘I had to tell my mother some things a 
few months ago. I had to convince her that a 
plot is developing against her husband. She 
finally believed me because I had the facts. 
She told me what she knew and what she 
suspected because she was terrified. Before I 
continue this report, I want to go into the 
background of this whole situation. I don’t 
have to remind you men of what has been 
happening in America since Mr. Roosevelt 
became President ———”’ 

He was interrupted by a raucous interjec- 
tion by Mr. Leslie: ‘‘ Roosevelt! He’s a de- 
stroyer of free enterprise! No wonder we have 
labor troubles.” He glared at Oliver. “I sup- 
pose you intend to give us a discourse on the 


fine qualities of Roosevelt?” 


Oliver smiled. “‘No, Mr. Leslie, I don’t. 
The Northwest Lumber Company is big busi- 
ness, for it intends, as you can see from this 
letter, to ‘eliminate competitors.’ But Mr. 
Roosevelt is inclined to look on the North- 
west Lumber Company with some kindness, 
for it has promised to aid him in his determi- 
nation to conserve the forests. It is going to 


September, 1949 


co-operate in the North American Conserva- 
tion Conference, to be held within a year or 
two. It has even interested Jay Regan and 
his associates, who are normally against con- 
servation of any kind. 

“Once, William Prescott was strongly in 
favor of conservation of our lumber resources.) } 
I think he was a pioneer. But I don’t have to : 
tell you what happened to Mr, Prescott a few 
years ago. He became obsessed by the idea of 
providing large trust funds for his children. 
He decided to throw out conservation, in 
order to make money very fast, money which 
was deposited in the untouchable trust funds 
set up for his four children. He lost his bold- 
ness in enterprise. He lost initiative, inven- 
tion. He has brought the Prescott Lumber 
Company to a dangerous pass. It isn’t ex- 
panding. It is about to dwindle into a sixth- 
rate company. 

**Now we come to the real and imminent 
danger. We're in the midst of a ‘silent panic.’ 
Before the year is out, we are going to have a 
real panic. Why? That is a question you'll 
have to ask Mr. Regan, Mr. Morse and Mr. 
Rockefeller. 

“It may surprise you gentlemen to dis- 
cover that it will be Mr. Roosevelt's anti- 
trust laws which will prevent hundreds of 
small companies from going bankrupt, being 
absorbed, or disappearing entirely. However, 
they won't save the Prescott Lumber Com- 
pany. Gene Arnold knows this. He is deter- 
mined that the Prescott Lumber Company 
will not be absorbed by any larger company. 
He intends to let the company approach 
bankruptcy and then step in. Either with his 
dupe, Tom Prescott, and the Blake millions, 
or with his own friends. I might say, gentle- 
men, that this group of his friends does not in- 
clude any of you, the officers and directors of 
the Prescott Lumber Company, though it is 
possible that he has persuaded you to the con- 
trary.” 

Doctor Banks, Ezra Bassett and Judge 
Muehller could hardly suppress their agita- 
tion. They forgot that the others were watch- 
ing them with baleful suspicion. They looked @ 
at one another, and each face was a study in 
dismay and fear. 

Oliver allowed a few moments to pass in 
silence, for he had a fine sense of timing. Then 
he spoke again. 

“Perhaps some of you know that Mr. Regan 
holds twenty-eight per cent of the stock of 
the Prescott Lumber Company personally 
owned by William Prescott, as collateral. I 
am using my imagination very impertinently, 
when I suggest that some—all?—of you have 
kept this in mind, possibly with the idea of 
buying this stock from Mr. Regan, ard, with 
the stock you already possess, of ousting my 
father. You don’t have to protest; you don’t 
even have to feel guilty. It is all ‘business,’ 
and I’m not reproaching you. For, you see, I 
understand that my father is no longer com- 
petent torun the Prescott Lumber Company, 
because of his health, and because of the 

(Continued on Page 88) 


**I’m not moving a muscle till he leaves!”’ 





LADIES’? HOME JOURNAL 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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(Continued from Page 86) 
many things he has done to build up private 
fortunes for his children.’’ He paused, and 
waited until he had the attention of every- 
one. ‘‘Eugene Arnold has visited Mr. Regan 
recently, to discuss this stock Mr. Regan 
holds.”’ 

“What!” cried several voices incredulously. 
““Where would he get the money? Who's be- 
hind him?”’ 

Oliver replied, ‘‘ Where would he get the 
money? Keep your eye on Gene, gentlemen. 
He told Mr. Regan that you are all decrepit 
old men, that you won’t live much longer, 
and that, whether you live or not, he'll be 
able to get rid of you. I won’t go into the de- 
tails. They aren’t necessary. You see, Mr. 
Regan told me all this himself.” 

“What!” they cried again, stunned, 

Oliver nodded. ‘‘Gene’s friends include 
some of the wealthiest people in Andersburg, 
and some of the ‘outsiders.’ But he is too 
clever to rely wholly upon promises, however 
enthusiastic. If his friends won’t help him 
buy that stock, Mr. Blake will, through Tom. 
He intends to force Tom upon you as a sort 
of dummy president, while he, himself, will 
be the power behind Tom. Eventually, he’ll 
find a way to oust Tom. Eventually, too, 
you'll all be forced out, most possibly by a 
sudden and crippling fall in the value of the 
Prescott stock which you own. 

“Yes,”’ Oliver continued softly, “ you see, 
you are in extreme danger. I tell you this, for 
I need your help. I had a very interesting and 
satisfying talk with Mr. Regan. To make it 
brief, he has promised that he will sell the 
twenty-eight per cent of my father’s stock to 
no one but the Northwest Lumber Company. 
He will not sell it to you, to Mr. Blake or to 
Gene. I have his solemn promise.’’ He smiled 
slightly. ‘‘ There's a profit in it for Mr. Regan 
too. He is interested in the Northwest Lum- 
ber Company, to some very impressive ex- 
tent. Moreover, I believe an arrangement has 
been made between Mr. Regan and the North- 
west Lumber Company to the effect that the 
company will open a large and active ac- 
count with Mr. Regan.” He sat down, imper- 
turbably, though his face was grim and tense. 
‘Suppose you consider all this for five min- 
utes, gentlemen. Consider the implications.” 

Mr. Leslie spoke harshly: ** What’s in it for 
us?” The five others stirred, and looked to- 
ward Oliver. 


OL iver stood up again. ‘A lot, gentlemen. 
The saving of a great part of your personal 
fortunes. Did I forget to tell you that I have 
visited the offices of the Northwest Lumber 
Company? They have deputized me to tell 
you that if and when they take over the Pres- 
cott Lumber Company, they will increase the 
Prescott stock twenty-five per cent, and will 
exchange it for the same amount of North- 
west stock of the same value. And, gentlemen, 
I am sure you know what the value of North- 
west stock is today.” 

Now six faces began to glow with avarice 
and eagerness. Judge Muehller said, “Oliver, 
you are a clever young man.” 

“‘My dear Oliver,’ said Ezra Bassett, “you 
have asked us to ‘help’ you. You know that 
we'll be only too glad to do that. But tell us 
how.” 

Oliver’s face became grave and sad. “It 
won’t cost you anything. For, you see, I am 
thinking only of William Prescott. Of course, 
he is only too aware of the condition of the 
Prescott Lumber Company and, though he 
has brought about its imminent ruin, he still 
hopes some way can be found to save it for 
his son, Tom. So far as the company is con- 
cerned, he is realistic. That is why he is in 
such despair. So I ask you to visit him very 
soon, as soon as possible, and inform him 
that in the event of his death, you intend to 
elect his son, Tom, president of the com- 
pany.” 

“But that’s impossible!” exclaimed Doc- 
tor Banks. ‘“‘That whippersnapper!”’ 

Oliver nodded. “‘I agree. But you can lie, 
can’t you, in the name of charity and human 
compassion?” 

Doctor Banks subsided. ““Of course, my 
dear boy. Certainly, in the name of kind- 
ness—old associates, naturally.” 

“Of course,’”’ echoed the others tenderly. 





September, 1949 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


The strain had begun to tell upon Oliver. 
Pale shadows of exhaustion spread about his 
eyes and mouth. “Thank you, gentlemen,”’ 
he said. “‘I knew you’d understand.” 

“But what about Gene Arnold?” asked 
Senator Whiscomb. ‘He'll be kicked out, 
won’t he, that rascal?’’ 

“No,” said Oliver. “Though Mr. Regan 
doesn’t like him, and the Northwest Lumber 
Company, knowing what he is plotting, is not 
inclined to view him with kindness, they un- 
derstand he is a valuable man. I agree with 
them. I agreed that the Prescott Lumber 
Company, as a subsidiary, would prosper un- 
der Gene as general manager. They are inter- 
ested only in profits, and not in personal mat- 
ters.” 

“Tf that’s the way the Northwest wants it, 
then I suppose that’s the way it ought to be,” 
agreed Doctor Banks. ‘‘I never trusted Gene, 
however.” 

Oliver hesitated. ‘‘My father will die soon 
and nothing must be said to him about the 
Northwest Lumber Company. He is not to 
know, under any circumstances. It would 
break his heart. The Northwest Lumber Com- 
pany’s negotiations with all of you will go on 
with utmost secrecy. They understand. There 
is one more thing. The Northwest Lumber 
Company has asked me to represent them as 
a director on the board of the Prescott Lum- 
ber Company. They intend to send one of 
their best men here as president of the new 
subsidiary. A very able man. You'll like and 
trust him. His name is Kenneth McCord. 
Almost my sole duty will be to watch Gene 
Arnold, though I promise you that I’ll do my 
best by the company too.” 


The road to success is filled with 
women pushing their husbands 
—LORD THOMAS DEWAR. 


along. 


It took several moments for the others to 
accept all this. But they were old men; they 
were tired. And they knew that Gene Arnold 
would need watching. His brother, Oliver 
Prescott, would be an excellent watchdog. 
They had also heard of Kenneth McCord, 
one of the most promising young men in the 
lumber business. 

Doctor Banks exclaimed, ““ When, my dear 
Oliver, the unfortunate .. . passing of Will 
Prescott—er, we’ll approve all your proposi- 
tion.” 

Oliver said, ‘‘Doctor Banks, will you ask 
Eugene Arnold to visit you tomorrow night 
at eight o’clock? I hope to see all you gentle- 
men present also.” 


The small mahogany clock on the mantel- 
piece in Doctor Banks’ library struck a sweet 
and melodious nine. But no one heard it. 
There was a tenseness in this room, and also 
a small and malicious triumph. Oliver felt it 
and, reluctantly, he had to admit that Eugene 
Arnold was a better man than any of these 
others who were gloating over him in si- 
lence—better because he had stature and 
boldness and daring and distinction. He could 
look at the ruin of a lifetime and retain his 
composure. Oliver could even feel a sort of 
regret for his brother. He wished, for a mo- 
ment, that none of this had happened. 

He said, almost compassionately, “It’s no 
use, Gene. You can’t do anything about it. 
You can’t hurt my father now. And,” he went 
on, raising his voice, “if you should attempt 
anything in revenge, if you should put Tom 
up to anything—though it could only end as 
we intend it to—I’ll have to step in again 
personally.” 

Eugene turned his long, narrow face to- 
ward Oliver. The faintest of smiles touched 
his eyes. “What?” he asked quietly. 

Oliver hesitated. He looked at the others, 
listening with absorption. “I'll tell father 
that you are my brother,” he said. He had 
known that he might have to say this, though 
he had hoped to be spared. He had also won- 
dered how Eugene would take this news. 
“You don’t believe it?’’ he asked. Now there 
was no one in the room for him but Eugene. 

Eugene’s pale mouth puckered medita- 
tively. ‘‘Yes,’’ he said at last, ‘I believe it. 






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I didn’t know, until comparatively recently, 
and even then I had no facts. Before my fa- 
ther-died I was alone with him for a few min- 
utes. He told me that he had a child some- 
where. He didn’t know whether it was a boy 
or a girl. He asked me to find that child.” 
Eugene smiled dimly. ‘‘He wanted me to 
give his other child help, when and if I could. 
My mother was never to know.”” He added, 
when Oliver did not speak, *‘ You have the 
facts, | suppose?”’ 

“Yes” 

““My father told me the name of the 
mother,” said Eugene. ‘‘ You have her name?” 

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. *‘ The name of my 
mother was Mary Bauer.” 

Eugene nodded slightly. ‘‘ Yes. That is cor- 
rect, then.” 

Oliver went on quickly: ‘‘If you should go 
to William Prescott and, in your long venge- 
fulness, tell him what his son and you have 
plotted to do, with the sole purpose of caus- 
ing him suffering, then I'll have to make him 
suffer even more, in my own vengefulness. I'll 
tell him that he adopted the son of the man 
he hated most in all the world. Do you know 
what will happen then, Gene? He still has 
strength, and he’s indomitable. He’ll get out 
of his bed, to destroy you. He'll get help too. 
He’ll get help from me. Please understand 
that I have only to say the word and the 
Northwest Lumber Company will kick you 
out.” 

“Yes,”’ Eugene said. ‘‘I can see that. But 
what will Mr. Prescott do to you when, or if, 
you tell him?” 

“He can’t hurt me, Gene,” answered Oli- 
ver sadly. ‘‘No one can. But he can hurt 
you. He’ll forget that 
you're Julie’s husband. He 
wouldn’t stop at anything. 


Of course, there is Julie’s A gentleman is one who 
; keeps his promises made 
I ! 


to those who cannot enforce 
—ELBERT HUBBARD. 


trust fund. Would you like 
to live on that for the rest 
of your life? And do you 
think that Julie would like 
to know that I am your 
brother? Julie’s never liked me. In fact, I 
believe she hates me.” 

““Yes,’”’ said Eugene. “‘All that you say is 
true. But Julie will find out someday. There 
are so many in our little secret, aren’t there?” 

They both looked at the six old men. ‘‘ Yes,” 
Oliver admitted. ‘‘Probably Julie will find 
out. But by that time her father will be dead, 
and it won’t hurt him. And these gentlemen 
will never tell him, for a certain very good 
reason.” 

Eugene inclined his head. ‘‘And Julie, like 
all people, will prefer to believe a lie rather 
than the truth. At least, I hope so.’’ Now, 
again, he studied Oliver thoughtfully. ““Even 
after Mr. Prescott is dead, the scandal will 
hurt you more than it will hurt me. I suppose 
you are prepared for that?”’ 

“Yes, Iam prepared. But, I repeat, no one 
can hurt me. Those who are important to me 
already know the truth. As I told you, the 
Northwest Lumber Company believed me 
when I told them you would be invaluable. 
They hope to gain your complete loyalty. I 
think they will. The Northwest Lumber Com- 
pany always advances its best men, and you'll 
be one of their best.” 


Evcene considered all this. He said finally, 
“T suppose I owe you something. You could 
have demolished me entirely, couldn’t you?” 

“Yes. But that would have been stupid.” 

“And what do you intend to do about Tom, 
after Mr. Prescott dies?” 

“We are going to elect him second vice- 
president.” 

Now Eugene smiled with cold enjoyment. 
“Excellent,” he murmured. “He can’t do 
much mischief in that position.” 

“T suppose it is superfluous to ask,” said 
Oliver, ““but I’d like to be sure: Does Tom 
have any idea that his father has forfeited 
his stock to Jay Regan?” 

Eugene’s brows lifted in contempt. “‘It is 
indeed superfluous. If Tom had known—and 
you can be sure I did everything I could to 
prevent him from knowing—he’d have tried 
long ago to buy back that stock with the 
Blake money. It was most necessary for me 
to keep that knowledge from him. And, natu- 
rally, his father never told him. He had too 


September, 1949 


much pride, and wanted his son's ‘respect’ 
too much.” 

Oliver sighed. “ Well, your job now, Gene, 
is to keep him quiet, to keep him persuaded 
that you'll both have to wait a little longer. 
You'll have to invent some reason. Tom will 
object, for he’s waiting for his ‘day,’ when t 
can confront his father with an accomplishea 
fact. That fact won't ever be accomplished 
now, but, naturally, you won't tell him. The 
Northwest Lumber Company can change its 
mind about you.” 

Eugene gave him a bland look. “Are you 
threatening me?” 

“‘Naturally,’”’ answered Oliver. 


Evucene lifted his hand in a small but ex- 
pressive gesture, ‘ You can be certain of one 
thing, and that is I am not a fool. As you in- 
formed me a dittle earlier, I’ve been using 
Tom for my own purposes. I can go on using 
him, though in a somewhat altered way. I'll 
keep him quiet until his father dies, Of course, 
he is going to be slightly furious when he is 
robbed of the chance of confronting his fa- 
ther with the announcement that he is a bet- 
ter man than Mr, Prescott, after all, and that 
he has been elected president of the company 
while his father is still alive. Because his fa- 
ther is a failure.” 

Oliver rested his chin in his hand, and 
averted his head. He seemed sickened. Then 
he heard Eugene’s laugh. 

“T, too, have some ability in reading 
thoughts,”” Eugene said. “ Just now you are 
disgusted, especially with Tom, who’s been 
planning to gloat over his father. But I can 
offer you some comfort for yourself: You, too, 
will have your little 
‘day’—with Tom—after 
his father dies.”’ 

Oliver flushed deeply 
The old men could no 
follow this conversatiot 
now. Somewhat bewil- 
dered, they watched the 
two younger men. 


Eugene appeared to be enjoying himself.¢ 


“T’m looking forward to that day myself. 
We're really quite alike in many ways, aren’t 
we?” 


Oliver was in conference with Mr. Mere- 
dith when a clerk entered with a card for him. 
“T’m busy just now,” he said. Then he glanced 
at the card. He looked at Mr. Meredith with- 
out expression. ‘‘Eugene Arnold,’’ he said, 
and stood up. He told the clerk to send Mr. 
Arnold into his own office, and went there 
himself. 

Eugene was waiting for him in the pleasant 
office, into which July sunshine streamed 
warmly. One of the things which had always 
impressed Oliver with reluctant admiration 
was Eugene’s self-possession under all circum- 
stances. He was again impressed by this to- 
day. Nothing could put Eugeneout of counte- 
nance, Oliver thought. He accepted a ciga- 
rette from his brother, allowed Eugene to 
light it. If either of them showed signs of 
strain it certainly was not Eugene. 

“We haven’t seen much of you for the 
past couple of months,” Eugene said. “In 
fact, I haven’t seen you at all—since April.” 

“I’ve been in Washington a good deal,” 
replied Oliver. ‘“‘But Barbara has seen her 
sister.” 

Eugene inclined his head. ‘Lawyers seem 
to work a great deal at night,’”” he remarked 
casually. ‘Mrs. Prescott often remarks that 
you visit Mr. Prescott frequently during the 
day.” 

“Yes,”’ said Oliver. 

“The old man is failing. Sad, isn’t it?” 

There was something out of tune here, 
Oliver reflected. It was not like meticulous 
Eugene to use Tom’s vulgar phrase “the old 
man.” Oliver must have betrayed his vexa- 
tion, for Eugene added: 

“You’re wondering why I am here. Be- 
lieve me, it is just a friendly visit. Unless you 
are very busy?” 

He is goading me, thought Oliver. He was 
about to say abruptly that he was indeed 
busy, when he became aware that Eugene 
was watching him with close curiosity. “I’m 
not too busy,” he said rather curtly. ““But I 

(Continued on Page 92) 








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(Continued from Page 90) 
am surprised. You did say ‘friendly visit,’ 
didn’t you?” 

“Yes. And I meant it. I was passing by 
the building and thought I'd call in to see 
you.”” He could sit at ease, yet not lose his 
courtly outlines. 

“Go on, be friendly,”’ said Oliver. He 
could not help smiling a little. 

Eugene turned, and the sunlight made his 
pale eyes glint. “‘I never thanked you, I am 
afraid.” 

“Don’t thank me. The Northwest Lumber 
Company is our client, and I did the best I 
could for them in recommending that they 
keep you as general manager of the Prescott 
Lumber Company.” 

“With an increase in salary when the 
merger takes place,’’ Eugene commented. He 
looked at Oliver directly, and his amusement, 
was no longer even slightly hidden. ‘‘Come 
now, you know very well that they could 
have replaced me, and would have done so, at 
a word from you.” He waited, but Oliver said 
nothing. ‘It couldn't have been because of 
any—shall we say—family feeling?” 

Oliver said, ‘‘Because Julie is my wife’s 
sister? No.” 

Eugene laughed. ‘‘No. You don’t like 
Julie, and the dislike is heartily returned. In- 
cidentally, Julie doesn’t know, yet, about the 
approaching merger.’’ Then he leaned back 
in his chair, and spoke meditatively: ‘* You 
wouldn't be the lawyer you are if you weren't 
a realist. Good lawyers 
never fool themselves. 
You don’t. At least 
you don’t most of the 
time.” 

“T don’t know what 
you're talking about, 


“Oh, yes, you do. 
You know you didn’t 
have me kicked out 
because I’m your 
brother.” 

Oliver looked away. 

“Sentimental?” said 
Eugene softly. ‘No, 
not exactly. Brotherly love, in the closest 
sense, is quite a rarity. Especially if one 
brother has more money than the other.” 

“What are you getting at?”’ asked Oliver 
sternly. 

“Ifa brother of mine stood in my way, I'd 
knock him down. So would you, to a certain 
extent. To that extent, you did, though your 
reasons, I know, were really quite virtuous. 
But you see, both of us grew up believing we 
had no one. You were an adopted son, and 
had sisters and brothers, under the law. But 
you were lonely; you were left out. As I was 
too.” 

Oliver said, ‘“‘ You didn’t come here to sug- 
gest that we become good and affectionate 
brothers, did you?” 

Eugene laughed again. ‘‘Not so baldly as 
all that. But I admit that I’m not sorry that 
you're my brother. I’ve always been ambi- 
tious and I'll go on being ambitious. Just as 
you will. You know, without my telling you, 
that I’ve had another motive besides ambi- 
tion in trying to get control of the Prescott 
Lumber Company.” 

‘“‘T know. You wanted revenge, didn’t you, 
Gene? You didn’t get it. You didn’t ‘avenge’ 
your father, if you’ll permit a little theatri- 
calism.” 


dourly. 


companion. 


‘“ No. But you did,” said Eugene gently. 
“Tt was accomplished, after all, by a son of 
my father.” 

Oliver stood up. But Eugene stayed in his 
chair. 

““Now I'll tell you something else: You’ve 
always pitied Mr. Prescott. Don’t you know 
there is an element of egotism in pity? We 
sympathize with those we consider our equals 
or superiors, to a certain extent, but we don’t 
‘pity’ them. 

“T never pitied William Prescott. For I 
knew him for what he was. I knew he was a 
genius; you didn’t. I admired him; you 
didn’t. Even remembering his infernal obses- 
sion about his children, I can still admire him 
for what he was. He was a great man.” 

They looked at each other fixedly. 


John L. Lewis and another labor 

leader, in Washington for a con- 
ference, watched as two very pretty 
young girls met on the street and 
kissed each other rapturously. 
Gene.” There's another of those things 
that are so unfair.” remarked Lewis 


“What do you mean?” asked his 


Ile pointed to the scene: “Women 
doing men’s work.” 


September, 1949 


Oliver said, ‘There are values which are 
beyond your understanding, Eugene. We 
can use the same wards, but we mean dif- 
ferent things.” 

“Perhaps. You're a lawyer, Oliver, and so 
you ought to know, But it’s still trfe that 
you never really knew William Prescott, and 
that you only pitied him and never admired 
bim. None of his family did. I think he’s be- 
ginning to understand that now. It’s a ter- 
rible thought for a man to have when he’s 
dying.” He picked up his hat. “Good 
evening.” 


‘Thoucn for three weeks William had been 
ordered to remain in bed, he would not fol- 
low his doctor’s orders, Each afternoon, un- 
assisted, he would force himself out of bed, 
panting with weakness, and go to a chair by 
the window, where he would sit, trying to 
subdue by will power alone the agonizing 
pounding of his heart. He would not admit to 
himself that he was gravely ill, that he was 
most certainly dying. Once in the chair, he 
would look out over the pleasant July gar- 
dens and grass and trees. Sometimes he fell 
asleep there, and Ursula would find him so. 
She never permitted him to guess that she 
had seen him, and would re-enter only when 
she was sure he had awakened and returned 
to his bed. 

Then she would bring him the evening 
paper, and order tea for them both. She had 
hoped that he would talk to her then. But, 

though he drank the . 


Ns fea, he would continue 


to look through the pa- 
per frowning. Silence 
would fill the room, 
except for the rustling 
of the trees outside, 
the distant whir of a 
lawn mower, the voice 
of a gardener. The sun 
would send broader 
rays of rose and gold in- 
to the room, until fi- 
nally they would reach 


es § 2 large painting on the 


wall opposite the bed. 
Then William would put down his news- 
paper and, forgetting that Ursula sat there 
at all, would look steadily at the painting. 

It was a painting of an old monk, standing 
in a garden of brilliant sun and flowers, with 
terraces of olive and orange and lemon trees 
rising behind. His habit was tucked up in his 
rope girdle; his thick brown legs were bare, 
as were his arms. He stood in a very glow and: 
flame of radiance. He was a living presence 
in this room, a presence of warmth and fire 
and vitality. 

The painting had been set in an ancient 
Venetian gold frame. At the bottom a small 
golden plate read, ‘Fra Leonardo.” In the 
corner of the painting was the signature, 
““Matthew Prescott.” 

William would look at the painting for a 
long time. It was as if he drew strength from 
that painted figure, hope from those dark 
eyes. He would sigh and then say aloud, “Fra 
Leonardo. A monk.” Then after a moment 
or two: *‘ My son.” 

Ursula had sent frantic cables to Matthew. 
Only the first two had been answered and 
each time the message was, “I can’t come 
back.” 

“Your father is dying,” she replied. But 
there was no answer. ““My husband, my 
darling, is dying,’”’ she would say to the hot, 
closed stillness of her room. She said this with 
her eyes to her daughters, to her son, Tom, to 
Eugene, and still there was no answer. There 
was an answer in Oliver’s eyes, but she would 
not receive it. For she was full of grief and 
anguish and terror, and she was alone. 

In the evenings Eugene and Julia often 
came to visit William. He would look only 
briefly at Eugene. But when he saw Julia 
his eyes would brighten. Sometimes during 
the day she would visit him, too, but not 
often. She had many social engagements to 
fill, and her father’s love for her was becom- 
ing an uneasy and irksome thing. She had 
received from him all that he could give her. 
Too, she could not stand illness, for she was 
so vibrant with health and life. There was an 

(Continued on Page 94) 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 























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(Continued from Page 92) 
aura of mortality about her father, and it 
sickened her. 

But she was aware of an uneasiness these 
days. It stayed with her even when she jad 
left William. Sometimes she was irritable 
even when she was alone with Eugene, and 
would fall into a sullen silence. 

The days went on, and William steadily 
lost strength. During the last three days of 
July he remained in his bed, looking at the 
painting on his wall, lying motionless for 
hours. Nurses came in now. He no longer 
protested. Ursula could hear his hard and 
painful breathing even in her room, where 
she lay at night, tense and unsleeping. Some- 
times she drowsed fitfully, awakening to the 
muffled sound of the nurse’s footsteps in the 
hall. Only when the footsteps retreated, and 
William’s door closed softly, did she relax. 
Then pain would run all through her body, 
and she would turn her face to her pillow, 
but not to weep. Over and over to herself she 
would say, No. No. Her eyes would follow 
the path of the moon over her wall until it 
paled and the sunrise would stream red 
against it. 


William lay sleeping, under the influence 
of the sedative which had been given to him 
at midnight. He was dreaming. It was a vivid 
dream, and he did not once suspect that it 
was only a dream. He 
was hurrying in a gray 
world, and he was 
full of pain which had 
taken the form of a 
torturing thirst. The 
wilderness stretched 
away without a hori- 
zon behind him, about 


him or in the dis- 
tance. No hill, no 
house, no tree, no 


grass could be seen 
anywhere. Only this 
pallid wilderness 
without an end, with- 
out a beginning. 

There was some- 
thing he must reach, he thought in his dream, 
something which would quench this thirst 
which was now agony. A well? A stream? 
A river? He did not know. But he had to 
find it, or he would die. He would surely die, 
he said aloud, but his voice had no sound 
either. 

Then he saw the fountain in the distance, a 


| gray thin shaft, wavering in the shifting 


gloom. He knew it was a fountain. He hur- 
ried and reached the fountain, but the shaft 
was broken. It stood in a heap of stones, 
faintly glimmering like skulls. There was no 
water init. He had come to the end. There was 


| no going on, for there was no hope of water 





except in this fountain. 


The nurse was shaking Ursula, who had 
fallen into a stupor of exhaustion. She sat up 
immediately. 

“T’ve called Doctor Banks,’’ whispered 
the nurse. “‘I think you ought to go to Mr. 
Prescott immediately. I'll wake up one of 
the maids and send for your children.” 

Ursula flung herself out of bed, caught up 
her dressing gown. Her heart was beating 


| suffocatingly as she hurried the few short 


steps to William’s room. 

It was quiet here except for William’s 
rasping breaths. Only a night light burned on 
a distant table. Ursula bent over her hus- 
band. He seemed to be sleeping and his fore- 
head was covered with a film of moisture. 

Ursula knelt beside the bed and put her 
head on William’s pillow; his labored breath 
blew against her hair and cheek. She put her 
hand over one of his, and it was like ice, and 
wet. 

Someone touched her head. A hand lay 
upon it comfortingly. But she could not 
move in her dreadful paralysis. She could 
not even moan or cry out. Then she heard a 
hoarse voice: “Ursula.” 

She knew it was William’s hand, but still 
she could not move for a long time, and not 
until the hand fell away:-Then she lifted her 
head, and her haggard face was illuminated 
by the faint light. William’s harsh breathing 


Kw KK X Oe 


(LO 4 
hit 
By Catherine Haydon Jacobs 
Beloved, I am here to find 
What you would have me do. 


Beloved, I am here to give 
What I have found to you. 


KOK OK Kee 


September, 1949 


had softened, was almost normal. His gray 
eyes, sunken far back in his head, were ten- 
der and grave. 

“Ursula,” he whispered. 

“Oh, William,” she said aloud. “ William, 
don't leave me.” 

His words came very haltingly: The wil 
Don’t mind the will, Ursula. I... . ‘idn®)) 
know.” 

She caught his hand and held it to her lips, 
“T love you, darling. Don't leave me, Wil- 
liam. I have no one but you.” 

He lifted his weighted hand and laid it 
against her cheek. ‘I have no one but you, 
Ursula, I never had anyone but you,” 

She did not know that Eugene and Julia 
had come in and were standing at the foot 
of the bed. But she saw that William's face 
had become remote, 

“I’ve cabled to Matthew,” Ursula whis- 
pered, ‘‘ He ought to be here in a day or two. 
Perhaps tomorrow.” 

William smiled at her, and again touched 
her cheek. “ No,’’ he said. ‘There isn't any 
water,.”’ 

She thought his mind was wandering. She 
looked about for the nurse, The room was 
unnaturally dim about her. Two shadows 
approached and she stammered, “ Bring him 
water.” 

William said, “‘ Yesterday I asked Oliver 
to take care of you. Go to him and Barbie. 
There isn’t anything 
for you here.”’ He shut 
his eyes. Frantically, 
she pressed her mouth 
against his. His lips 
were cold and dry. 
But she could feel 
that he was trying to 
return her kiss. Then 
his eyes opened. 
“Poor Ursula,”’ he 
said. ** Forgive me.” 

She did not know 
that she cried aloud, 
“‘Don’t leave me! 
Wait for me, Wile 
liam.”” Then hands : 
were lifting her. She 
tried to fight them off. White sleeves and 
white hands were drawing a sheet over 
William’s face. It was then that Ursula 
screamed once, and loudly, “No!” 

Then she stood, supported by someone's 
arm. She heard Eugene's voice, ‘‘ Let’s take 
her to her room, Julie. And you stay with 
her.”’ 

A great cold silence and calm fell over 
Ursula. She pushed away the arms about her. 
She heard a sharp sob, and then the sound 
of weeping. She turned and saw Eugene and 
Julia. Eugene was very pale and Julia, her 
auburn hair hanging in disheveled beauty, 
had buried her face in her hands. She was 
sobbing. 

Ursula turned, and very steadily, her head 
held high, went to her own room. Quietly 
she lay down on her bed. She could feel noth- 
ing. Her heart was like a stone. 

Oliver found her there. Barbara was with 
her sister. He sat down beside Ursula and 
took her hand. *‘ Poor mother,” he said. ‘‘ He 
asked me to take care of you.” 

“Yes,” said Ursula. A spasm ran over her 
face. She said, as William had said, ‘*For- 
give me.” 

Then she saw that Barbara, very white, 
her face streaming with tears, was entering 
the room. Ursula watched her calmly. All at 
once something broke in her and shattered, 
in overwhelming pain. She held out her hand 
to her daughter and Barbara bent over her, 
lifted her in strong young arms. Tears wet 
Ursula’s face; she could taste the salt of them. 

“Dear Barbie,”” she whispered. ‘Oh, 
Barbie, my dear child.’’ Her head fell on 
Barbara’s shoulder, and she closed her eyes. 


The August wind, warm and fragrant ¢ 
blew through the open windows of the Pres- 
cott house. From the road outside the gray 
walls of the grounds came the clatter of pass- 
ing carriages and an occasional automobile. 
It was a gay and joyous day. 

But in the Prescott house grief moved 
heavily and silently. Ursula sat with her 

(Continued on Page 96) 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 








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(Continued from Page 94) 
daughters and her son in the dimmed library, 
Condoling guests had gone; the servants had 
been told to admit no others. Ursula had 
asked her children to remain and they sat 
here, not speaking. 

They looked at their mother, grim and 
white-haired and haggard, thin to gauntness, 
straight and stiff in her black dress. Since 
William’s death, almost a month before, her 
eyes had become lusterless and dull. Sorrow 
lay on her face, but it was a bitter sorrow, 
desolate and forbidding. 

Much of Julia’s auburn and rose-tinted 
beauty had dimmed these past weeks. She 
twisted her hands together upon her knees 
and her face looked sullen and tired. Thomas’ 
large, coarse face was pale, his cunning eyes 
fixed upon his mother. Barbara sat near 
Ursula, her still eyes and unbending attitude 
startlingly like her mother’s. Never had she 
so resembled Ursula. 

Ursula looked at them all, slowly and 
fixedly. She said, ‘‘I asked you to be with me 
today, for there are a few things I want to 
tell you. We all know your father’s will. It 
was made several years ago. He spoke to me 
of it, just before he . . . died.’’ Her taut face 
moved slightly, as if in spasm. “He left all 
he had to you, with the exception of this 
house, and a small annual income for me. He 
left me the house.” She paused and again she 
regarded her children. ‘‘ That will, as I said, 
was made several years ago. Your father had 
a lot of money then. He died almost bank- 
rupt. Because, in these past years, he was 
putting everything he could make, at the 
cost of his health, his life and his peace of 
mind, into trust funds for 
you. There is practically 
nothing left. Over the years 
of our marriage he gave 
me a very large allowance. 
and I saved much of it. 
It has been invested and 
I have nearly two hun- 
dred thousand dollars.” 

She waited. No one spoke though. Julia 
was staring at her mother with interest and 
thoughtfulness. 

“The house,’’ Ursula went on, “‘is heavily 
mortgaged, of course. When your father 
made the will, he believed he would be able 
to lift the mortgages in time. He left the 
house to me, expressing the wish that you 
would live here—with me. This house was 
his dream; it was the house he built for his 
children. Your father,’’ added Ursula, in that 
strangely quiet voice, ‘was a very tragic man. 
You:see, he loved you. He thought you loved 
him.” 

Julia looked down at her hands; Tom 
thrust out his thick lips and squinted his eyes. 
Barbara dropped her head. 

“T can’t afford to keep up this house,” 
said Ursula. “‘I am letting it go. None of you 
wants it, Iam sure, and I don’t want it. I be- 
lieve that your father would want me to let 
it go. At the last, it meant nothing to him, for 
he knew that his whole life had been wasted, 
that this house was a place of lies and duplic- 
ity and ingratitude. He died with the knowl- 
edge of what this house had become and 
what his children were.” 


est of us. 


Tuomas said in a hoarse voice, ““I don’t 
ever want to see it again, either. I’ll never 
come here again.” 

Ursula looked at him. ‘‘Tom,”’ she said, 
“‘T know what you tried to do to your fa- 
ther. He knew, too, I am afraid, in spite of 
what Mr. Bassett and Judge Muehller told 
him two weeks before he died. You know 
about it, of course, because Gene has told 
you. You see, it’s all out in the open now. 
Oliver discovered your treachery, all that 
you and Gene were planning to do to your 
father.’’ She stopped. 

Thomas’ pallor did not diminish, but he 
did not seem angry or humiliated. He refused 
to meet his mother’s eyes. 

“All I want,” he said, “‘is to get out of 
Andersburg. Mr. Blake’s given me a job in 
his mines. I never want to see this town 
again.’ He looked at Julia. For an instant 
viciousness passed swiftly over his face, then 
faded into heavy weariness. ‘“‘I’m going to 
get out of here, and forget it.” 


(SLAs?) Se 
» We are none of us infal- 


lible—not even the young- 
— WILUAM HEPWORTH THOMPSON. 
























































September, 194 


“Yes,” said Ursula. “You can go away 
but you, Tom, and all of you, won't be a 
to forget what you did to your father. Y 
despised him because he loved you at the ex 
pense of his whole life; you plotted agai 
him, you and Julie, You thought he was 
fool—because he loved you. And you wi 
right. A man who loves his children as + 
loved you should be prepared for betraya 
and cruelty. But you have lost more th 
he,” 

Julia wept drearily. Her mother looked 
her in silence, untouched, 

“There’s no need to ery, Julie,” she said, 
“It’s too late. You think you'll forget, too, but 
you won't. You'll remember even more when} 
you have children of your own.” 


True hand | 
h yell Ml 


; 4 4 
Ursuta’s brows drew together. She clenched | uli” Ih 
her hands on her knees, but she spoke stead- 
ily: 

“The Prescott company is gone, for all of 
you, even though Gene remains as general 
manager. It’s gone for your father’s sons. I 
think he knew that, before he died. I onl 
hope that it didn’t matter so much to him, at 
the last.” 

Thomas said, his back to his mother, “I 
don’t care. I hope—he—didn’t care, either, 
I’m not going to deny that we were rotten 
children. We were. I’m not going to defend 
us by saying he made us that way, though he 
did.” 

“Yes,"’ said Ursula, “he made you what 
you were. And I helped him. It was a choice 
between you and your father. If I had dis- 
ciplined all of you, when he was absent, and 
even when he was here, if I had punished you 
and forced you to behave, - 
there might have been less 
cruelty in you. But he be- 
came ill; even before that, 
I saw that he would insist 
upon his delusions. He 
couldn’t live without 
them. He couldn’t live 
without the poor sad lies 
he told himself about his children. So, 
spared him, for his own sake.’’ She added, 
“But it wasn’t any use, after all. He knew. 
He knew all the time. That is what killed 
him.” 

Julia said brokenly, ‘‘I can’t bear this 
house. We can’t live here.” She spoke inco- 
herently. ‘‘Papa always wanted us to have 
anything we wanted. He told us that. So 
when we took, and when we demanded 
things, we thought we hada... right.” 

“That is not true, Julie,” said. Ursula. 
““You are a woman, and you've been a woman 
for years. You know you didn’t have a 
‘right.’” 

Julia cried desperately, “‘You talk of 
cruelty, mamma! You are being cruel now!” 

At the window, Tom moved restlessly, 
“Shut up, Julie,’’ he said loudly. 

Ursula said, ‘‘ You have known for a long 
time that your father was dying. It meant 
nothing to you. Save your tears, Julie. Save 
them for your own children, when they for- 
get you, or pretend false love for you, or 
break your heart.” 

Barbara, the controlled and silent, spoke 
now, “Oh, mamma!” 

Ursula’s bitterness softened slightly as she 
turned to Barbara. “‘ You were a very cold 
girl, Barbie,” she told her. ““You didn’t love 
your father. But at least you understood 
enough not to exploit and betray him. And 
you are the only one he spoke of before he 
died, so he must have known more about you 
than I did.” 

Barbara’s eyes filled as Ursula continued: 

“Five hours after your father died I re- 
ceived a cable from Matthew. He said that 
he felt he could come home to see your fa- 
ther; he wasn’t afraid any longer. I replied 
that his father had died. Since then I have 
had a letter, asking me to come to Italy, and 
live with him.” 

Julia wiped her eyes. She faltered, ““Gene 
wanted me to ask you to come and live with 
us, mamma. We want you to do that.” 

Thomas came back to his chair and settled 
himself in it. “No,” he said, “‘she ought to 
come to Mary and me.” 

Ursula twined her fingers together and 
smiled. When her children saw that smile 


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they looked aside. “I’m going to live with 
Barbie and Oliver,”’ she announced, “in my 
old home again. I don’t think I’d want to 
live there if it weren’t for Oliver, and little 
Billy. I’m sorry, Barbie. I’m going to live in 
my house again because your husband is 
there, and your father’s grandson.” 

Barbara’s tears came faster. 

Ursula said, “‘“You, Tom, and you, Julie, 
detested Oliver. But he was instrumental in 
saving Gene’s position, Julie; and if your fa- 
ther had any peace at all, Tom, it was be- 
cause of Oliver. You’ll never like him, but 
that’s something else for you both to re- 
member too.” 

She lifted her hands, let them fall into her 
lap again. 

“There’s nothing more to say. I had to tell 
you all this, because, you see, I’m also lying 
to myself. For I want to believe that you’ll 
teach your children that there is no hope for 
anybody, except in himself, and no hope for 
the world, except in each man’s responsibility 
toward his neighbor. All the evil that ever 
comes to any man, to the whole world, is 
when men say to themselves, ‘I, but not my 
brother.’ But you won’t teach your children 
that. And so the terribleness of the world 
will only increase.” 

She stood up then, and left the room, tall 
and thin and straight, and she did not look 
back at her children. 


All that had to be done was done. The 
Prescott house was sold at a great loss. Soon 
it would be demolished, to be replaced by an 
enormous factory, in spite of the protests of 
neighbors who had tried to prevent it. But 
there was so little money now, since the 
panic. No one could afford to buy the house, 
and keep it from destructon. No one in 
Andersburg could afford to buy it. 

The walls would be torn down. The treas- 
ures, the rugs and pictures and furniture 
would be bought by strangers to decorate 
the homes of strangers. All that William Pres- 
cott had loved and had gathered together for 
his children would be lost. Julia and Thomas 
and Barbara would buy nothing, for they 
wanted to forget. 


Ursuta could say now to herself, Let them 
forgel. Please, God, let them forget everything, 
but a hope for their children. Her bitterness 
was gone. She could remember, now, that 
William had always loved her, and that he 
had thought only of her before he died. It was 
enough for all the rest of her life. Ad the end, 
she thought, there is only a man and his wife 
even if one of them is dead, and the other is left, 
remembering. 

She would take nothing with her from this 
house but Matthew’s painting. In her first 
anguished bitterness she had believed she 
would sell it. Then she knew that William 
would want her to keep it, even if she kept 
nothing else from the huge house. The paint- 
ing reminded Ursula of William, and not of 
her son. 

In a few moments Oliver and Barbara 
would come for her and she would go away 
with them, to her own house, where the fire 
would be burning on the old hearth, and the 
smell of leather, and the lamps, and the 
paneled walls would remind her of her fa- 
ther. Had August Wende had hopes for her, 
Ursula, too? Had he thought his hope of the 
world was in her? 

Poor papa, thought Ursula, standing alone 
at her leaded window, looking out at the dark 
night and the snow. 

There was little Billy waiting for his grand- 
mother: little William Prescott. He was 
sturdy and young, dark-eyed and full of 
eagerness. What would the world do to him? 
What would he do for the world? Everyone 
spoke, now, of a century of comfort and 
progress and peace and enlightenment, of 
the banishment of hunger and want and in- 
justice. In less than two weeks it would be 
1908. The panic was passing. Perhaps one 
could believe that a “‘new era’”’ was indeed 
coming. Perhaps it would be possible to be- 
lieve, indeed, in that ancient acclamation to 
the world: ‘‘Peace on earth, good will to 
men!” 

Ursula began to weep, the first tears she 
had shed for her husband. THE END 






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FIRST LOVE 


ADORATION 
REMEMBRANCE 









If anyone asked me what happiness is, I should say a 
September day, a red setter, and a bevy of cockers. 





[Diary of J omesticity 


2 By GLADYS TABER 


OMETIMES I wonder whether any 
other people are as enthusiastic as dog 
people. Of course any kind of group ac- 
tivity is fun and makes life richer. The 

world is jammed with exciting, interesting 
things to do, from flower arrangements to 
collecting snuffboxes. So I never have much 
patience with women who get bored. 

But dogs—well, there is the real thing! I 
was thinking of it as we drove to the North- 
western Dog Club’s annual picnic. There 
were two barbecue tables set on the lawn 
overlooking a beautiful garden still sweet 
with late roses. The smoky smell of the grills 
and the sharp niceness of onions sliced thin 

| rose in the air. Everybody was gathering 
around tables set around the yard, and 
Irma was passing great bowls of salad, and 
everybody was talking at once—about dogs. 

At my table was the Episcopal rector 

whose great Dane had just won hand- 
somely at the last show. Then there was the 
engineer who spends three nights a week 
training dogs for obedience. And a lawyer 
and a businessman and the county truant 
officer and a secretary for a big factory. 

This is one of the blessings of dogs that is 
aside from the dogs themselves: that all 
types and kinds of people meet and form 
warm friendships with no regard to race, re- 
ligion, money or any other conventional 
standard. It is a good feeling in a world so 
torn with prejudices. 

After supper we all went across the field 
to watch the trained golden retrievers bring 
in floating buoys from the water. It was al- 
most dusk and the little pond was dark and 
still, and the woods shadowy. Two men 
t to the opposite shore of the water and 

; the objects in and then the trainer 
" sent each retriever with a wave of the hand. 
Beautiful to see the golden dog leap to the 
water, striking it a good car’s length from 
the reedy shore, swim powerfully across the 
) pond, find and bring back the buoy, swim- 
Ming with his head up and eyes shining. 
I could swear he never stopped wagging 
is tail, even under water, and when he 


« 













o? 





came to his master I was not the only one 
who felt the prick of tears. 

“All right, shake!’’ said the trainer. And 
oh, how he did shake! Half the spectators 
were showered, but nobody minded. 

There was work in the field, too, and two 
golden dogs working through the brown 


_ meadow in the dusk were wonderful to see. 


When we came home, we told Maeve all 
about it and explained that an Irish setter 
ought to do all that too. Maeve will track 
through the meadow and find a tiny puppy 
biscuit. Of course she doesn’t exactly bring 
it back—you can see her jaws moving as 
you come up. 

The cockers have good noses too. Linda 
has five little round black babies, and when 
she was nursing them she wanted all her 
meals on a tray—the dish had to go right in 
the box before she would eat. The first 
thing we knew, the biggest boy, whose eyes 
were not yet open, began to swing his little 
nose around, and crawl shakily across the 
box, and he got his little head up on the 
dish and fell over the edge. This, he said, is 
what cockers are for—good eating. He 
might be blind, but his nose was awake! 

The quiet garden is lovely in September, 
even though the summer flowers are gone. 
One nice thing about having a special small 
garden for your flowers is that you can re- 
member it like a picture at all seasons. I re- 
member how sweet it is in spring with the 
white daffodils and narcissuses and white 
and violet-blue tulips and white pansies. 
Then the midsummer picture has the blue 
delphinium with pink hearts, the darker in- 
digo blue, and the white and deep red of 
snapdragons and the riot of roses climbing 
the picket fence and tumbling inside. The 
nicotiana sends out a heavenly fragrance all 
summer, and the apple mint and lavender 
and thyme are sweet. 

Now in September a few delphiniums 
bloom, and the herbs are luxurious and the 
polyanthas blossom and the clematis is 
budding. The little garden is even quieter 

(Continued on Page 200) 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





















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\ so long ago, the only thing Americans used to eat outdoors 
By GLADYS TABER 

| was fudge. The front-porch swing creaked on its rusty chains, 
the moonlight sifted down on Maple Street, and that younger brother kept peering through the 
porch railing until the very last piece of chocolate and nut was gone. 

Now we are in the barbecue era—maybe it began with the strawberry festivals the church put 
on under the great trees in the park. In any case, driving through America, you see many yards 
with fireplaces where father struggles to get the fire just right for the steak or chicken. 

Eating out-of-doors is a fine thing. I myself am such an addict that our family eats outdoors from 


the first thaw to the first snowflake in fall, sometimes almost eating with gloves on to keep from 


freezing. For there is something exciting and peaceful about any meal (Continued on Page 102) 


WN 


KITCHEN. 
99.139" 











rindoor- 
pudoor eatine 


2 
_—_— 





To 
{ LAUNOR 


Tefrigerator 





3 


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scole in feet 








101 


‘ 0 aes 
Tash eo 
ee a 

ats a 
, > 



































The counter between the sink and 
range is spacious for arranging foods 
buffet style for a terrace meal, or 
for double-time breakfast prepara- 
tion. On the wall behind the counter 
are hung some of the most-used 
kitchen aids. A rack wiih a magnetic 
bar for holding knives in place, a can 
opener, a paper-towel holder and a 
plastic container for paper cups are 
all within an arm’s reach. A venti- 
lating fan on the outside wall draws 
off cooking odors. It’s a friendly 
kitchen that invites informal gather- 
ings and has room for helpers who 
make light work of the K.P. chores. 





Dragging up a chair and clearing off 


i oy a table to sit as you work often takes 
& 4 more energy than it saves. Here is a 
4 made-to-order spot for sit-down 


jobs at the wheel table. A comfort- 
able seat, a slot for magazines, a 
drawer over it for pencils and pads, 
and another under the seat for pick- 
up work such as mending or knitting. 


PHOTOS BY STUART 





— 
oa.* | 


Driftwood-gray table, chairs and 
china storage cabinet add a charming 


or 


dignity to the dining nook off the 
kitchen. Meals here have character 
and are served with real convenience. 


Ne 


. rn - 
A full-height window wall looks out > \ 
=) 
over the outdoor terrace. . . . In the : 
kitchen the refrigerator chosen opens j [~~ 


6 


toward the counter. Manufacturers 


ho 


are now making refrigerators with 
doors hinged on the left at slight or no 
extra cost and little delay. In plan- 
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is important because of the arrange- 
ment of windows and doors. It is 
always well to plan before you buy. 





102 


wef CUSTOMIZED KITCHENS 


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WILLIAM J. LEVITT 
President 


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Cole Portraits: N. Y. 


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t 
LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


j ¢ 


(Continued from Page 100) 
under the wide sky with a small fire glowing 
in the barbecue fireplace. It lifts a meal from 
the humdrum to the gay. 

But it can be a mort of work for mother. 
When the barbecue is at the far end of the 
yard, back of the garage, it is along way from 
the supplies in the kitchen to the eating 
space. And the kind of food is necessarily 
limited to what can be carried easiest. Lug- 
ging the dishes and the pickles and olives, the 
salad and thedessert, means a lot of trips back 
and forth. And then there is the extra trip for 
what has been forgotten. 

The kitchen the JOURNAL chose for this 
month has the answer. On the terrace just 
outside the kitchen is the outdoor eating 
place. All the facilities of the kitchen itself are 
only one step from the barbecue. The house is 
on a double lot, but by using this space close 
to the door, the family can picnic any time. 

After all, it doesn’t take a lot of land to 
make room for an outdoor eating place; it 
takes only good planning. The terrace is 
large enough to accommodate guests, is pri- 
vate with its low wall of well-laid stone and 
the right planting where the lot faces the 
neighbor’s property. And it is convenient! 

This particular itchen was planned for a 
family of Californians, and everybody knows 
it never rains in California. But if this were 
copied in our dampish New England, I 
couldn’t help thinking it would be even bet- 
ter. For rain or shine, the party can go on. I 
like best an unroofed, really outdoor barbe- 
cue, but, except in California, there is always 
that peering at the clouds, that family argu- 
ment: “Turn the radio on—does it say 
rain?” ... “I think it is clearing.” .. . “It’s 
going to pour. We may as well give it up.” 

This two-way kitchen is so designed that 
there is really ample space inside so if it be- 
gins to rain the whole party can step through 
the door and eat comfortably under shelter, 
and with no extra confusion. For the eating 
center in the kitchen is good sized, not just a 
snack shelf or a small counter. It has table 
and chairs, a roomy buffet, plenty of serving 
space. And a window box of growing plants 
with a tray rack beneath separates it from the 
sink. I defy any hostess to keep the sink look- 
ing spick-and-span in the midst of meal get- 
ting and serving. 

This kitchen also has an additional fea- 
ture which hits the jack pot. This is a wheel 
table, with drop leaves, which slips under a 
section of the counter when not needed but 
can be pulled out and set up with the salad 
bowl and the hot buttered rolls and the wild- 
grape jelly and the butterscotch tarts. When 
the sky is blue and warm, the table slides 
through the door for the outdoor eating, and 
when it rains, it rolls inside with its load. 

It does double duty too—like every single 
thing in this kitchen—for it is the right height 
to sit at for kitchen jobs. 

The kitchen is equipped with plenty of 
steel cabinets, including that always-needed 
utility cabinet for cleaning supplies which 
many kitchens do not have. Most of the 
kitchens I am intimate with have no room for 
a broom or dust mop—these stay in the cel- 
larway where they hit you on the head when 


Eas ai rea 
Ce os =e, 


you Span theca in th 


@ 


back porch, or in the woods! ill utili 
cabinet is one of the best things a kitcher 


“can have, and this kitchen has room fot ond. 


The refrigerator is across the kitchen from 
the range and is part of a complete unit 
which includes a working surface and room 
for storage of supplies most used near the re- 
frigerator. This saves steps too. The re- 
frigerator door is hinged on the left so it 
opens toward the counter. 

Another special feature of this kitchen is a 
low comfortable seat where a visiting guest 
may sit and visit, or the man of the house can 
skim the headlines while he waits for the first 
hot cooky from the oven. Or that precious 
wheel tablecanslideover to it, and the hostess 
can shuck the corn at the very last minute be- 
fore the fire burns low enough outdoors for 
the tender young ears to be laid on the grill, 
We usually do our corn two ways—half of it 
roasted with the shuck on, and half of it laid 
on a rack, dredged with butter or margarine 
and crisped until it is smoky and nutlike i in 
flavor. 

The outdoors has been annexed to this 
kitchen literally and also figuratively, for the 
color scheme is tuned to the family that loves 
casual out-of-door living. 

Enchanting wallpaper patterned like a 
spring garden brings the color and freshness 
of flowers inside. The lime green on the plain 
wall surfaces is a spring color, too, and keeps 
the color scheme restful as well as gay. 

The floor is covered with plastic tiles in a 
heavenly shade of crushed raspberry, and 
there are contrasting gray tiles set in an ob- 
long pattern to outline the eating space. The 
low seat is upholstered in lighter raspberry in 
a wipe-it-off-when-soiled plastic material. 

The furniture in the dining space is drift- 
wood gray and the chairs have lime-green 
seats. The table, buffet and chairs are actual 
furniture, spacious and solid and dressy 
enough for entertaining. 

Now in September the soft autumn sun- 
light falls on the kitchen through the wide 
windows over the sink and the window wall 
in the dining center. When the sun goes down, 
lights placed flush with the ceiling and spaced 
in front of the counter tops give the kitchen 
shadowless illumination. 

And a soft September day is just the time 
for a barbecue supper on the terrace. Easy as 
it is in this kitchen, it doesn’t really matter 
how many turn up. The football gang from 
high and the old friends from down the 
block, and a few from the office who eat most 
of the time in restaurants or the hotel— 
everybody’s welcome. 

Corn any way you like, and lots of it. A 
copper pan with melted butter and a brush to 
spread with. Plenty of hamburgers—and 
each one laced with slivers of garlic and 
broiled on the grill by sister’s favorite beau. 
The green salad—California style for the Cal- 
ifornians. Plenty of rolls from the oven to the 
terrace in a whisk. And the coffee cooked out- 
side in a big enamel coffeepot with an egg- 
shell dropped in at the last minute. Pine- 
apple upside-down cake for dessert. 

All the year round, this kitchen really 
makes life a picnic! THE END 


KK kek Kk KK KK KK Ee eee 


A Fable for Tcurist 


BY WILLIAM MEREDITH 


Start in the morning when the roads 
are clear, 

They told me, try to break the 
journey’s back 

Before you stop for lunch; we pack 
the car 

The night before, they said, and set 
the clock 

For an hour before sunrise. But I 
overslept 

And didn’t get away until almost 
noon. 

The roads were lousy, I had last 

eyear’s map; 


And cars—you would have thought 
everyone was leaving town. 


They were right, of course; it’s a silly 
way to travel. 

I never seem to make the time they do; 

Half of the roads in blue turn out to 
be gravel 

Or not built yet, but I manage to get 
through 

And better than some Se them when ~ 
you recall 










os 


fet a 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


HANK POLSINELLI: 
MAN AND BOY 


(Continued from Page 45) 


marry him. For ten years Hank was their 
only child; ‘then Frances came along, and 
three years ago, Caroline. About his children 
Mr. Polsinelli says, ‘You take what God 
sends.” He loves his daughters and has no 
complaint about what God has sent him, but 
his son seems to mean most to him. (“He's 
my only son—what’s mine is his.”’) 

Hank is looked upon as an adult male by 
his family and is expected to behave like 
one. There are no other rules. The family is 
Catholic and Hank attended St. Monica’s 
parochial grade school, but his church attend- 
ance is irregular now. He tries to live up to 
his religion, but “‘ you know how it is. I work 
hard all day Saturdays. Sundays I gotta rest. 
When I get to bed I’m too darned tired to 
pray.’”’ Hank believes in God, “the one and 
only God there is,”” but he doesn’t envision 
Him in any special way. His mother scolds 
him when he misses Mass, but Hank takes 
reprimands lightly and his mother under- 
stands men. Making ravioli, Hank's favorite 
dish, or frying up a big steak is a far happier 
occupation than nagging her only son. “Even 
when he does not like something, he’ll eat 
some and say it’s good,”’ she said. “‘He is a 
good boy at home. I don’t know what he does 
outside.” 

On school days Hank catches the bus out- 
side his door for a crowded twenty-minute 
ride to Woodrow Wilson. He carries his lunch 
in a paper bag, although the school has a cafe- 
teria that serves a hot lunch for a quarter. 
“They give you one little slim slice a ham 
between two pieces of bread for eight cents 
and think they’re doing you a favor,’’ is his 
complaint. 


The school, an impressive up-to-date plant 
built in 1940-41, is located in a sparsely pop- 
ulated area on Baisley Boulevard, facing a 
small lake and park used as school campus. 
Hank likes to get there early and loiter out- 
side, smoking cigarettes with the fellows un- 
til the first bell. But when he enters the build- 
ing, Hank, the debonair, the gregarious young 
man, becomes a sullen and silent boy. In the 
halls he moves rapidly, eyes straight ahead, 
lost in his own thoughts, lost in the mob. In 
classrooms he stares at the top of the tiny 
desk he is cramped into, nervously flipping 
the long peaks of his collar with the back of 
his hand. 

Hank started out on the sanitation-and- 
air-conditioning course at Wilson (“‘ Because 
I want to be a refrigerator,” his application 
states), but shifted to auto mechanics in the 
third term. He was having trouble with his 
teachers and he wanted to quit school at the 
time—he says all they did for two terms was 
pound out one little ice tray with a ball-peen 
hammer. His mother convinced him he should 
stay on. He is glad he did; it is only a matter 
of “serving time’ now until he gets his di- 
ploma. He does not take part in any school 
activity—sports and extracurricular activi- 
ties at Wilson are poorly supported because 
of the long distances most of the students live 
from school. 

Among Wilson’s 2800 students, Hank is 
virtually unknown to his teachers and dis- 
tinctly unhonored. Besides being a dull 
scholar, with little thought for homework, 
Hank’s school crimes include inattention, 
frequent tardiness (he is full of fancy ex- 
cuses) and general horseplay. He has never 
committed any offense worth the dean’s at- 
tention. He used to talk back more to his 
teachers, but he has learned to control his 
temper, to shrug imperceptibly and mumble, 
“All right, all right,”’ but he can still be out- 
spoken at times. To most of his teachers he is 
no more than another name in the grade 
book. To them he is in no way either out- 
standingly bad or outstandingly good. His 
shop instructor said of him, “No great brain, 
but able. Unevenly matured. Essentially 
childish nature. Like a piece of steel tem- 
pered hard at one end, wholly soft at the 
other.’’ Hank has no great love for any of his 
teachers, but he likes this man the least. He 





September, 1949 







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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


is undoubtedly more intelligent than his 
teachers think he is. In his high-school career 
he has flunked only one subject—Physics IT; 
but he took the course over and squeezed by 
with a barely passing 65. He has several of 
these “barely passings” on his record, but 
he is satisfied. “You gotta watch it is all, you 
know?” 

Hank’s idea of a good teacher is one who 
will take the time to explain a thing to him 
“if it takes two periods to do it,’’ not one 
who throws up his hands and says, ‘Aw, 
you’re just too dumb.”’ He says he has had 
several tell him that. He likes a teacher who 
is friendly, but no teachers at Wilson have 
anything like the openhearted friendliness of 
his Italian family. If they do, they conceal it 
from him. ‘They won’t even speak to you in 
the hall. They go along with their chins in the 
air. I don’t feature that. Like Mr. X., when 
I was a third-termer. I passed him in the hall 
and said, ‘Good morning, Mr. X.’ He gave me 
a break—he nodded.” Hank long ago gave 
up trying to understand his teachers. He ac- 
cepts them now. That is all. 

Hank’s English teacher, the head of the 
department, having modified senior English 
three times to make it easier for the slower 
classes, is now trying “‘experiential tech- 
niques,” which means trying to relate lessons 
to something the student knows about in 
life. In hopes of doing this, she assigned a re- 
port on hobbies to the class Hank is in. Hank 
used to have some hobbies, but he has given 
them up. He started collecting stamps when 
he was about ten. He collected two books full 
which he tried to sell when he was thirteen. 


© I’m quite sure that I have no prej- 
udices and I think I have no color 
prejudices, nor caste prejudices, nor 
creed prejudices. Indeed I can stand 
any society. All that I care to know 
is that a man is a human being— 
that is enough for me; he can’t be 
any worse. —MARK TWAIN, 


Finding no buyers, he gave the collection to a 
“kid cousin.’”’ He also built model airplanes 
about that time—‘“‘anyway, they resembled 
airplanes’ —but that was long ago. Of the 
class of forty-five auto mechanics, seventeen 
said they had hobbies, but only two gave 
adequate reports in the opinion of the teacher. 
Neither of those was Hank. 

Feeling the hobby project had been a fail- 
ure, the teacher read a humorous essay, The 
Furnace and I, which tells of the author’s 
trials with a household furnace. She then 
assigned as homework a short essay on a 
similar topic, but not about a furnace. Most 
of the boys, including Hank, titled their 
essays The Furnace. Hank’s composition 
was one small-sized notebook page, one 
paragraph long, poorly punctuated and lack- 
ing sentence construction, ending: I take care 
of the furnace because the furnace takes care of 
me. The handwriting was legible, the spelling 
good. 

The English teacher then requested the 
boys to keep a chart of their activities for a 
week, beginning at 3:35 on Monday, under 
the headings “Social,” ‘Sports,’ “Job” 
and ‘‘Hobby.” She hoped in this way to re- 
late their lives with the use of language. She 
did not guess what a large order this was for 
a boy like Hank, who would need a ream of 
paper to record a week’s activities. Hank 
gives at least ten minutes of his shop time 
to every homework assignment, however 
baffling and impossible it seems to him. The 
chart he handed in appears at the end of this 
profile, but it needs some filling in. 

The far reaches of New York City, so vast, 
yet so narrow, are Hank’s to roam in. He has 
never been farther west than Schenectady. 
He is a part of the city and drifts with it; he 
does not imagine that he has conquered it. 
Neither has it conquered him. Hank’s social 
activities cover a wide range: from Phil’s 
Bar and Pizzeria on the corner, with its 
shuffleboard, juke box and television, to 
Rockaway Playland and its carnival midway 
where he once won a table lamp pitching 

(Continued on Page 107) 





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(Continued from Page 105) 
s; from the famous Jamaica race track 
luckiest bet was a $5 combination he 
laced with a bookie that paid $47.50) to 
light games at Yankee Stadium and the 
ights at Madison Square Garden. Marcel 
erdan, the French former middleweight 
amp, is his most idolized athlete and boxing 
$s favorite spectator sport. He rarely plays 
game himself, except pool. Once or twice 
week he goes to a movie. He likes Richard 
Widmark. And there is always bebop to 
Pisten to. His dance specialty is “the Drape,” 
Performed to more even tempos. 
He goes “‘out”’ four or five nights a week 
nd comes in about when he pleases. “After 
yne-thirty or two the folks get worried—if 
ey know it. Dad used to meet me with a 
Hstrap if I came in after eleven-thirty, but 
at was when I was a little kid.”’ Mr. Pol- 
inelli says that Hank usually gets in around 
idnight, but admits he is asleep then. “‘Be- 
ore I was married I was out all the time to 
wo, three o’clock in the morning,’”’ he re- 
embered. ““Now I stay home, drink a little 
deer, wine, go to bed.” 
Hank’s parents objected strongly when he 
started smoking several years ago—‘‘ What 
) 




























arents don’t?” He goes to beer joints with 
is buddies, most of 
whom are older than 
e, with good-paying 
jobs and cars, but he 
fdrinks moderately, 
mostly beer and wine, 
which he can also get 
at home. His crowd 
spends a lot of time 
in bars, drinking and 
iwatching the televi- 
sion, with an eye out 
for girls who will pro- 
vide an evening’s sex- 
ual adventure. No 
bartender has ever 
asked Hank his age. 
“Why should they? 
aed ask theirs.” 
‘ e evening usu- 
ally starts as a stag 
party: young men get 
together at the corner 
bar and cruise around 
in cars from spot to 
spot. Girls often join 
the party, but some- Be ska cd. 
times there are only 
a couple of girls for 
four or five boys. It depends upon whether 
girls are encountered in the evening’s wan- 
| dering. Hank says he can have more fun with 
a bunch of men than alone with a girl or even 
in a mixed crowd. Planned dates are not the 
fashion, but Hank usually has several real 
dates every month, or perhaps several in one 
week, depending upon his inclinations and 
the money in his pocket. As the Polsinellis 
have no phone, he uses the pay phone at 
Dominick’s delicatessen across the street to 
call. He does not go steady with any girl. 
“Change off, you know.” He seldom bothers 
to learn a girl’s last name. 


7 a 


silence, 
heart again. 


forever— 


} deeply, 


not fill.... 


His attitude toward pickup dates differs 
from his attitude toward planned dates. For 
the girls he invites he has a natural courtesy, 
which, if not Old World gallantry, is at least 
New World consideration and more than 
most girls he knows expect. A planned date 
with a girl his own age hampers the evening’s 
activities. The things they can do together 
are limited to a movie, dancing or “ parking” 
(if he double-dates with an older fellow who 
has a car). In the summertime there is Rock- 
away Playland and the beaches to which they 
occasionally take dates, but a legitimate 
date, according to his standards, requires 
special finesse. High-school girls are not wel- 
come in bars; usually they do not want to 
Wand they do not care much for fights or 
ball games or the races. Most of them have 
‘to be in early—around midnight. Then 
there’s the hard fact of finance to consider: a 
planned date is more costly. To go to a dance 
in the city or at a country club, for example, 
may require taxi fare the whole way there 
and back. A pair of tickets for a first-run 
me ie in New York may cost $3.60. Necking 






KK ke kek *& 


Ae oe 


By BRhina P. Espaillat 

A new love has come to shatter the 

And wildflowers bloom in my 
You who are lost will be lost 

But I know no pain. 
A new face is come and I love it 

It takes the place that you would 
My first love was proud and would 


never love me, 
But my second will. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


is cheaper and, according to Hank’s opinion 
of most movies, considerably more fun. 

Hank expects to get married someday, but 
not for five or six years—“ when it happens.” 
With the example of his parents’ happy mar- 
ried life before him, he believes in marriage 
as a sacrament and respects it as a way of 
life. Most young men in Hank’s crowd do 
not boast of being virgins, or even knowing 
one, but Hank retains the highest standards 
for the girl he will one day marry. “I want 
her to be mine—all mine,” he said fervently. 
Hank’s parents have never talked to him 
about sex, assuming perhaps, as he does, that 
there is no need todiscuss theobvious. Hewas 
not quite ten years old when his older sister 
was born, but he can’t remember being puz- 
zled about where babies come from, even 
then. He learned from observation and the 
older boys he associated with. His summary 
of sex: an engaging smile and characteristic 
shrug. “It’s human nature, you know? I’m 
natural, myself.” 


Hank does not use vulgar or profane words 
habitually, even among the fellows. He would 
not swear in front of his father; to swear in 
front of his mother is unthinkable. But re- 
cently in a bar where he was peaceably drink- 
ing beer with some of 
his friends, his strong 
language provoked a 
one-punchfight which 
he says could hardly 
have been avoided. 
“This guy was stand- 
ing there with his girl, 
see, and I came up 
with a dirty word. 
‘Apologize to the 
lady,’ he says, mean- 
ing the chick. I say, 
‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Apolo- 
gize to her,’ the guy 
says, jerking his 
thumb over his shoul- 
der ina most insulting 
manner. ‘I said I was 
sorry,’ I says. ‘You 
trying to be a wise 
guy?’ He made like 
he was going to swing 
at me, so I had to 
hit him. He bounced 
upagainst the barand 
the crowd stopped 
anything more. After 
that we had a beer to- 


KK ee 


’ gether and it was all over. No hard feelings.” 


A longer bout took place one time when 
two fellows Hank was with got into an argu- 
ment with two sailors. Someone started 
swinging. Hank wasn’t in it at first and he 
tried to stop things. ‘I was just trying to 
stop the fight—and there I was flat on the 
floor! I don’t feature that. I got up and 
pulled my friend off this sailor and started in 
on him myself. I saw black. I just kept hit- 
ting until the crowd stopped us. The sailors, 
they didn’t even stay to have another beer.” 

Hank has never had any serious brushes 
with the law, although he worries in a half- 
hopeful way about “‘looking like a gangster.” 
His father says if he ever gets in jail he can 
stay there, for all he’ll do to get him out, but 
Hank knows his father will stand beside him 
if he is ever needed. In time of trouble he 
would always turn to him. 

Once, during the early-morning hours 
when he was sauntering homeward along 
city streets that never sleep, police picked 
him up and took him to district headquar- 
ters. He kept insisting he “‘hadn’t done noth- 
ing” and asking why they wanted him. They 
told him to shut up and left him locked in a 
room for over an hour. Then a cop came and 
said he could go. ““‘Why? What’d I do?’ I 
asks him. ‘Nothing, maybe,’ he says. ‘We 
mistook you for somebody else.’ “You hold 
me an hour and a half for that?’ I say. ‘Go 
on,’ the cop says; ‘shut up. Get out of here or 
I'll run you in.’ ‘I’ll run you in,’ he says!” 

During the two or three evenings a week 
Hank stays around the house, he may just 
sit and talk with the neighbors. (Everybody 
is welcome in the Polsinelli home.) About 
nine-thirty he likes to step out and get a 
one-star edition of the morning paper. Hank 










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iy: “THERE’S TREASURE ABOARD, Mates—so up 
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A oa yy 


é - uae Pre. 
, Fe a gm oy med 
LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 2) eee ee 


buys his own newspaper almost every day; 
he reads more ably than his father and 
mother, who learned their English attending 
night school. Hank reads the sports and 
comic sections first, but he takes a good look 
at the news headlines as well. 

In his opinion, the Atlantic Pact increases 
the United States’ chances of getting into 
war. “If any of those little countries fight, 
we fight too.”” But he would not mind spend- 
ing a few years in the Army. When a couple 
of his friends were drafted, he bought a keg 
of beer and gave a little farewell party for 
them at his house. The next night they had 
a big party at another place. 

In the last national election Hank would 
have voted for Harry Truman, but his father 
was a Dewey man. “I 
argued and argued with 
him, buthe couldn’ t see it.” 
Hank picked Truman over 
Dewey “because he’s been 
around longer. I just think 
hecan run the Government 
better. He wasin there with 
Roosevelt, you know.” He 
is not so sure about the 
merits of the Taft-Hartley 
Act. “It’s still in, isn’t it?’”’ He believes “ All 
this striking will bring on a depression. The 
boss, he has some rights too.”’ Buthe feels that 
his father, who works in a nonunion shop and 
gets no overtime pay, should be paid more, 
and belonging to a strong union is the only 
way to get it. 

When he has finished the paper, Hank may 
read a comic book—*‘tune books,”’ the boys 
call them, after Looney Tunes. He speaks 
of them deprecatingly; he doesn’t buy them 
any more himself. (As one Wilson student 
pointed out, it’s a funny thing about comic 
books. Nobody buys them. You always trade 
with somebody to get another one.) But his 
eight-year-old sister keeps a good supply of 
comic books and Hank admits he gets a kick 
out of reading them. He reads other books 
sparingly. Joe Louis: American, and Gene 
Tunney’s A Man Must Fight are two that 
he remembers. When he is not too tired he 
ends the day with a tune book, and he may 
be completing it the next morning while he 
eats breakfast. 

On Saturdays Hank has to be up at 6:30 
to be ready for his day’s work for the owner 
of a landscaping service. A truck picks him 
up about 7:30 and takes him, along with 
eight or ten other young men, to various 
places where a job is in progress. Most of 
the boys are husky fellows, able to do a man’s 
work, who have quit school. The work is 
hard: shoveling dirt and pushing wheel- 
barrows, carrying and tamping heavy blocks 
of sod, digging and replanting trees, grading 
and raking for new lawns. For a ten-hour 
working day, sometimes longer, Hank gets 
$12. This he turns over to his mother, but 
promptly borrows most of it back, plus addi- 
tional money for clothing when he needs it. 


you. 


First, do we work harder today? The answer 
is no. The average work week has declined 
from 45 hours in the twenties to 40 hours to- 
day—and we are well on our way to a 35- 
hour work week. Per hour of work, we are 
getting about twice as much purchasing 
power as we had twenty years ago. 

Second, do we save more? This is an im- 
portant question in determining how well off 
we are. When illnessor unemploymentstrikes, 
it helps a great deal to have savings avail- 
able which can be turned into dollars. But 
the fact is that our savings have never been 
so large as in the last ten years. When we look 
back over the years since 1800, we find that 
we have saved (on an average) about one dol- 
lar out of every six we have made. In the 
last nine years alone, personal and business 
savings, plus those of local and state govern- 
ments, amounted to $230 billion—or one 
third of all the money saved since 1800! 

Our total wealth, which is really the net 
accumulation of savings, is now roughly 
$600 billion. If it were divided equally, then 


If you start with the sup- 
position that men are nat- 
urally good and virtuous, you 
invariably end by wanting to 
kill all who do not agree with 
—ANATOLE FRANCE. 


ARE WE RICHER TODAY? 


(Continued from Page 42) 






Cae. eee 
2a 










































+ ‘ 


J 


a 


7/¢ 

4 ; 7 a 4 f . ts 
He estimates he has spen’ 
clothing in the last six months, and 
spending money for the week runs $8 or $§ 
including daily bus fare to school, 

Sunday Hank respects as a day of rest. F 
frequently stays home all day and catche 
up on his sleep or watches his father pla 
boccie with his cronies across the street. Né 
every Sunday is there a wedding, but Mrs, 
Polsinelli says, “ Every week it’s something.” 

At his cousin’s wedding, completely at ease 


in his rented Tuxedo, Hank seemed more } new 10 
poised and mature than the groom. He did “qysro 
not think about suspenders until the last 5 
moment, and so did not wear any. His ronnot 
trousers hung flawlessly and nobody noticed ‘wat 
his heavy sport shoes. He was a charming igo 
and courteousadult among jg 
adults; he did not look like Jf ™ 
a schoolboy. - 
In spite of his troubles 
inacademic subjects, Hank 


believes he has learned a 
great deal about his trade 
at Woodrow Wilson and he 
expects to work for a friend 
of his father’s in the auto- 
body-and-fender-repair 
business when school days are over. He has _ 
no fear of making his way in the world he 
knows. ‘‘What have I got to be afraid of?” 

he said rhetorically. Y 

Asked what he would do if he had a million 
dollars, he replied, ‘‘I don’t want no million 
dollars but first think I'd invest a lot of it. 
Stocks, you know? We figure up the interest 
on a million dollars one time. You know 
that’s thirty thousand dollars a year?— 
maybe more than that. Then I'd buy a green — 
Cadillac convertible, or maybe a Lincoln 
Continental. Then I’d buy a good house— 
say a thirty-, forty-thousand-dollar house. 
Then I'd buy my mother everything she 
needs, everything she coulduse forthe family, 
you know? Then maybe I'd buy a half dozen 
my friends a little car—Ford, Chevrolet, 
Plymouth—nothing expensive. And when 
the Cad ran out of gas'I’d just leave it and 
buy another one!” 

In the English class on Monday morning 
he handed in a record of his week’s activities 
which he had prepared the previous Monday. 
This is his chart: 





Monday | show 
Tuesday | dance 
Wednes- | Dance | softball 
day | Club 
Thursday| show softball 
Friday dance 
Saturday | stayed 
home 
Sunday | nothing | none c | 
Img 
tom” For 
a few my 
Easy! J 
Mm jingle. R 



























Mr. Average Citizen would possess $1500; 
and the average household of 3.15 persons 
would have $4725. (Of course, the wealth is 
not divided equally. In early 1948, the public 
owned about $172 billion in cash, bank de- 
posits and Government securities. The aver- 
age holding was $350 per spending unit, but 
27 per cent had no liquid assets, 21 per cent. 
only $2000 or over, and 4 per cent $10,000 
or over.) 

Our economy is thus not only a high- 
producing economy, but also a high-savings 
economy. It should be added that a large part 
of the savings in the last decade went to non- 
productive purposes. The Government si- 
phoned them off to buy munitions and othed, 
war materials, which were themselves de- 
stroyed in the waging of war. But the present 
rate of savings testifies both to our imp! 
economic position and to the bulwark we 
erecting against depression. mn 

Third, can we be sure that our pre: 
incomes will not vanish overnight i 


(Continued on Page He “ 
Aa 


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’ 
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A FEW WORDS WILL DO IT! 
Just make sure your last 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL ° 


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RULES: 1. Print or write plainly your “last 
line,” using sufficient words to complete the 
jingle. Make sure your last line rhymes with 
the word “‘Seismotite.’’ Use entry blank, or one 
side of a sheet of paper. More entry blanks may 
be obtained at your dealer’s. Print, or write 
plainly, your name and address. All entries 
must be the original work of the contestants 
and submitted in their own names. 

2. Mail to Old Dutch Cleanser, Dept. C-1, 
Box U, Chicago 77, Illinois. Enter as many 
times as you like. Accompany each entry with 
Windmill Pictures from 2 cans of Old Dutch 
(or facsimiles). 

3. There will be 5 weekly contests, with identi- 
cal prizes each week. Opening and closing dates: 
OPENS CLOSES 
Midnight, Sat. Oct. 15 
Midnight, Sat. Oct. 22 
Midnight, Sat. Oct. 29 
Midnight, Sat. Nov. 5 
Midnight, Sat. Nov. 12 


Entries for the last week's contest must be 
postmarked before midnight, November 12, 


and received by November 25, 1949. 


4. Prizes for each week’s contest are: 4 new 
“Custom”’ Ford Fordor sedans. 4 Thor Auto- 
magic combination washers and dishwashers. 
4 International Harvester De Luxe Refriger- 
ators. 20 Motorola Portable radios. 

5, Entries judged on originality, suitability and 
aptness. Decisions of judges final. Fancy entries 
will not count extra. Duplicate prizes in case of 
ties. No entries will be returned. Entries, con- 
tents and ideas therein become property of 
Old Dutch Cleanser. 

6. Any resident of United States and Hawaii 
may compete except employees of The Cudahy 
Packing Company, their advertising agencies 
and their families. Contests subject to all 
United States and local regulations. 

7. Weekly Ford winners will be announced 
approximately one week after close of each 
contest. LISTEN TO ‘‘NICK CARTER— 
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MBS. Check your newspaper for time and sta- 
tion. All winners notified by mail. Complete win- 
ner list sent on request after February 1, 1950. 


A few minutes’ time 
may win you a Ford 
“Custom” Y-8 Fordor 
Sedan or one of the 
140 other big prizes! 








Old Dutch Cleanser chases dirt 


Ba 
Faster, Easier—saves you work | 
1 
i 
With Activated Seismotite | 





OLD DUTCH CLEANSER, Dept. C-1, Box U, Chicago 77, Illinois 


Here is my entry. | am enclosing 2 Windmill Pictures from 2 cans of Old 
Dutch Cleanser (or facsimiles). 


Name 


City State 


Offer good only in United States and Hawaii 


| 

! 

ee eee 
Address | 
! 

| 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 108) 
All this talk of high wages may seem a trifle 
academic to those of us who remember the 
wages and savings of the twenties and how 
swiftly they disappeared in the black mael- 
strom of the depression. During the early 
thirties, one out of every three or four bread- 
winners was out of a job, while the country 
denied itself about $300 billion by not using 
its productive resources to the full—an 
amount roughly equal tothe cost of the Second 
World War. Only the youngest of us have for- 
gotten the trapped and despairing look of 
those—and there were millions—who could 
find no jobs through no fault of their own. 
Who can ever forget the long, straggling 
bread lines, the soup kitchens, the apples sold 
on corners, the endless walk from factory to 
factory of honest Americans who wanted 
nothing more than an honest day’s work? 
Are we giving our people record living stand- 
ards today only as a build-up to the bread 
lines and soupkitchensof thenext depression? 

History is not reassuring on this point. As 
he surveys the last hundred years, the his- 
torian cannot but note that each boom is 
followed implacably by a bust. Depressions 
seem to be as inevitable as sex and death. 
Yet the economist points out that we have 
learned now through bitter experiences a 
great deal about the causes and course of the 
business cycle. Our analysis of what brings 
about booms and busts is incomparably 
more precise than in 1929. We know, for ex- 
ample, that a serious decline in private 
spending, whether in the form of fewer risk 
investments or of less buying and selling, will 
cause a breakdown in the system. But we 
also know that, when this happens, the 
Government can offset the decline in private 
spending and set the wheels 
of the economy in motion 
again. By cutting taxes and 
increasing spending dur- 
ing a depression, for ex- 
ample, the Government 
can speed up the process 
of economic recovery. 
Lower taxes release more money for private 
business and for you and me—while a rise in 
public spending not financed by taxes helps 
to offset a decline in private spending. We 
also know this works best when the Govern- 
ment spends its money on river develop- 
ments, roads, schools, hospitals and other 
projects which do not compete with private 
enterprise. 

Moreover, our economy itself is in a more 
robust condition today and thus more likely 
to shake off the germs of decline before they 
can drag the whole organism down to col- 
lapse. As we have seen, our savings are large 
and can be used to keep up spending in bleak 
times. Moreover, our tax system responds 
better to depression than it did in 1929, for 
the automatic decrease in tax collections 
is a partial offset to a decline of income. 
This follows because we rely now largely on 
direct taxes (for example, the personal in- 
come tax); and, when income falls, relative 
tax receipts decline even more. This was not 
nearly so true when we depended much more 
on"property and similar taxes. In 1949, for 
example, the sting of reduced pay and prof- 
its pains less because our tax obligations 
are less. There is also much more agreement 
than there used to be on the part of our po- 
litical parties and our policy makers that it 
is the responsibility of Government to put a 
floor under our economy and prevent a sag in 
spending from bringing the whole house down. 


friends. 


‘Tuus there are substantial reasons to 
think that the prosperity of the forties is not 
the hectic flush of high fever, but a true 
prosperity which, with wise public policy, we 
can maintain for an indefinite period to come. 
This does not mean the end of all depressions, 
but it can mean no more major depressions. 

A fourth problem which may trouble the 
skeptic is the question of distribution of 
wealth: Is the distribution of the fruits of labor 
as wide as it used to be? We have shown that 
the worker is better off today than he was 
in 1939 and 1929. But does he not have a 
smaller slice of the national income than he 
used to receive? The poor may not have 
grown any poorer; but have not the rich 


Sorrow leaves us good: it 
teaches us to know our 


at ae ee 4 
aoe ase 
- 


+1 e 4 — 
ie “ 


i oe 
grown disproportionately richer? | Was ne 
Marx right in predic the inevitable a1 
increasing misery of the working classes unde 
the capitalist system? af 
Neither the distribution of income nor the 
wealth, of course, is equal today in the United 
States. In fact, there are few who would 


hold that absolute equality of distributiongs 


would be a good thing. In our economic sys- 
tem, goods will not be produced unless there 
are incentives; and the word “incentive” is 
just another way of describing the in- 
equalities which attract people to extra ef- 
fort. Even the Soviet Union, though launched 
on professedly equalitarian principles, has 
long since abandoned the purist dream of 
giving “to each according to his needs.”’ 


Tue American goal should be the nearest 
approach to a “sharing of the wealth” which 
is consistent with prosperity. Recently our 
average wage has been about $2600, or about 
$52 a week, Our extremes varied from an av- 
erage yearly income of $4714 for employees 
of security and commodity dealers, to $1247 
for farmers. Many executives and movie stars 
received large incomes. In 1947, the lowest 
fifth accounted for 4 per cent of the nation’s 
income, and the highest fifth for 48.2 per 
cent. There still are the substantial differ- 
ences of income to be expected in a system 
built on incentives. These are the broad lines 
of income distribution before taxation. They 
have not changed much in the last decade 
or two. 

But through the use of its taxing power, 
the Government has been able to influence 
the ultimate distribution of income; the rich, 
for example, pay much heavier taxes and 
a much larger proportion of the total than 
they did in 1929 or than 
in 1913. Government relies 
more and more on the 
income and corporation 
taxes which predomin- 
antly strike the well-to-do. 
In 1913 there were virtu- 
ally no direct taxes; but 


—BALZAC, 


by 1948 the states and the Federal Govern- oF 


ment raised $22 billion by direct (e.g., in- 
come) taxes. In 1913 the man who made 
$10,000 a year paid $60 in his Federal in- 
come tax; in 1928, he paid $80, but by 1945 
he was paying $1860. 

The increase has been even more spec- 
tacular in the higher brackets. The tax for 
incomes of $100,000 went up between 1913 
and 1945 from $2500 to $62,300; and for that 
handful with incomes of $5,000,000, the 
increase was from $340,000 to $4,275,000. 
In 1945, when rates were at a peak, a man 
five times a millionaire in income had a 
take-home pay of $725,000, subject to state 
tax. As might be expected, the result of this 
heavy taxation of high incomes is to reduce 
the number of millionaires and thereby to 
torment the ghost of Karl Marx, compelled 
to watch the capitalist system refute his 
most cherished prophecies. 

This leads to a fifth problem: what about 
taxes? The Government is now said to be 
taking one out of every three or four dollars 
that we earn by the sweat of our brows. Is 
not this the hatch down which all that extra 
wealth we are supposed to have disappears? 
Are we not spending too much of our time 
and energy working for Uncle Sam? 

Here again the actual figures give a some- 
what different picture. The Government to- 
day gets in direct taxes only about $20 bil- 
lion more than it did in the depression. But 
the national income in the meantime has 
risen about $180 billion. Moreover, a large 
part of the money collected as direct taxes 
comes back to each of us, not only as interest 
on Government bonds, or as Social Security 
payments, but much more significantly in 
the form of those invaluable and generally 
efficient public services—education, police, 
water, sewerage, public health, and so on 


whose cost otherwise would be almost in- | 


calculable. 


The answers to these special questions, in t 


other words, still indicate that we are very 
much better off today than we were ten an 
twenty years ago—in the “ good old 
low prices. ass 

(Continued on Page 113) “<a 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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§ y 18’ HOME JOURNAL 
112 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAI 


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September, 104 









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(Continued from Page 110) 

And if we want to test our comparative 
wealth in another way, we can compare our 
living standards with those of people in other 
lands. Americans account for 7 per cent of 

a world’s population and 40 per cent of the 
“world’s output of goods and services. 

Arithmetic thus shows that the average 
American has nine times as high a standard of 
living as that improbable creature, the aver- 
age foreigner. When an American turns out 
about $1500 worth of goods and services, the 
average Asiatic, with incredible toil and 
drudgery, turns out about $25 to $50: the 
average Latin American, from $100 to $150: 
and even the average European only $350. 

And how about the Soviet Union, the so- 
called people’s paradise? Even with whole- 
sale importations of capitalist production 
techniques and vigorous measures taken to 
improve the lot of the masses, Soviet living 
standards are still far below our own. 

In March, 1949, Joe Ivanov had to work 
25 to 30 hours for one pound of tea: 1 to 14% 
hours for a quart of milk; 53 to 63 days for a 
single-breasted wool suit. The American 
laborer today works for less than an hour to 
obtain the cash for a pound of tea, for less 
than twelve minutes 
for a quart of milk, 
for five days or less 
for a woolen suit. 


We may also wish Cf 
to compare our lot Sf, , cL / 
with that ofour great- -FEQION 3 (OnA 


grandparents—or 
great-great-grand- 
parents. When we go 
back farther, we find 
the gainseven greater. 
Over the last century, 
our production has 
more than doubled 
every twenty years. 
Our population, 
meanwhile, has not. 
‘The result has been 
steadily higher living 
standards. Since 
1800, our output has 
risen about 200 times, 
while our population 
has expanded only 
27 times. Divide 200 
by 27, and you will dis- 
cover that Mr. Aver- 
age Citizen today is 
almost eight times as 
rich as Mr. Average 
Citizen in 1800. 

Moreover, there were many things that 
cost the citizen of 1800 considerably more 
money than they would cost him now. You 
might marvel at the small price he’d pay for 
a dozen eggs—if he could get them—but he’d 
gape at the low price on a man’s suit, the 
small cost of medicine. He would, of course, 
goggle at the services today—the inexpen- 
sive corner cobbler, the dry-cleaning estab- 
lishments, the prepared foods so easy to 
keep, and the wonderful cans and bottles and 
refrigerators to keep them in. The present 
rate of production would really astonish him; 
of the total produced in the last 148 years, we 
have produced one third of it all in the last 
eight. And we have done it by working far 
fewer hours. “Man toils from sun to sun— 
woman’s work is never done” was a precise 
summation of the work hours of the early 
nineteenth century. It was not until the 
latter part of the century that the work week 
began to get short enough to allow leisure 
time on any day but the Sabbath. 


this, 


pass 


grass. 


We must not conclude from all this that 
America is in a state of economic perfection. 
The average American is better off today 
than he ever was before; he is better off than 

@Whe citizens of any other country. Yet it 
would be dangerous for us therefore to relax 
into a complacent admiration of our own In- 
effable virtue and superiority. 

The Government, for example, recently 
estimated what it would cost an average 
city worker to live. This city worker, his wife 
and his two children (aged 8 and 13) had few 
luxuries. They occupied a five-room flat with 
one bathroom and the usual mechanical aids. 


ROI I, IRE IO KCI) IG Ok 


By Edward Shenton 


Beneath the bank, the sleeping trout 
Feels the summer running out, 
While on the hill the pheasant’s call 
Guides the frosty feet of fall. 


The rabbit, pausing in its range, 
Hears the soundless seasons change. 
The leaf upon the dying tree 
Awaits the wind to set it free. 


And yet my heart, that knows all 


Clings mutely to its moment’s bliss, 
And will not believe that you must 


Like sun and summer, beast and 


kaka keke KK KK 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Mother did all the housework. Father had 
one heavy suit every two years, one light 
suit every three years, five shirts and 
two pairs of shoes each year. Mother got a 
heavy wool coat every four years, four dresses 
and three pairs of shoes each year. As for the 
children, the girl got one snow suit or heavy 
coat every two years, four dresses and four 
pairs of shoes; the boy, one sweater or jacket, 
two pairs of trousers, three pairs of shoes each 
year. What about entertainment? Father, 
mother and daughter went to the movies 
once every three weeks, son once every two 
weeks. 


Tuts modest budget required $3111 in 
Washington in 1947. In the thirty-four cities 
studied, the cheapest was New Orleans, where 
the family might have got along on $2734. 

Or take (the authors write with some feel- 
ing) the college professor. He earns only 30 
per cent more in dollars than in 1939. Thus, 
with prices up about 70 per cent, he can buy 
only 75 per cent as much as in 1939. So he fires 
the maid, writes more textbooks, teaches in 
the summer, goes into his savings and dresses 
even more shabbily than usual. Mr. Average 
Citizen receives about 60 per cent more 
in goods than in 1939; 
but this average gain 
is spread unevenly 
and misses many in- 
dividuals. Hence the 
contagion of discon- 
tent under inflation. 

The injustice done 
to the college profes- 
sor, however, is not 
typical of all white- 
collar workers. A fair 
generalization is that 
the pay of most white- 
collar workers has 
risen almost as much 
as the cost of living. 
From 1939 to 1947, 
the latter increased 
by 60 per cent, while 
the pay of employees 
in state and local gov- 
ernment increased by 
58 per cent. In fi- 
nancial offices, the 
rise was 80 per cent; 
in brokerage, 83 per 
cent; in medical and 
health services, 90 per 
cent. But in religious 
organizations there 
was only a 12 per cent 
rise; in real estate, 30 per cent, and in 
educational services, 46 per cent. 

Still, on the whole, we Americans are 
richer. Our wages are higher. We can buy 
more goods. Most of us are at work, and for 
almost a record period of eight years we had 
no significant unemployment. Since Janu- 
ary, 1949, we have experienced a decline, but 
the diagnosis so far is an economic burp, or 
indigestion. We shall continue to make prog- 
ress if we can manage our economy with in- 
telligence and if we can avert war. 

True, we have few unexplored natural re- 
sources to exploit as a means of enriching 
ourselves. But the frontier of science and 
technology holds out as much challenge to 
our modern pioneers as the green and tan- 
gled wilderness of the eighteenth century did 
to our forefathers. Given a peaceful world, an 
average weekly pay check of $100 is within 
our grasp within another generation or two. 
As we approach our population peak, our 
gains in productivity will go primarily to 
raising our living standards, not to feeding 
more mouths. We shall take our gains prima- 
rily in education and in leisure. 

Yes, we are richer today, and we have the 
prospect of being even richer in the future. 
But we cannot relax our attempts constantly 
to improve our economic system until com- 
fort is available to all Americans willing to 
work for it. And we cannot enjoy the fruits of 
our own labor with a sense of security until 
the rest of the world experiences a com- 
parable increase in mass living standards. 
Our wealth will cause us more trouble than 
it is worth if we aim to be an oasis of plenty 
in a barren and desperate world. THE END 










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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL September, 1949 














By MARGARET CLANK ROGERS 


NO. 6 SERIES BY HOUSEWIVES 





The day-by-day meals of actual housewives, cooking in their own 
kitchens, who have agreed to share the benefits of their experience 
with other JOURNAL readers. They make no pretensions, but do 


the best jobs they know how to do, to provide 
their families with healthful food, 


. 
7 









URBAIN 


HAVE always maintained that there are so many 

meals I like to prepare that in 365 days there just 

BE isn’t time enough to serve them all. However, 
families have a way of wanting to have favorites 
frequently repeated, and I try to indulge this trait 
in mine and still provide lots of variety. 

I try to get up ten to fifteen minutes earlier in the 
morning and put variety and substance into break- 
fasts. Instead of bacon and eggs every morning, 
make a cheese or parsley omelet occasionally. An 
extra supply of mashed potatoes provides fish cakes 
the next morning. Vary the cereals. Cook oatmeal 
with raisins. Make French toast occasionally. Add 
ground-up leftover steamed clams to pancakes and 
serve the cakes with chili sauce instead of sirup. 
And I try to wear lipstick at the breakfast table! 

Children quickly acquire an interest in cooking if 
they are encouraged. As soon as you can depend on 
their caution, let them start making prepared pud- 
dings, fry eggs and fix vegetables, salads and sand- 
wiches. A fussy eater often becomes a big eater if he 
has had a real part in the preparation of the food. 

Encourage the children to také some part in the 
housekeeping activities. Teach them to set a table 
properly and encourage them to garnish it with 
flowers, place cards and favors they can make 
themselves for their own parties. 

My son frequently plans the menus, and he is 
very conscientious about a balanced meal. He is a 
Cub Scout and has earned at least two of his twenty- 
two extra-achievement arrows, running the gamut 
from lemon-gelatin dessert to a perfect apple pie 
(packaged for easy preparation). 

The hour before dinner can be such a comforting, 
intimate time for talk about school and God and 
sports and plans for the future, while you prepare 


dinner together. 





These menus are an example of the way I plan 


meals, As you will soon discover, L. O. means left 





iz frequently on limited budgets. 


over. We each have a glass of milk with our evening 
meal whether or not the grownups have coffee also. 
We have luncheon outdoors as often as we can, 
from early spring until the last leaves are raked and 
the first snow falls. 





HELPFUL HINTS 


1. Even a twelve-year-old Boy Scout can master pie- 
crust this way. Tear four squares of wax paper a little 
larger than the diameter of the pie plate. Put half the 
crust on one piece, press it down, cover it with another 
piece of paper and roll into a circle large enough to 
cover the pie plate. Lift off the top paper, flip the crust 
into the pie plate, press it down neatly and then pull 
off the other piece of paper. Do the same way with 
top, and, when you are through, all you will have to 
dispose of is four pieces of wax paper. No board or 
roller to wash, and, best of all, no flour to sweep off the 
floor, none on front of your apron. 


2. When making cupcakes, place paper baking cups in 
your muffin pans. There’s nothing to wash up. 


3. When we serve refreshments to our adult guests, we 
always serve fruit juice, tomato juice or Coke to the 
children. They should be made to feel a part of the so- 
cial world at an early age. Don’t expect them to be as 
courteous as adults unless they are treated as cour- 
teously as adults. 


' 4. Keep two baskets handy, one upstairs and one 


down, or at opposite ends of the house. As you go 
about the house, drop the out-of-place things that 
are lying about into the nearest basket; and some- 
time when you are going upstairs, carry the down- 
stairs basket up; and when you go down next time, 
take the upstairs basket down and put the things 
away. It saves a lot of steps if you collect your 
thoughts as well as your belongings. 


5. I have a bulletin board in the kitchen. On this I 
keep a timetable, calendar, pencil, innumerable 
penny pads, appointment cards, suggestions to my- 
self (SMILE! RELAX! STAND UP STRAIGHT!, and so on), 
and best of all it’s a place for family and friends to 
pin jokes, cartoons, new recipes, or editorials from 
papers which may be instructive or just plain fun. 


6. To retain its bright color and fresh taste for weeks, 
store parsley unwashed and thoroughly dry in sealed 
vacuum-type fruit jars in the refrigerator. 





Mrs. Rogers thinks there’s a best way even to make coleslaw. 


Late Breakfast Sunday 


Grapefruit 
Thin Corn Bread Kidney Stew 
Sliced Tomatoes 


Coffee Milk 


Sunday Dinner 


Roast Beef with Gravy 
(cut off the rib ends, freeze and save to be used later) 
Hominy Grits String Beans 
Apple-and-Celery Salad 
Chocolate Ice Cream (made with a mix) 


Monday Lunch 


Tuna-Fish Salad 
Deviled Eggs 
Bread and Butter 
Iced Tea 


Cupcakes Canned Peaches 


Monday Dinner 


Cold Roast Beef 
Noodles and Cheese 
String Beans L. O. 

Spinach from Garden 

Ice Cream L. O. 


NOODLES AND CHEESE 


Make 11% cups of a medium-thin white sauce, using 114 
tablespoons flour and 11% tablespoons fat per cup of milk. 
Add 11% cups coarsely grated Cheddar cheese. Stir until 
well blended. Add 1 tablespoon chopped parsley, 1 tea- 
spoon grated onion, 2 tablespoons chopped celery, 16 tea- 
spoon salt, and a dash of black pepper. Mix this thoroughly 
with 4 ounces medium egg noodles which have been cooked 
in salted water according to package directions. Reseason 
to taste. Place in attractive l-quart greased baking dish. 
Sprinkle top with crushed wheat flakes, a little grated 
cheese, and dot with | tablespoon butter or margarine. 
Bake until brown on top. This depends on when you want 
to serve it—450° F. for 15 minutes or at 350° F. for 14 
hour while you meet the train. If you make it up in the 
morning and casserole is cold when you put it in the 
oven, it will naturally take longer to get hot all the way 


LL6 






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LADIES’ 


? 
CAICTS of YOUNG 


DP fashe Lions should nove 
ae (hose flags ays 


days CLAIRE M°CARDELL, wozed Hew York, designer 






PROTEIN 


OCMC MTU Lal 
aT tm at-xo Lab 2 
body tissues 


NIACIN 


Helps keep tissues 
LT hails, 
Pam tel: Lc 


FOOD ENERGY 


Amu hele 
proper weight 
and vitality 





Se 


An important 
vitamin for 
children’s growth 


“The clothes I design are for the young at 
heart... girls and women who are tremen- 
dously a/ve. For them to see how much en- 
riched bread and flour contribute to good 
health and fitness will be 
, frankly, 


a great surprise 
it w as to me 


THIAMINE 


Acie SP lg 
Th ae 
Deu My 


IRON 


ei Mm p 
blood needed for 
health 


Lheres Ouay Nourishment MM 





Curithed Bread and our 





T’S TRUE—modern enriched 

bread and all the delicious foods 
made from enriched flour are thrifty 
and appetizing sources of 6-way 
nourishment. These six food ele- 
ments are highly important in anv 
well-balanced diet to keep you 
looking and feeling your best. So 
whether you bake at home or buy 
from your grocer or baker, always 
get the 6-way nourishment of 
enriched bread and flour. 


WHEAT 


Copr. 1949, by Wheat Flour Institute, 


PoE OO UR 


IF YOU'RE DIETING TO LOSE 
WEIGHT, remember that calories 
are what you want to cut, not es- 
sential vitamins and mineral nutri- 
ents. Remember about enriched 
bread that its thiamine, niacin, 
riboflavin and iron help you keep 
fit while you’re reducing. 

The nutritional. statements 


in this advertigement are 
acceptable to the Council 





Oc Ne 
cCEPre Oo 


ios 


> A) COUNCIL ON 
on Foods and Nutrition  =\(RRINRINI)é 
of the American Medical A NUTRITION AS 
Association 4 MEDICAL 1 
N fa 0 OE 
TINGS ae E 


309 W. Jackson Blvd., Chicago 6, Ill. 


HOME 





JOURNAL 


through. This makes a wonderful dish if you 
use just a little cheese and substitute a can 
of tuna fish. 


of-mushroom 


a can of cream- 


milk 


You can use 


soup thinned with in- 


stead of white sauce. 


Outdoor Lunch Tuesday 


Tomato Juice 
Hamburgers Broiled Over Coals 
Buttered Hamburger Rolls 
Canned Pineapple Slices 

Cupeakes Milk 


Bananas 


Tuesday Dinauer 


*Onion Soup 
Green Salad with Cottage Cheese 
Fruit Cobbler 


ONION SOUP 


Stock for this soup can be made by cooking 
the bones (from the Sunday rib roast) with a 
quart of water, or cooking up soup bones 
from the butcher, or just opening 2 cans of 
condensed consommé and adding an equal 
amount of Slice thin 14 
pounds large yellow onions. Pry them in 2 
tablespoons fat. tried-out beef fat, 
chicken fat, margarine or butter. You can 
often skim enough beef fat from your home- 
made stock. Cook the onions slowly for a long 
time, When they are 
brown (not burned) pour over them the hot 
stock. Simmer a few minutes. Season with 
salt and pepper and serve in a bowl with 
toast squares. To make, cut bread 
(stale or fresh) into quarters. Place on cooky 
sheet and pour over each quarter about 19 
teaspoon salad oil. Sprinkle on a little salt, 
Bake in a slow oven, 300° F., until light 
brown. 


water. about 


L Be 


stirring occasionally. 


slices 


Company Luach Wednesday 


Mushroom Shortcake 
(creamed mushrooms on split 
hot baking-powder biscuits) 
Lettuce-Celery-Avocado- 

Grapefruit Salad 
Hot Biscuits | 

Creamy Cottage Cheese 

Guava Jelly Coffee 


Wednesday Dinner 


Liver and Gravy 
Candied Yams Buttered Onions 
Tomato-and-Lettuce Salad 


Fruit Gelatin 


Rainy-Day Lunch Thursday 


Hot Cream-of-Tomato Soup 


Grilled Cheese Sandwiches 
make sandwiches, spread outside of bread with 
margarine and brown on griddle or skillet) 


Fruit Gelatin L.O. 


Thursday Dinuer 


*Curried Eggs 
*Fluffy Rice Carrots 

Green Salad 
Black-Cherry Compote 


CURRIED EGGS 


Make 2 cups medium white sauce, stirring 3 
to 4 teaspoons good curry powder into the 
flour before makes sauce. Start with 3, and 
taste when cooked—you may want to add 1 
teaspoon more. Add 2 3 bouillon cubes and stir 
well. Slice 6 hard-cooked eggs and reheat in 
the sauce. Serve with freshly boiled rice. 
Serves 4. 


FLUFFY RICE 


Into a pot of actively boiling salted water 
sprinkle dry rice slow ly and gently so that the 
boiling does not cease. Beak large fork over 
bottom of pot to make sure no rice has stuck, 
but do not really stir the rice. Boil hard, un- 
covered, for about 20 minutes. Remove from 
heat and pour into colander. Rinse well under 
cold running water. Just before you are ready 
to serve, put rice back into boiling salted wa- 


















September, 1949 


ter, bring to a boil, drain well and serve, Rice 

cooked this way can be reheated at any time 

and will still be fluffy and the grains separate, 
Friday Lunch Piecale 


‘Tomato Sandwiches €. 
Peanut-Butter-and-Jelly Sandwiches 
Hard-Cooked Eggs 
Bananas Cookies Milk 


Friday Dinner 
*Broiled Mackerel 
Boiled Parsley Potatoes 
Scalloped Tomatoes 
*Coleslaw 
Apple Pie 


BROILED MACKEREL 


Mackerel is one of the cheapest and best fish 
in the markets, and can be found practically 
any place in the country where fish is sold. If 
you cannot coat it with bacon fat and broil it 
outside over coals, try it this way: 

Have the mackerel split and boned at the 
market. Wash and wipe dry. Season with salt 
and pepper. Rub with bacon fat and place in 
greased broiler pan without cack, with skin 
side down. Bake in moderate oven, 350° F., 
for 15 minutes. Place under broiler for about 
5 minutes. Serve with lemon wedges and a 
sprinkling of parsley. 


COLESLAW 


‘The main secret to successful coleslaw is a 
very sharp knife and a very mild mayonnaise. 
If you grate the cabbage or grind it or hack at 
it with a dull knife, the tissues will be bruised, 
lose some of their juices and become limp be- 
fore serving. Therefore use a very sharp knife 
and shave the cabbage very thin. Soak for 
about 3 minutes in very cold water and drain 
well. Pour over it a few tablespoons of French 





Cub Scout earns arrow with his apple pie. 


dressing or lemon juice, then add just enough 
bland mayonnaise to coat every sliver of cab- 
bage, season and serve at once. Chopped 
parsley, water cress or upland cress (pepper- 
grass) or grated carrots may be added if de- 
sired. 


Saturday Lunch 


Welsh Rabbit 
Tomato-and-Romaine Salad 


Fruit and Cookies Milk 
. 
Saturday Dinner 
Bone End of Rib Roast 
*Yorkshire Pudding 
Baked Yams Broccoli 


Apple Pie L. O. Coffee 


YORKSHIRE PUDDING 


Beat 3 eggs and add 1) cups milk. Beat and 
add to %% cup sifted flour, 14 teaspoon salt 
and a dash of black pepper. Beat all together 
well and strain into hot roasting pan which is 
covered with a good layer of sizzling-hot beef 
grease. If you are serving this with the beef 
ends it can‘be poured into the pan right wi ) 
the bones, after bones have been cooki 
about 50 minutes. Return to 450° F. oven for 
40 minutes. With a regular rib roast, pour 
off some of the grease into smaller pan (I use 
a 10-inch heavy skillet with a removable 
handle). Reheat the grease. Pour in pudding 
mixture and cook about 30 minutes at 475° 
F. until brown. Cut in wedges and serve on 
same platter around roast. THE END 


— | 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL LZ 
‘ 


The Value Touch’ 


Trouble-free performance, 
year after year, means more 
for your money in the end. 


SOUFFLE FOR 
SEPTEMBER 


(Continued from Page 71) 


Here’s your receipt—and you can’t miss 
making a big success. 








CHEESE SOUFFLE 


“uch of Beaty 


Beautifully designed from 
every angle; adds new smartness 
to your table. 


Treat Yourself to 
that Toastmaster [ouch 


Make a cream sauce using 4. tablespoons but- 
ter or margarine, 4 tablespoons flour, 1/2 
cups milk, ] teaspoon salt and a few grains of 
cayenne. Do all this in the double boiler and 
stick by and stir like crazy all the while. 
When the sauce is thick and smooth, add 14 
pound diced or grated Cheddar cheese. Stir 
until the cheese melts. Remove from heat 
and add 6 egg yolks, beaten well, until the 
sauce is all in a dither of smoothness and 
looks like the harvest moon. Stir constantly 
while you add the eggs. Cool the mixture— 
but little. Fold the cheese sauce into 6 egg 
whites beaten until stiff but not dry, cutting 
and folding the mixture until it’s like a newly 
married couple—nothing can part them. 
Pour into a 2-quart casserole. With a tea- 
spoon draw a line around the mixture in the 
casserole one inch from the edge to form a 
crease which, when baked, forms a “top 
hat” on the soufflé. Bake 114 hours in 
a slow oven, 300° F., and serve immedi- 
ately. (And, from long experience, over a life 
lived right, it does no harm to set your cas- 
serole in a pan of hot water. Doesn’t cost a 
cent and pays off well.) 





WO RISK 


(015 aad 


Of all things. Well, I should have men- 
tioned this before, but you know how I am. 


$21.90 


Fair Trade 
Price 


Everything you love is 


yours. —HORACE TRAUBEL. 


Always getting the cart in front of the horse— 
and I’d probably do just that if I had a cart 
and a horse. 

Anyway, what I should have done isn’t ex- 
actly what I did, for I barged smack into the 
soufflé matter without so much as a look at 
the first course of this meal—the soup, to be 
sure. It’s a nice soup and a favorite of mine. 
And what is more, it has corn in it, so it’s a 
very appropriate soup for September. Here 
you are: 


‘Touch’ of Perfection 


Skillfully made, 
pops up perfect toast every time 
CORN SOUP —light, dark, or in-between. 
N. need to fret. fume, or fuss 


ee F Add 1 can cream-style oe to 2 cups milk or 
when childish mishaps occur on : 


half milk and half cream, 2 teaspoons g grated 
onion, 3 tablespoons butter or margarine, and 
pepper and salt to taste. Bring to a boil. Pour 
into soup dishes. Garnish with a little diced 
pimiento and toasted popcorn. That does it. 


furniture covered with Duran. 
Sticky smears don’t leave it 


stained. Children’s romps don’t 


“Touch’ of Experience 


The zvventors of automatic toasting, 
after 27 years, 
give you their finest toaster. 





leave it soiled. Just the whisk 


ofa damp cloth and the evidence 





of the ‘younger set’ disappears 


Believe it or not. Yes, friends, there 
are such things as onion rolls—and J can 
prove it. By the way, can anyone tell me why 
rolls are called rolls? They don’t roll, and 
what little rolling they get shouldn’t rate a ey. 
name—or should it? Some of the rolls I’ve 


from its satin-smooth surface. 
It’s the most cleanable, service- 
able covering ever to brighten 
a chair and lighten a chore. 


See Duran for yourself, in 





beautiful colors from deep tones 
to light pastels. Insist on the 
Duran tag. It is your positive 
assurance of Duran, the all- 
plastic covering combining 
everything you associate with 


upholstery excellence. 





eaten could roll from here to China for all I 
cared, and no handout to the Chinese either. 
Others—my own, for example—are rolls of 
another stripe. And I guess you know what I 
mean. But here they are—onion ones, just by 
way of being different. Garlic bread is an old 
favorite, and onion rolls soon will be. These 






- Ever faithful, 





The Dependable’ Touch” 


_. “Toastmaster’’* Toasters 
are still in service 
after more than 









are especially good with cheese soufflé, or so it 
seems to me. 


ONION ROLLS 


20 years! 


The Popular’ Touch’ 


It’s first— 

America’s most-wanted toaster 
—the one that’s a pleasure 

to call your own. 


Only genuine Duran 

bears this tag 
Slice 8 hard rolls in half lengthwise. Place on 
a baking sheet and toast in a moderate oven 
until a golden brown, before you put in 
the soufflé. Chop 5 or 6 scallions, and half 
of their green tops; mix with 4. tablespoons 
creamed butter or margarine. Spread on the 
toasted rolls. Heat in the oven just before 


ariel Pu 


: Look for the TOASTMASTER Name on Your Toaster... Others Will | 
LL 
Wie 


TOASTMASTER 


Automatic Pop-ltp Toaster 


serving. 


Its a peach. You know how you feel 
when you’re tooling along some country road 


te ee ee Wl Oe and right out by the side you see baskets and 








** TOASTMASTER” is a registered trademark of McGraw Electric Company, makers of 
3278-90 Amber Street, Phila. KE ao baskets of the most wonderful peaches. My, “Toastmaster” Toasters, ‘‘Toastmaster’’ Electric Water Heaters, and other ‘‘Toastmaster’’ Products, 
Copyright 1949, ToASTMASTER PropUuctTs DIVISION, McGraw Electric Company, Elgin, Ill. 


but they look marvelous, “kissed by the sun 





.ICeé half a whole SPAM. « Dice 
the rest. SPAM lightly in 
2 tbsp. hot fat. Remove. « Combine 
the diced SPAM with4 cups boiled, 
cubed potatoes, 1 onion chopped, 
14 cup sliced radishes. :AT to 





$T— scrambled eggs 
and fried SPAM. Hits the spot for lunch or 
dinner, too. Or serve SPAM with eggs any 
style—fried, boiled, shirred, or an omelet. 


WHILE SUPPLY LASTS 
only 25¢ 


pes, 
es of exciting reci 
ae and meal Pain full 
helps lavishly illustrated in 
color. Send quick 


Geo. A. Hormel & Co., De 


I enclose 25¢ for my CoP. 


IDEAS by Hormel. 


LADIES 





boiling point 2 

French dressing, pour over SPAM- 

potato mixiure and blend well. 

with SPAM slices and garnish 

with onion rings and curly endive. 
Six generous servings. 





: Split a bun, toast it if you 
like. Cut two juicy slices of SPAM for one 
half, hot baked beans for the other. Good 
for husbands home for lunch. 


COLD OR HOT 
SPAM_HiTs THE SPOT! 


pt. F, Box 352, Mpls-, Minn. 
y of 253 FOOD 


SPAM is o registered trademark for o pure 
pork product, packed only in 12 oz. cans 
by Geo. A. Hormel & Co., Austin, Minn. 


Hear the HORMEL GIRLS Saturday noon E. S. T. ABC network 





HOMIE 





| squares or faney shapes 


cup your favorite 





JOURNAL 


and wet with the dew,” and oh, so cheap 
Let’s take home a basket. You won't get 
around to that canning job, no doubt, but the 
resolve is in your eye and the peaches in the 
back of the car. Lots of things one can do 
with peaches, and one of them is pictured and 
told about for you here and now. Try it 


PEACH-AND-GRAPE SALAD 
Soften | envelope unflavored gelatin in 14 
cup cold water. Add 1% cup sugar, VY tea- 
spoon salt and % cup boiling water and stir 
until dissolved. Add 14 cup lemon juice and 
chill until thick butnot set. Fold in 144 cups 
sliced peaches (fresh, frozen or canned) and 
114 cups green seedless grapes or Tokay 
grapes, seeded—and you might throw all re- 
window and mix both to- 


Chill 


until firm. Unmold on a chop plate and gar 


straint out the 


gether. Pour into individual molds. 


those characters, mostly residing in darky 
damp cellars and talking-—well, talking is @ 
rank understatement 
changing 
twelve-inch records, they were 


cheated 

















September, 1949 


Russian was the thing. How dire and dour 


a self. 


with teg 


wound up like 
phonograph stacked 

What a difference now! If I don’t get 
happy ending to a story I feel abused and 
They're happy all right. To the 
point of fatuousness, some of them, but they 
make me glow. That's the test. That con- 
tented, fulfilled thrill, when she falls into hig 
arms and murmurs, “Oh, Henry, you do love 
me, don’t you, Henry?"" That's the ticket: 


Here is one. This has to do with a happy 
ending to a happy meal—and my advice to 
you is to go right ahead with it and see if you 
don't agree with me. You will want to use 
this for other meals later in the fall. In fact, it 


id aite eaten would be nice for Thanksgiving dinner s 
ey . . . ’ 
{ little pickling. September used to bea STEAMED MARMALADE PUDDING 
great time for making pickles and catchup ‘Trim the crust from a loaf of unsliced white . A 
and such. I can smell the spicy sweet fra- bread, Grate it on the coarse side of the : 
grance of the kitchen even grater, or pull it apart with | ’ 
now. It’s a good idea fr a fork. Measure 5 cups fine, - 
everyone to do a little ' ; ; soft bread crumbs. Mix - 
pickling, if only to recap- The time to make friends with 2 cups finely groundl 
¢ is before you need them. I y ool ' 


ture the smell. Remember 
the old-fashioned water- 
melon pickle? It’s a good 
one to begin on, and here’s a tried and true 


} receipt 


WATERMELON PICKLE 


| Prepare watermelon rind. Remove skin and 


leave on just a little of the pink. Cut into 
. Weigh rind. For 4 
pounds rind, make a lime-water solution of 
(calcium oxide bought at 
Soak 


rind | hour in lime water to make rind firm. 


| tablespoon lime 
drugstore) and 2 quarts cold water. 
Drain. Cover with fresh water and cook |!5 


Add more 


following spices in 


hours, or until tender. water as 
Put the 


a thin, clean white cloth and tie top tightly: 


needed. Drain. 


2 tablespoons whole allspice, 2 tablespoons 
whole cloves, LO two-inch pieces stick cin- 
namon. Put the spice bag in a kettle with | 
quart vinegar, I quart water and 4 pounds 
Bring to a boil. Add the rind and 
2 hours, until rind is clear and 


sugar. 
boil gently 
transparent. Remove spice bag. Pack rind 
in clean, hot, sterile jars. Fill jars to top with 
hot sirup. Seal tightly. Makes 6 pints. 
Happy. endings. Every good story should 
have a happy ending. There was a time when 
I reveled in the most lugubrious literature. 


CHARLEY’'S EXPOSURE AND DEVELOPMENT 


(Continued 


“You're right,’ Charley agreed solemnly. 
‘Marriage runs along about the same, I’m 
afraid.” 

Pete laid the book down. 
your work, Charley.” 

‘“You mean you’re interested in fraction- 
ating plants?”’ 

“T might be if I knew what they were,” 
she said. ‘‘Pete means your pictures. I’ve 
seen them in all the salons. I’ve even won- 
dered what you’d be like—I mean a man 
with your . . . well, your interests.” 

“And w hat was your guess?” 

She laughed, and Charley liked the way 
her nose crinkled. “‘I always supposed,” she 
said, “that you’d be old and thin and terribly 
repressed and would probably have a huge 
fat wife.” 

“Why, 
said. 

“With a minor correction or two, not bad,” 
Charley agreed. ‘‘At least it’s closer than my 
notions about professional skaters. I’d have 
given you great strong ankles, crooked and 
lumpy legs from all the breaks—and, of 
course, a flattened-out fanetta.”’ 

“Put in squinty eyes from the ice glare 
and you've got it,’”’ Jean added. 

‘A very fascinating conversation,” Pete 
observed. ‘‘Charley, show her where the 
famous Driver nudes are conceived and exe- 
cuted.” 


“Jean knows 


that’s amazingly accurate!’’ Pete 


from Page 53) 


















Put aside, Cook to- 
gether the grated rind of 


0 
2 oranges, 3 cup orange 


juice, '> cup sugar and 2 cups orange marma- 
lade. Simmer over medium heat for 15 min- 
utes. Pour over bread crumbs and suet, and 
mix well. Add | teaspoon baking soda to 3 
slightly beaten egys. Mix into pudding mix- 
ture and pour into a well-greased 2-quart 
melon mold, Cover tightly. If your mold has 
no cover, use heavy aluminum foil. Place the 
mold on a rack in the steamer and steam for 
3/9 hours. Loosen around the edges with a 
spatula, Unmold on a platter and serve hot 
with a very cold sauce. The sauce can be 


made ahead and chilled in the refrigerator. 


GOLDEN SALCE € 


Gradually add ‘5 cup sugar to 2 well-beaten 
egg yolks. Beat the 2 egg whites until they 
stand up in peaks and gradually beat in 


} fold into the egg-yolk mix- 


» cup sugar: 
ture. Whip | cup heavy cream and flavor 
Fold in the egg 
mixture, and don't stir it more 


have to. Chill it. 


with 2 teaspoons vanilla. 
than you 


Return engagement. Isn't it wonderful? 
I can hardly wait! For what? For what? Why, 
for oysters. Hold everything—they’re com- 
ing back! 


“‘T suppose he means the studio and dark- 
room,”’ Charley said. “If you’d be inter- 
ested ——”’ 

“T’d love to.” 

He took her down the hall, opened a door 
and snapped on the light. Jean studied the 
clutter of lights, cables, screens, stands and 
assorted junk that filled the remodeled bed- 
room. 

She said, 
expected.” 

“No music, no incense. Just physics and 
chemistry.” 

“No psychology?” 

‘‘That’s Pete’s department. I try to keep 
out of it, myself. Works better. Now watch 
your step and we'll cross over to the dark- 
room. It’s sort of a specialized kitchen.” 

The walls of the darkroom were painted a 
pale, dead green. The stainless-steel sink, 
counter and cabinets gleamed spotlessly. 

Jean pointed to the enlarger. ‘That thing 
couldn’t be a bread mixer, could it?” t 

Charley took a negative from the file, 
turned off the overhead light and demon- 
strated the enlarger. 

Jean leaned over the projected image. “‘I 
think I remember seeing that one in Boston. 
Who is she?” 

“‘Name’s Marie Gunstanmacher. Pete 
found her dealing soup at the Dutchman’s. 

(Continued on Page 121) 


“It’s rather more severe than I 


ever made! 


The cream-filled chocolate cookies that are 
deliciously crisp! A delightful family treat 


with desse 2 
desserts and between meals. Your grocer 


has them in the pantry package or the handy 


cellophane ba g. 





Want to know how simple 
electric cooking can be? 


ea 





Ask your Frigidaire Dealer to show you 
how the finest electric range in Frigidaire history 


makes cooking your way easier than ever 





You don’t have to take lessons 
from anyone in electric cooking, 
With a Frigidaire Electric Range 
you just cook your own way — but 
get better results than ever ! 

To simplify cooking you have 
your choice of 5 exact controlled 
heats in each Radiantube Surface 
Cooking Unit —an exclusive Frigid- 
aire feature. The thickly insulated, 
porcelain-finished Even-Heat Oven 
assures even heat distribution — 
takes the hit-or-miss out of cooking. 
You can always feel sure of success. 


Many extra conveniences, too! 
The Cook-Master Oven Clock 
Control tends to your cooking even 
when you’re away and serves as 
a kitchen clock as well. The 
handy Thermizer cooks a whole 
meal without mingling flavors, is 
great for steaming or warming, 


Take time out from your 
kitchen — this Cook-Master 
Oven Clock Control operates 





bottles, or 
unit. 
There are outlets for electrical 
appliances. The simplified styling 
of this electric range makes both 
cooking and cleaning up easier. 


sterilizes 
serves aS an extra surface 


even baby 


Visit your Frigidaire Dealer today 

-let him show you how simple 
electric cooking can be. See the 
special advantages of all the Frigid- 
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stration, too, of other Frigidaire 
appliances for better kitchens and 
laundries, including Frigidaire 
Refrigerators, and the Frigidaire 
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FRIGIDAIRE == 


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the oven in the Frigidaire un. 5 

Electric Range automatically Lies | 

—turns oven on when you te mr 

wish, turns it off when cook- a 7 

ing’s done. fe ar 

toden 

ie 

Jeans 

“Pate 

See how easy il is to cook in this electric range! = | 


5 heats to choose from in each Radiantube Surface Cook- 
ing Unit. 5 exact, controlled heats to assure uniformity in 
results. And they’re the heats that experience and careful 
testing show are the most practical ones. 






Baking-hot in 51/2 minutes — that’s how quickly this 
big Even-Heat Oven heats up ! It has automatic temperature 
signals and a smokeless-type waist-high broiler. Porcelain 
finish and rounded corners mean easier cleaning. 


& 


No spill-over problem here—not with this enclosed 
streamlined Flowing-Top of acid-resistant Lifetime 
Porcelain. There are no cracks or crevices to catch 
spill-overs—it’s easy to keep clean. 

















(Continued from Page 118) 
This print, by the way, got her a screen test. 
The Hollywood people pulled her front teeth 
together, gave her a horse and now she’s do- 
ing fine in Westerns. Nice kid.” 


9 “Imagine hiding that figure in a cowgirl 


outfit!” 

Charley snapped off the enlarger and they 
stood in the weak greenish glow of the safe- 
light. Suddenly he felt a completely new, gen- 
eralized sensation of aliveness, exhilarating 
but confusing to his engineering mind. It was 
decidedly physical, this sensation, and it 
worked against good clear analysis, but his 
training made him try. He. started off con- 
fidently with one known factor—~Jean’s per- 
fume, which he recognized as Suicide, same 
as Constance used—and then Jean turned to- 
ward him and smiled and bogged him down. 
He told himself, Too many unknowns. What- 
ever it was, he liked it. 

“You’d never do as my darkroom assist- 
ant,” he told her. “I couldn’t tell the hypo 
from the sink.” 

“That’s a cute way to put it,” she said, 
“but then I suppose you know a lot of varia- 
tions.” 

Charley’s face showed pain. ‘I wish you 
hadn’t said that,”’ he said earnestly. 

“Then I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” Pete called. 
“Tt’s lonesome here!”’ 

They joined in a re- 


121 


“Naw. They’ve seen everything I’ve got.” 

“Tt doesn’t mean much,” Pete told her. 
“Except that an invitation from the British 
Royal is the top honor in photography. And 
the big lug proposes to sit on his duff and do 
nothing. Look.”’ Peteregarded them seriously. 
“Here’s the real reason I brought you two 
together. Charley, I want you to make that 
picture we’ve talked about for years, and 
Jean, that means you’ve got to be out in 
Forest Park tomorrow at sunup, ready to 
leap across the sward for Charley. No skates.” 


“ec 
Wen!” Jean’s eyes were big as dollars. 

“Pete means well,” Charley said uneasily, 
“but I hardly think it’s fair ——” 

“Nuts,” Pete said. “We're all grown peo- 
ple. What do you say, honey?” 

Jean examined her nails. ‘Well, I’d love 
to—certainly any girl—but if you mean that 
you want me to ——” 

“We don’t,”’ Pete assured her. “‘ You can 
wear anything you like. I’d suggest about two 
yards of cheesecloth.” 

“T’ve probably got something around that 
would do,” Charley said. ‘‘That is, if you’d 
consider it.”” He was half sore at this numb- 
skull Pete who never gave up. But, he re- 
alized, if it hadn’t been for Pete he’d still be 
grumbling along with Schopenhauer. He 
turned to Jean. ‘What 
we had in mind was a 
shot of a girl—have to 


flavor i 


— 





df 


beans different. 


Bt tat ey 


ROUGH and THROUGH makes 


Van @mp's 


more. delicious 


lieved smile. ‘“‘ I suppose 
we should ga back,” 
Charley said, “but I’m 
not ready. All I know 
about you is that you’re 
a skater who visits sa- 
lons and likes houses.” 

“There isn’t much 
more. I come out twice 
an evening six times a 
week and smile and do 
a few routines I’ve 


_ known for years. My 


3 life’s so simple it’s dis- 


gusting.” 
‘“Do you 
alone?”’ 
She explained that 


live 


John B. Gough, the celebrated 

temperance orator, was dis- 
appointed one evening to discover 
only a few persons in his audience. 
Next day, a stalwart youth met him 
on the street, shook his hand warmly 
and said, “I certainly enjoyed your 
lecture last night.”’ 

The orator murmured his thanks, 
but admitted that he did not re- 
member having seen the youth in 
the audience. 

“Oh, I wasn’t there,”’ he explained. 

*Then,’? demanded the puzzled 
crusader, “Show could you possibly 
have enjoyed my lecture?”’ 

“I bought tickets for my. girl’s 
parents,’ the youth declared, ‘‘and 
both of them went!’ 

— WEBB B. GARRISON. 


be a trained dancer— 
leaping through the air 
out by the lagoon in 
Forest Park, where I 
could shoot through 
the mist that rises 
early in the morning. 
Woodland-nymph 
stuff—lots of atmos- 
phere—mystery. What 
do you think?” 

Jean shivered. 
“Soundskind of creepy, 
and awfully chilly.” 

“No ice out, there, 
honey,’’ Pete reminded 
her. ‘Nothing but the 
finest bluegrass, and 


ed 


The moment you open a can of Van Camp's you see the difference. 
The beans are whole, tender, plump... the pork, generous... the sauce rich 
and natural in color. When you taste Van Camp's, you discover 


her mother, who usu- 
ally traveled with her, 
was in Chicago with another daughter who 
was about to have a baby. She described her 
years of training in ballet, the hard grind of 
practice and some of her disappointments 
and triumphs. She told it simply and engag- 
ingly, and Charley, enchanted, felt another 
announcement coming on. ‘ 

“Now you know all about me,” she said. 
“Shall we join Pete?” 

He looked at her solemnly. ‘‘Before we do, 
I want to tell you that I think you're pretty 
wonderful. I want that in the record.” 

“That’s nice to hear, whether you keep 
records or not,” she said, and then, a little 
thoughtfully, opened the door. 


Pete was reading again from the book of 
gloom. He looked up at Jean and chuckled. 
“Listen to what the old goat says: ‘It is only 
the man whose intellect is clouded by his 
sexual impulses that could give the name of 
the fair sex to that undersized, narrow- 
shouldered, broad-hipped and short-legged 
race.’”’ 

Jean said, ‘‘Gosh!”’ 

“Pete, put that thing down. Schopen- 
hauer,” Charley pointed out to her, “over- 
shoots occasionally. That particular com- 
ment of his doesn’t even touch the basic 
principles of aesthetits. In his sour way he’s 
merely moralizing.” 

“ And in addition,” Jeansaid despondently, 
“it’s my luck to be a terribly deformed ice 
skater. Maybe I’d better just creep out.” 

“Over two dead bodies,” Pete said briskly. 


7 “Charley, show her that cable from London.” 


Charley got the cablegram from his desk. 
“I hadn’t planned to do anything about 
this,” he said, handing it to her, “but it did 
please me to get it.” It was from the Hon. 
Secretary of the British Royal Salon ol 
Photography, urging Charley to hurry along 
with a print for the May show. 

“Why, I think that’s marvelous!” Jean 
cried. “‘Haven’t you done it?” 


I took the liberty of 
having it mowed this 
afternoon for the sake of your tootsies.”’ 

“Why, this is a conspiracy!” 

“Sure it is,’ Charley said, ‘but I can’t 
take any of the credit. It’s all Pete’s.”’ 

She stood up and smoothed her dress and 
fluffed her hair. ‘‘ Well, if I’ve got to go like 
a nymph at daybreak I’d better get some 
sleep. Let’s see your idea of a costume.” 

She gave her dubious approval to three 
yards of white silk, folded it and tucked it in 
her handbag. They arranged to pick her up 
at the Barclay at five-thirty. 

After they’d gone, Charley slumped in his 
chair and stared at the floor for ten minutes. 
Finally he got up, ate his way through half a 
box of crackers, collected his camera gear and 
went into the darkroom to load film holders. 
Jean’s perfume still lingered faintly. 


It was dark when they came out of the 
Barclay. Jean sat between them in Charley’s 
coupé, and he drove out Lindell to Ernie’s 
Diner for coffee. Watching her on the stool 
beside him, Charley found the darkroom 
seizure threatening him again in the glare of 
the dog wagon. He ordered more coffee. 

“T imagine that you’ll remember this,”’ he 
said, elaborately casual, ‘‘like you remember 
mumps.” 

“The worst is ahead,’ Pete warned. 
““Wait’ll she sees that miasmatic fog she’s 
got to jump through, sharp rocks underfoot, 
gopher holes, toads, snakes ——” 

“That’s right, Pete. Encourage me.” Jean 
pressed a napkin to her lips and frowned. 
‘What worries me most is those safety pins.” 

“Was it really such a problem?” Charley 
asked. 

“That,”’ she said, ‘‘is a very intelligent 
question! Give a full-sized girl three yards of 
practically transparent silk and then ask her 
if she has a problem—especially when you 
want two yards free to flap in the breeze.” 

“Oh, well,” Pete said soothingly, “‘it’s 
probably too early to catch any inspectors of 


_why they are more delicious... how the through and through flavor makes 


every bean a choice morsel 


of good eating. No one else prepares 


beans for you with so much care... experience... skill. Van Camp's originated 


canned pork and beans...was 


the first to improve them, make them 


richer, better with.a secret, savory tomato sauce. For food of the finest 
quality... healthful nourishment... economy...serve Van Camp's often. 


Van Camp's SINCE 1861 


Van Camp’s also oven bakes beans 
New England Style 
rich with 
PORK ond MOLASSES 


Sera 


BEANS £ 


Stokely’s Finest SINCE 1898 
Honor Brand Frozen Foods SINCE 1933 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


the League for Decency lurking about. And 
I’m a good hand with cops.” 

She grasped Charley’s arm. ‘Does he 
mean that? Is there any danger ——”’ 

“Naw, but he’d like nothing better. It'd 
please his gruesome sense of humor.” He 
laid a bill on the counter. ‘‘Tell your friend 
that when he’s through slurping his coffee, 
we're ready,”” 

They followed the winding drives of the 
park past the Zoo, the opera, the golf course 
and on toward the southeast corner where the 
park flattens out and the lagoon gives it a 
semblance, in miniature, of the lake country 
of Northern Minnesota, The lagoon serves 
a flock of ducks, a few majestic, aimless 
swans and, on fine summer evenings, a fleet 
of canoeists who hide out under numerous 
bridges apparently provided for that purpose. 
The lagoon is a sprawling, many-fingered 
body of shallow water, and one of these fin- 
gers, a particularly neat one with level, 
grassy banks, had in- 
terested Charley for 
years. 

The sky was gray- 
ing when he stopped 
his car and stepped 


September, 1949 


sun would touch the opposite bank and then, 
for a few minutes before the mist dissolved, 
there would be an ethereal, luminous haze 
over the lagoon. He felt jumpy as a kid on his 
first deer stand. 


“Hey, Charley,” Pete called, “y got a pew ah 


idea. I'll peel to my shorts and e¢atch her 
Adagio stuff.” 


‘Goon! She can wear her skates and j jump 
feet first.’” Charley threw the focusing cloth 
over his béaten-up old view camera. ‘* Now, 
Pete, stand still while I focus. O.K. Now lay 
your handkerchief on the grass where you 
stood. Jean, that’s a hurdle about six feet 
high.” 

Rejecting Pete's offer of maid service, Jean 
sent him off up the lagoon and retired behind 
the screen of shrubbery that lined the bank. 
In a moment she stepped out in the deose, 
flowing robe she'd contrived from Charley's 
three yards of silk. Pete applauded. Charley 

ducked under the fo- 
cusing cloth and, after 
extensive fumbling, 
found the properknob 
and brought her fig- 





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out. There was a dis- 
tinct chill in the air. 
‘Looks good,’’ he 
said, noting the heavy 
mists rising from the 
lagoon. *‘ Jean, this is 
a dramatic moment.” 

She pulled her coat 
around her and shiv- 
ered. “It’d be a terri- 
ble anticlimax if all 
you got inyour picture 
was one huge goose 
bump. Br-r-r.”’ 

He couldn’t tell 
whethershe was really 
cold or, like himself, 
just nervous. He blew 
his nose and got prac- 
tical. *‘I’ll set up the 
camera on this side. 
You'll be on the other 
bank. We’ll mark a 
spot for you to hur- 
dle—if that’s the 
term—and I'll try to 
catch you at the top 
of your leap.” 

Pete took her arm. 
“O.K.Let’sgoonover 
andlayout thenymph 
run. Hey. what’s the 


City Pb: - Mosk ure, breath-taking 
0 


Hy Katharine O Brie 


The farmers back their trucks up toa 
stall 

And spread thefr produce out in 
grand array; 

They bring the gorgeous colors of 
the fall 

And loose its spice along the 
crowded way. 

The yellow crooked squash, 
red-ripe tomatoes, 

The smiling corn, the jolly 
pumpkin’s belly, 

The coral-colored glads, earthy 
potatoes, 

And lustrous jars of homemade 
apple jelly. 

The men are sound and solid as 
their farms— 

The young and strong, the old 
like wrinkled peas; 

Fine buxom wives with firm efficient 
arms, 

And eager lads with lightning in 
their knees. 

The fragrance of the country, 
honey-sweet, 

Brought to the curbstone of a city 


even upside-down on 
the ground glass, 
sharply into focus. 

“Tf I’d known this 
ground would be so 
cold,”” she said, “I'd 
have brought my 
skates,”’ 

Charley stood erect 
and studied her 
throughthethirty feet 
of mist. He batted his 
eyesand felt histhroat 
tighten. “‘Hrmmh,” 
he said, “‘hrmmh.” 

“Hey!” yelled Pete. 
“Don’t just stand 
there and hawk ather. 
She wants her pitcher 
took.” 

‘*Pipe down.” 
Charley glared up the 
lagoon, looked at the 
sun; metered thelight, 
and set his shutter at 
the proper speed. Con- 
ditions were perfect 
now. The sunlight, 
filtering through the 
mist, gave Jean’s 
body and her robe a 
soft, glowing opales- 






matter?”’ street. 

“T’m—I feel sort of 
scaredallatonce,’’she 
said. ‘‘Maybe I can’t 
do it well enough— 
and I'll have to warm up first. You can’t just 
start leaping around.”’ She blinked hard and 
got her handkerchief. “I’m sorry.” 

Charley patted her shoulder. ‘Look, 
Jean—I’m new at this too. Last action pic- 
ture I shot was a‘dogfight with a box Brownie. 
Say the word and we'll call the whole thing 
off and you can go back to bed.” 


“ Carvos! Straighten up there!” Pete shook 
his head sternly. “‘You two act like you’re 
scared of each other. Uncle Peter says every- 
thing’s fine. Now let’s go.”” He grasped Jean’s 
hand and led her around the upper end of the 
lagoon. “‘ We gotta walk fast. Gotta get you 
warmed up.” He smiled down at her. “Sorry 
you got into this?” 

‘Not exactly—at least not yet,’’ she said. 
She had to skip to keep up. “‘Pete?’’ 

“Huh?” 

“Do you think he’s sorry?” 

“No! He’s just nervous as a mail-order 
bride. And it ain’t all the British Royal, 
neither.” 

Charley fumbled his camera out of the 
case and screwed it on the tripod. He laid out 
his film holders and took a tentative reading 
with the light meter. The mist of the lagoon 
began to dance and swirl. A bunch of mal- 
lards flew over, barely-clearing the treetops. 

He could hear the voices of Jean and Pete, 
but could see them only as dim shapes. The 
sky was brightening fast now. Shortly the 


cence. Charley slipped 
a film holder in 
place and grasped the 
shutter cable. “Any 
time now,” he said. 

Jean stepped back, paused, adjusted her 
robe, ran a few steps and soared into the air, 
arms outflung in a perfectly executed grand 
jeté. Alighting, she wheeled and made a little 
girl’s curtsy. 

“Beautiful! Perfect!’ Charley exclaimed. 
“But I didn’t get it. My hand sort of froze 
on the shutter.” 

Patiently, Jean performed a series of ef- 
fortless, soaring leaps while Charley, fighting 
off an attack of buck fever, concentrated on 
timing his shots. He began to sweat like a 
coal passer. Gotta time this right, he reminded 
himself sternly. Gotta get the rhythm. He de- 
veloped a rhythm, starting his squeeze on the 
shutter release when Jean’s foot left the 
ground and then, as she leveled off, complet- 
ing the shot. The rhythm did it; he began to 
feel more at ease, more like himself: cool, de- 
tached, efficient. He was pleased with his own 
performance, delighted with Jean’s, even 
tolerant of Pete's antics up the lagoon. 

“‘And now, my dear,” he said after the 
tenth perfectly timed shot, “‘I’d suggest you 
take a little rest.” 

“That,’’ she panted, “is a good idea.” 

She chatted with Pete while Charley 
swung his camera slightly to the right. ‘‘On 
the next ones,’”’ he explained, “I want you to 
take off about twenty feet sooner. It’ll give 
us a new angle and show more of your face.” 

“Your nose is shiny,”’ Pete informed her. 

(Continued on Page 124) 











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(Continued from Page 122) 

“What’s a nose,” Jean said, “‘when you're 
shiny all over?” 

She took her new position, poised, started 
her run and sprang. Her right foot touched 
the grass and then she stumbled, fell to the 
ground and lay still. Charley jumped into the 
knee-deep water and waded across. Pete was 
on his knees beside her. She stirred, opened 
her eyes and sat up. 

“Oooh!” she said. ‘‘My poor ankle!” 

Charley knelt and put his arm around her. 
“Jean! Are you hurt?” 

“T guess I hit a bad spot.” 

Pete looked at her ankle. “It still looks 
swell,” he said. ‘‘I’d risk my professional 
reputation that it isn’t busted.” 

“Probably sprained,’’ Charley said. He 
touched it gingerly. “Hurt?” 

“Not as much. Let me try it.”” He helped 
her up and she touched her foot to the ground. 
She winced and hurriedly replaced a couple 
of popped safety pins. ‘‘Am I embarrassed!" 

“Looks like a job for the Coast Guard,” 
Pete said. “It’s a long way around by land.” 

“Pete, bring her clothes.” 

Charley picked her up in his arms and 
waded into the lagoon. He ferried her across 
safely, lifted her into the car and wrapped his 
coat around her. Pete brought her clothes 
and the caméra and threw them in the back. 

Charley drove like a fire chief back to the 
apartment, turned into the basement garage 
and carried her to the elevator. ‘We'll put 
you right to bed and 


getadoctor. Pete, cl _________ 


“Could I have a 
hot bath first?’’ Jean 
asked. ‘I’m freezing.” 


Jim Slaughter.” » 


The mechanic who uses his own 
tools transports them in a neat ° : ; 
case or handbag. During the Middle with a slight suggestion 
Ages. however, a journeyman worker of effort, they merely 


September, 1949 


like dropping dead.”’ He snapped his fingers 
to show how people fall over dead. 

“Yes, and I think it’s a very nice way to 
go, don’t you? So little bother to everybody.” 

“You're right, | agree with you absolutely. 
I had an uncle who did it. Uncle Talbot.” 

“Was he very old?” 

“Only forty-three. But don’t get the idea 
that there’s heart trouble in our family. Uncle 
Talbot was a very heavy we 

“That can happen in any ily.”” Jean 
smiled and stretched and placed her hands 
under her head, “Speaking of dying, I’m 
just dying to see those pictures.” 

“Yes, but—well, it takes quite a while to 
develop them and I'd have to be in the dark- 
room,” 

“Couldn’t I call you if I needed any- 
thing?” 


He agreed that it might be feasible. He 
brought her another drink, fluffed her pillow, 
checked her ankle and left for the darkroom. 

He was mixing developer when the door- 
bell rang. He strode out and jerked the door 
open. “Oh! Hello Hs 

Miss Constance Ashby-Cummings gave 
him the look of cheerful, buck-up-old-man 
sympathy she used on visits to veterans’ 
hospitals, ‘‘Darling!’”’ she said, advancing 
upon him. “However did you hurt your 
hand? Your sec’try said ——-” 

“Tt’s not my hand,” Charley told her. “I 
mean, it’s not my ankle. It’s—it’s Jean's.” 

‘‘Jean’s?’’ Con- 
stance’s eyebrows 
seemed to embark 
upon a frown and then, 





She took her bath carried his tools from job to job in arched in patrician in- 
unassisted, putonapair a sack, While the craftsman was on terrogation® 


of Charley's pajamas the job this sack was left in the cus- 


“Jean Patton. You 


and got into bed. They _tody of the employer, and when the gee, she was posing for 
gave her hot coffee worker was finished with his job or Pete and me in the park 


~, discharged for lack of skill, his sack 
and Charley brought was returned to him: he “got the 


the infrared lamp used 


g sack.”* 
for drying films and oT 


and she fell and ——” 


brows continued to in- 


turned it on her ankle. umes §8=ouire, but they now 


He went out to the 
kitchen to confer with Pete, who was frying 
eggs and bacon. 

“What do you think?”’ he demanded. 

“Why, I’d say her age was in her favor. I 
think she'll probably pull through.” 

“You're mighty casual. She may be in- 
jured internally. This could be the end of her 
career.” 

“Could be the turning point, all right. 
What are you going to do?” 

“Carry out Jim Slaughter’s orders, if the 
jerk ever gets here. Here, take this in and see 
if she wants some nourishment.” 

By eleven o’clock the situation was some- 
what stabilized. Charley had called his office 
and told his secretary that he wouldn’t be 
down; had a badly sprained ankle on his 
hands. Dr. James P. Slaughter, eminent 
orthopedist, had diagnosed Jean’s injury as 
a slight strain of some ankle muscle whose 
name Charley didn’t catch. He suggested 
complete rest for a few hours. As he was leav- 
ing, he reached out and felt Charley’s fore- 
head, came back in, took his blood pressure 
and gave him some fatherly advice about 
taking better care of himself. 


Cuar.ey, what with bringing Jean drinks 
of water, magazines to look at and inspecting 
the injured ankle, kept fairly busy. Between 
chores, he simply stood in the door and 
trained goofy looks her way. 

“Listen,” she said, after one of the drinks, 
“Wf you have work to do at the office, please 
don’t think you have to stay with me. I'll 
just rest awhile longer and then call a cab.” 

“Haven't got a thing to do, not a thing,” 
Charley assured her. 

“Well, it’s awfully sweet of you, but I hate 
being such a bother.” 

Charley breathed deeply, walked to her 
bedside and took a stance. “I don’t want to 
take advantage of the situation,’ he began 
stiffly, “‘but I might drop dead or something 
before I got a chance to tell you what’s hap- 
pened. It’s—well, you see, I’m pretty sure 
I’m in love with you. Uh—well, people do 
fall over just like that, you know. Like— 


managed to register, as 
well, reminder and sweet reproach. “After 
you promised not to ——” 

“T know. But you see when the British 
Royal Salon invited me ——’” Charley 
stopped. Old habit had introduced into his 
voice and gesture the familiar quality of 
apology and defense, and suddenly he dis- 
covered that he wasn’t feeling either defen- 
sive or apologetic. He skipped the extenuat- 
ing circumstances. ‘So Pete got Jean to pose 
for me and she slipped and hurt her ankle. 
So of course we brought her here and ——”’ 

“‘Here?”’ Constance’s voice imitated her 
eyebrows. It rose; it inquired; faintly but 
definitely it disapproved. 

“Why, yes.” To his startled ear Charley’s 
tone sounded mysteriously matter-of-fact, 
as if a bachelor apartment was altogether the 
logical place in which to shelter a damsel in 
distress. “It’s a lot nearer than her hotel and 
she was having a sort of chill. It was pretty 
cold out there in the park.” 

“And naturally, posing for you, she 
wasn’t—wasn’t too warmly dressed?” 

Without haste Constance’s glance moved 
toward the half-open bedroom door. Beyond 
this Charley saw, exactly as Constance must 
have seen it, the three-yard costume of white 
silk, draped informally over the back of a 
chair. Still deliberately, Constance herself 
approached the door. A pace behind her, 
Charley was witness to the encounter be- 
tween her gaze and the frankly interested 
surveyal with which Jean, propped against 


his pillows and wearing his pajamas, returned - 


the scrutiny. ; 
‘‘Jean Patton,” he said, marveling at his 
casualness. ‘“‘Constance Ashby-Cummings.” 


“Posing?” The eye-@) 








“Hello,” Jean said amiably. © 


Constance inclined her head in a nod that 
could have been measured only in millimeters. 
She closed the door as she turned gracefully 
away from it. Face to face with her, Charley 
read decision in her look. 

“Please don’t think that I’m so stupid as 
to misconstrue all this, Charles. It’s quite 
evident that your perfectly absurd expla- 
nation of that girl’s presence in your bed 





A 





’ 


and—I suppose—your pajamas is perfectly 
true. I’d be sorry if you thought me capable 
of breaking our engagement because of any 
ridiculous suspicion of you or jealousy of her. 
I’m breaking it simply because this episode 
convinces me that you are and always will be 
more interested in your photography than in 
me. I don’t pretend that I’m not sorry.” 

Charley discovered that, in a way, he was 
sorry too. But not sorry enough to do any 
protesting as Constance slowly drew off his 
ring. He let her give it back to him. 

“T was really rather fond of you, Charles.” 

“T never rated it,”’ Charley said. 

He held the door open for her, and followed 
her to the elevator. He pressed the button, 
and felt a queer mixture of regret and thank- 
fulness when, almost instantly, the doors slid 
open. She turned toward him, hesitating. 
He decided suddenly that the chivalrous 
thing would be to ride down with her. He saw 
her gallantly to her car, helped her into it 
and, with what he hoped was the right blend 
of regret and finality, latched the door. 

“T’m sorry,” she said again. “I really 
thought I could—could make something of 
you, Charles.” 

“The material just wasn’t there,” Charley 
said. He clasped the hand she held out and 
echoed her good-by. 

When the car had disappeared he went 
down to the drugstore and bought an assort- 
ment of the latest magazines and a five-pound 
box of candy. People confined to their beds, 
he knew, appreciated little attentions. He 
hurried back to his apartment and went 
direct to the bedroom. Jean was gone. 

He searched the apartment. He sat down 
in his chair and crossed his legs and studied 
his foot. It interested him very slightly. He 
toured the entire apartment again. Jean 
wasn’t hiding, wasn’t playing games. To keep 
busy he put his camera away and carried the 
film holders to the darkroom and laid them 
on the counter in a neat stack. The top one 
caught his eye, held it. Feverishly, suffering 
the pangs that come sooner or later to every 
user of cut film, he pawed through the stack. 


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He tottered to the bathroom and took two 
aspirins. 

“Uncle Talbot,” he said aloud, “had the 
right idea.” 

He felt the need of Pete’s counsel. He 
picked up the phone and called the Herald- 
Times. Mr. Morris had not yet returned 
from his interview with the lady wrestler. 
Uncounseled, Charley called the Barclay. 
Jean’s number didn’t answer. He grabbed 
his hat and coat and left. 

He knocked on the door of Jean’s suite. 
She came to the door in a housecoat; she’d 
been crying. 

“Hello,’”’ Charley said. 

“Hello,” she said. 

“May I come in?” 

“Really,” she said, starting to close the 
door, ‘‘there’s no point at all ——” 

“Thank you.” He walked past her and 
stood by the divan. 

She frowned, hesitated, left the door ajar 
and sat down stiffly. She held herself rigidly 
erect and looked at the opposite wall. 

“Jean,” he said, sitting down a reasonable 
distance from her. 

“What is it?” 

“T’m sorry about two things. I’m sorry I 
let you in for that scene up in the apartment. 
I didn’t realize how it would look to Con- 
stance. She broke the engagement.” 

“T don’t blame her. Number Two?” 

“The pictures didn’t turn out very well.” 

There was a long moment of silence and 
then she put her hands to her face and began 
to cry. ““Oh, I just knew they wouldn’t! I was 
so nervous—and I tried so hard.’’ She sobbed 
quietly and then she looked at him for the 
first time. “Were they really just awful? 
Was I too tense—or lumpy—or ——’”’ 

“T couldn’t tell,” Charley said, edging 
over within range, ““because I was so excited 
about you I forgot to pull the slides on my 
film holders. Will you marry me?” 

She borrowed his handkerchief and used 
it. ““I don’t think we should discuss that,” 
she said finally, “in here with the door open. 
Now in a house it’s dif——” THE END 









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Versatile plaid taffeta evening skirt, Vogue Design No. 6580, 24 to 32 waist. 


. | Wear it with cotton lace blouse, No. 6724, 12 to 40; or matching blouse. 
= ~~ 


fs at-heeled shoe looks well . matte 
Neen eee een ee ary Elaine Shipp has a talented mother who makes 


with most everything. About $5.95. 
all her clothes. ‘SI never knew $100 could go so far,’’ she 
e said. ‘‘Not only do I have a winter coat, a suit, a wool jersey 
ae) dress, an evening dress with an extra top and a jersey pull- 
‘ 5 
\ » over, but all the accessories to go with them.’’? We have 
+ fs \ itemized the cost of all the fabrics and findings down to the 
> 7 ie last button, because we agree that it is hard to believe that 
' i 9 
. é 
* J i I ; f 
\y \ j St one can have so much for so little. * By NORA O’LEARY 
a > 
p Buy Vogue Patterns at the store which sells them in your city. Or order them by mail, enclos- a ( 
Raglan-sleeve blouse. ‘‘Easy-to- ing check or money order,* from Vogue Pattern Service, Putnam Avenue, Greenwich, Conn.; Phree-quarter-length topcoat in green 


Make” Vogue Design No. 6874, 12 to 20. or in Canada from 198 Spadina Ave., Toronto, Ont. (*Conn. residents please add sales tax.) fleece. Vogue Design No. 6842, 12 to 40. 
; ri Other views, prices and sizes on page 157. 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


eal my rutin 


JENI FREELAND 
a SweetHeart 


Cover Girl 

o : ft 

f “4 
me f 


AND SWEETHEART IS MY BEAUTY SOAP 
say 9 out of 10 Cover Girls! 


e We questioned the gorgeous girls on the covers of 
America’s leading magazines this year. You see them 
on newsstands right now. “What beauty soap do you 
use?” we asked. And 9 out of 10 gave the same answer 


... SweetHeart Soap.” 


"T owe Ao much tr 
Sweat Heatt Care!" 


says JENI FREELAND, Stunning Cover Girl 


“To earn top modeling fees, a cover 
girl must have a peaches-and-cream 
complexion. And I’ve found noth- 
ing else that compares to SweetHeart 
Care. It makes my skin look creamy 
smooth, radiantly fresh and young.” 


e You may be letting happiness slip 
through your fingers until you dis- 
cover the true beauty of yowr com- 





SweetHEarr 


The Soap that AGREES with Your Skin 


plexion. For that dewy-fresh, young 
look is wonderfully appealing! So 
profit from the experience of glam- 
orous cover girls. 


Use only pure, mild SweetHeart 


Soap for daily complexion care. 
SweetHeart’s velvety lather feels 
heavenly gentle on your skin. For its 
Floating Lift is an amazing beauty 
action. You'll quickly see its beauty 
benefits! One week after you change 
from improper care, your skin looks 
softer, smoother, younger. 


e s 
“Deaily wv ‘agus mers, too! 
© Nadine Koehne, 10 months old, has started her mod- 
eling career. Chances are she'll grow up to be a lovely 
cover girl! For her mother guards the delicate beauty 
of Nadine’s skin with pure, mild SweetHeart Soap. 


° Today get gentle SweetHeart 
m the new, large bath size. 





September, 1949 


MALE AND FEMALE 


(Continued from Page 37) 


poles or to a piece of rattan hung from the ceil- 
ing, whether she is segregated among females 
or held around the waist by her husband, sits 
in the middle of a group of gaming visitors or 
is strapped on a modern delivery table—the 
child receives a sharp initial contact with the 
world as it is pulled, hauled, dropped, 
pitched from its perfectly modulated even 
environment into a world where temperature, 
pressure and nourishment are all different, 
and where it must breathe to live. 

In our own society, our images of the care- 
fully guarded rituals of the delivery room 
overlay any realization of what a shock birth 
is. The shock is easy enough to realize when 
the baby is born on an unsheltered hillside, 
where the mother and attending women 
crouch shivering over a tiny fire until finally 
the baby falls with a soft little thud ona cold, 
dew-coated leaf—to be left there, perhaps 
five minutes, while the mother herself cuts 
and ties the cord, 
packs up the pla- 
centa, and wipes out 
the baby’s eyes and 
nose. Only then can 
the squirming, ex- 
posed little creature 
be gathered up and 
laid against the 
mother’s breast. 

From the moment 
of birth — probably 
from before birth 
also—contrasting 
types of behavior can 
be distinguished in 
a mother’s attitude 
toward her child. 

The Arapesh treat 
a baby as a soft, vul- 
nerable little object, 
to be protected, fed, 
cherished. Not only 
the mother, but the 
father also, must 
play this over-all 
protective role. After 
birth the father ab- 
stains from work and 
sleeps beside the 
mother, and he must bite. 
abstain from _ inter- 
course while the child 
is young, even with 
his other wife. When 
the mother walks about she carries the child 
slung beneath her breast in a dark cloth 
sling, or in a soft net bag in which the child 
still curls as he curled in the womb. When 
ever it is willing to eat it is fed, gently, 
interestedly. The receptiveness of the mouth 
is emphasized in both boys and girls. 


cheeks; 


seeks. 


room— 
bloom; 
minty, 


plenty; 


Born boys and girls have learned about 
life from using their mouths. When they use 
their eyes, their eyes reflect the same passive 
expectancy. Eyes light up and mouths shout 
with excitement when some lovely color is 
presented to them, but hands do not reach 
aggressively. The Arapesh are a people among 
whom communication between infants and 
others has been very heavily specialized to 
one part of the body, the mouth, and to one 
aspect of that part, passive receptivity. 
Both sexes among the Arapesh, like other 
human beings, have the task of eventually 
learning to use their whole bodies in acts of 
sexual maturity that will procreate children. 
For the Arapesh female this is easy enough. 
To transfer an attitude of pleasant expect- 
ancy, of soft, optimistic retentiveness, from 
mouth to vulva, requires very little shift 
in attitude: One may see a neglected wife 
eagerly bringing her neglectful husband 
food, touchingly grateful if he eats it; but I 
never heard a woman complain about aman’s 
sexual competence. When the usual pattern 
of marriage is followed, in which the husband 
as a boy of twelve or fourteen begins to feed 
his betrothed wife, himself playing a role that 
his mother has played to him, and the mar- 
riage is not interrupted, the woman is in a 
psychological position that is the perfect de- 


™ Kk SR ek oe 


By Pauline Havard 
Harvest the apples; gather them in 
For the cider press, for the apple bin: 
Golden apples from emerald trees, 
Like the fabled fruit of Hesperides; 
Small red apples like children’s 


The tart pie apples the housewife 


From orchards neat as a spinster’s 
Each fruit as sound as its flawless 

From little, lost orchards wild and 
The apples spill out of the horn of 


The flavor of summer prisoned tight, 
To the last, cool sip; to the last, long 


KK * *i Kk Ok Se 


velopment of her childhood experience—pas- 
sive, dependent, cherished. In turn she treats 
her children in the same way. 


Burt what happens to the Arapesh male? 
What kind of preparation is it for living in 
rough mountain country, surrounded by 
tribes who are fierce head-hunters, to have 
learned that the major relationship to other 
people is either one of passive receptivity or 
one of provision of food and drink? The men 
in adulthood develop into heterosexual 
males, extremely distrustful of strange over- 
sexed women from other tribes who will take 
part of their semen and keep it for sorcery. 
Even with their own young wives, whom 
they have fed and cherished, there is not 
complete trust, but a ceremony at which the 
genital secretions of each are entrusted cere- 
monially to the other. They engage very lit- 
tle in warfare, they permit themselves to be 


blackmailed and in-. 


timidated and bribed 
by their more aggres- 
sive neighbors. When 
they hunt, they set 
traps and wait until 
the animal falls in. 

Thus the Arapesh 
form of child rearing 
stresses complemen- 
tariness in a form 
that is easily trans- 
formed by women 
into an adult fem- 
inine sex role. But it 
is a society that 
makes it much more 
difficult to be a male, 
especially in all those 
assertive, productive 
aspects of life on 
which civilization de- 
pends. Where the up- 
bringing fits most 
women, it fits only a 
few men. 

But receptivity is 
only one of the two 
modes of behavior 
that are appropriate 
to the mouth of the 
young child. The 
mouth is also a grasp- 
ing, demanding or- 
gan, and the smallest 
infant’s toothless gums are able to chew 
savagely on a breast that does not yield it 
satisfaction. 

We find among the Iatmul head-hunters 
both the receptive and the demanding be- 
havior. From birth the baby is handled as if 
it were capable of a will of its own, and im- 
mediately after birth, before the mother has 
milk, the wet nurse thrusts her nipple into its 
mouth with cherishing care, but also with a 
touch of the gesture with which mothers later 
stop their babies’ temper tantrums by thrust- 
ing their nipples into their mouths like corks 
into soda-water bottles. 

As soon as the Iatmul child is a few weeks 
old, the mother no longer carries it every- 
where with her, or sits with it on her lap, but 
instead places it at some distance on a high 
bench, where it must cry lustily before it is 
fed. Assured that it is hungry, the mother 
feeds it generously and easily, but a baby 
that has had to cry hard for its food eats 
more definitely. Before the baby has any 
teeth, it is given pieces of hard bird meat to 
gnaw on, and when its teeth begin to come in, 
it cuts them on round shell ornaments that 
hang around the mother’s neck. 

The child learns an attitude toward the 
world: that if you fight hard enough, some- 
thing will yield—and that anger and self- 
assertion will be rewarded. 

The Mundugumor women actively dislike 
childbearing, and they dislike children. Chil- 
dren are carried in harsh opaque baskets 
that scratch their skins; later, high on their 
mother’s shoulders, well away from the 
breast. Mothers nurse their children stand- 
ing up, pushing them away as soon as they 
















2 the least bit satisfied. Here we find a 
aracter developing that stresses angry, 
ger avidity. In later life love-making is 
nducted like the first round of a prize fight, 
d biting and scratching are important 
rts of foreplay. When the Mundugumor 
ured an enemy they ate him, and laughed 
ey told of it afterward. 

In some cultures, adults are less interested 
the mouth and more concerned with train- 
jg the child to an early control of his bowels. 
ne later transfer to the genitals of attitudes 
cused on elimination makes for prudery, 
iste, lack of pleasure and foreplay in inter- 
urse. 

We find among the Manus tribe a group of 
ficient puritans, where women never swing 
leir grass skirts, girls are never allowed to 
it. Between husbands and wives sex is a 
sty, covert, shameful matter; and other- 
se it is adultery, heavily punished. Women 
iid men both participate importantly in the 
jligious system, both conduct economic af- 
lirs. If a man is stupid, his relatives seek for 
m a bright wife to compensate for his de- 
tiencies. The sex act becomes a sort of shared 
-cretion, and the attitudes that both sexes 
ave learned during childhood come into 
‘ay, not equally, for the female’s sexual role 
'completely derogated, while the man is to 
(degree continuing an enjoined activity. 
Alternatively again, a people may feed 
jeir infants in matter-of-fact fashion, take 
imination with the greatest casualness, and 
»mmunicate with them instead by the way 
_which they carry them, confine their arms 
id legs, exert pressure on their skins, and 
attern the interplay between child and car- 
er. The Balinese conduct some communica- 
on through the mouth letting the infant 
‘ink freely from an upturned breast, but 
ling soft food on its mouth, when it is 
one and helpless. 

But most of the Balinese child’s learning is 
cused on his whole body, on his mother’s 
arrying him as a part of her body; he is pas- 
ve and relaxed, swinging in a sling as she 
ds rice or works with rapid rhythmic 
ements. When small children put their 


Beautiful to see, 
beautiful to wear... 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 129 


fingers in their mouths exploringly, the em- 
phasis seems to be on the sensation on the 
surface of the finger rather than upon the 
sensations from the lips or the mouth cavity. 
Love affairs are matters of the eyes, foreplay 
is almost completely concentrated in a 
glance-exchanging courtship; and the sense 
of tension falls quickly from this first clash of 
feeling. 


We look next at the way in which these 
South Sea peoples have patterned the rela- 
tive roles of men and women. Not only do 
they give us clues to possibilities in our own 
society, but also they make it possible for us 
to see more clearly some of the basic rela- 
tionships between men and women. 

Perhaps in the mid-twentieth century in 
the United States of America it is harder to 
think about the simple bodily outlines of our 
humanity than it was in early periods. 
We are living in one of those tempo- 
rary swings of the pendulum when, reflecting 
the snatched promiscuity of war, we are go- 
ing in heavily for undecorousness in our ad- 
vertisements and in our speech. But the 
pin-up girl, however long her legs, does not 
make the man who pins her to his wall feel 
more at home with his body, or with hers. 
We are trained by our society to keep our 
bodies out of our minds. 

If we return to the small boy and the small 
girl living in a world where the bodies of 
males and females of all ages are slightly 
clothed and simply accepted, we find that 
the small girl learns that she is a female and 
that if she simply waits, she will someday be 
a mother. The small boy learns that he is a 
male and that if he is successful in manly 
deeds someday he will be a man. 

It seems possible that the presence of so 
many unmarried and childless women in 
Western society may be one of the factors 
that mute the male’s sense that women bear 
children and he does not, and increase his 
feeling that women are imperfect men. Sim- 
ilarly, in modern society the little girl, watch- 
ing the women around her, is no longer given 
the sure sense that “‘because I am a girl 


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Copyright 1949 by Botany Mills, (nc. *“Botany” is a trademark of Botany Mills, Inc. Registered in the U. S. Patent Office. ; 





128 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


JENI FREELAND 
a SweetHeart 


Cover Girl 
Yee 4 
4 
D Find 
on 


AND SWEETHEART IS MY BEAUTY SOAP 
say 9 out of 10 Cover Girls! 


e° We questioned the gorgeous girls on the covers of 
America’s leading magazines this year. You see them 
on newsstands right now. “What beauty soap do you 
use?”’ we asked. And 9 out of 10 gave the same answer 


... SweetHeart Soap.” 


"T owe Ao much tr 
Sweat Heatt Care" 


says JENI FREELAND, Stunning Cover Girl 


“To earn top modeling fees, a cover 
girl must have a peaches-and-cream 
complexion. And I’ve found noth- 
ing else that compares to SweetHeart 
Care. It makes my skin look creamy 
smooth, radiantly fresh and young.” 


e You may be letting happiness slip 
through your fingers until you dis- 
cover the true beauty of your com- 





SweetHearr 


The Soap that AGREES with Your Skin 


plexion. For that dewy-fresh, young 
look is wonderfully appealing! So 
profit from the experience of glam- 
orous cover girls. 


Use only pure, mild SweetHeart 


Soap for daily complexion care. 
SweetHeart’s velvety lather feels 
heavenly gentle on your skin. For its 
Floating Lift is an amazing beauty 
action. You'll quickly see its beauty 
benefits! One week after you change 
from improper care, your skin looks 
softer, smoother, younger. 


“Deaily in amg uriners, tho! 


© Nadine Koehne, 10 months old, has started her mod- 
eling career. Chances are she'll grow up to be a lovely 
cover girl! For her mother guards the delicate beauty 
of Nadine’s skin with pure, mild SweetHeart Soap. 
© Today get gentle SweetHeart 
im the new, large bath size. 





September, 1949 


MALE AND FEMALE 


(Continued from Page 37) 


poles or to a piece of rattan hung from the ceil- 
ing, whether she is segregated among females 
or held around the waist by her husband, sits 
in the middle of a group of gaming visitors or 
is strapped on a modern delivery table—the 
child receives a sharp initial contact with the 
world as it is pulled, hauled, dropped, 
pitched from its perfectly modulated even 
environment into a world where temperature, 
pressure and nourishment are all different, 
and where it must breathe to live. 

In our own society, our images of the care- 
fully guarded rituals of the delivery room 
overlay any realization of what a shock birth 
is. The shock is easy enough to realize when 
the baby is born on an unsheltered hillside, 
where the mother and attending women 
crouch shivering over a tiny fire until finally 
the baby falls with a soft little thud ona cold, 
dew-coated leaf—to be left there, perhaps 
five minutes, while the mother herself cuts 
and ties the cord, 
packs up the pla- 
centa, and wipes out 
the baby’s eyes and 
nose. Only then can 
the squirming, ex- 
posed little creature 
be gathered up and 
laid against the 
mother’s breast. 

From the moment 
of birth — probably 
from before birth 
also—contrasting 
types of behavior can 
be distinguished in 
a mother’s attitude 
toward her child. 

The Arapesh treat 
a baby as a soft, vul- 
nerable little object, 
to be protected, fed, 
cherished. Not only 
the mother, but the 
father also, must 
play this over-all 
protective role. After 
birth the father ab- 
stains from work and 
sleeps beside the 
mother, and he must 
abstain from inter- 
course while the child 
is young, even with 
his other wife. When 
the mother walks about she carries the child 
slung beneath her breast in a dark cloth 
sling, or in a soft net bag in which the child 
still curls as he curled in the womb. When 
ever it is willing to eat it is fed, gently, 
interestedly. The receptiveness of the mouth 
is emphasized in both boys and girls. 


cheeks; 


seeks. 


room— 
bloom; 
minty, 


plenty; 


bite. 


Born boys and girls have learned about 
life from using their mouths. When they use 
their eyes, their eyes reflect the same passive 
expectancy. Eyes light up and mouths shout 
with excitement when some lovely color is 
presented to them, but hands do not reach 
aggressively. The Arapesh are a people among 
whom communication between infants and 
others has been very heavily specialized to 
one part of the body, the mouth, and to one 
aspect of that part, passive receptivity. 
Both sexes among the Arapesh, like other 
human beings, have the task of eventually 
learning to use their whole bodies in acts of 
sexual maturity that will procreate children. 
For the Arapesh female this is easy enough. 
To transfer an attitude of pleasant expect- 
ancy, of soft, optimistic retentiveness, from 
mouth to vulva, requires very little shift 
in attitude: One may see a neglected wife 
eagerly bringing her neglectful husband 
food, touchingly grateful if he eats it; but I 
never heard a woman complain about aman’s 
sexual competence. When the usual pattern 
of marriage is followed, in which the husband 
as a boy of twelve or fourteen begins to feed 
his betrothed wife, himself playing a role that 
his mother has played to him, and the mar- 
riage is not interrupted, the woman is in a 
psychological position that is the perfect de- 


KK ERS Se ee 


Ajfile 


By Pauline Havard 
Harvest the apples; gather them in 
For the cider press, for the apple bin: 
Golden apples from emerald trees, 
Like the fabled fruit of Hesperides; 
Small red apples like children’s 


The tart pie apples the housewife 


From orchards neat as a spinster’s 
Each fruit as sound as its flawless 

From little, lost orchards wild and 
The apples spill out of the horn of 


The flavor of summer prisoned tight, 
To the last, cool sip; to the last, long 


KR Kk * KS Se 


velopment of her childhood experience —pas- 
sive, dependent, cherished, In turn she treats 
her children in the same way. 


Bur what happens to the Arapesh male? 
What kind of preparation is it for living in 
rough mountain country, surrounded by 
tribes who are fierce head-hunters, to have 
learned that the major relationship to other 
people is either one of passive receptivity or 
one of provision of food and drink? The men 
in adulthood develop into heterosexual 
males, extremely distrustful of strange over- 
sexed women from other tribes who will take 
part of their semen and keep it for sorcery. 
Even with their own young wives, whom 
they have fed and cherished, there is not 
complete trust, but a ceremony at which the 
genital secretions of each are entrusted cere- 
monially to the other. They engage very lit- 
tle in warfare, they permit themselves to be 


blackmailed and in- . 


timidated and bribed 
by their more aggres- 
sive neighbors. When 
they hunt, they set 
traps and wait until 
the animal falls in. 

Thus the Arapesh 
form of child rearing 
stresses complemen- 
tariness in a form 
that is easily trans- 
formed by women 
into an adult fem- 
inine sex role. But it 
is a society that 
makes it much more 
difficult to be a male, 
especially in all those 
assertive, productive 
aspects of life on 
which civilization de- 
pends. Where the up- 
bringing fits most 
women, it fits only a 
few men. 

But receptivity is 
only one of the two 
modes of behavtor 
that are appropriate 
to the mouth of the 
young child. The 
mouth is also a grasp- 
ing, demanding or- 
gan, and the smallest 
infant’s toothless gums are able to chew 
savagely on a breast that does not yield it 
satisfaction. 

We find among the Iatmul head-hunters 
both the receptive and the demanding be- 
havior. From birth the baby is handled as if 
it were capable of a will of its own, and im- 
mediately after birth, before the mother has 
milk, the wet nurse thrusts her nipple into its 
mouth with cherishing care, but also with a 
touch of the gesture with which mothers later 
stop their babies’ temper tantrums by thrust- 
ing their nipples into their mouths like corks 
into soda-water bottles. 

As soon as the Iatmul child is a few weeks 
old, the mother no longer carries it every- 
where with her, or sits with it on her lap, but 
instead places it at some distance on a high 
bench, where it must cry lustily before it is 
fed. Assured that it is hungry, the mother 
feeds it generously and easily, but a baby 
that has had to cry hard for its food eats 
more definitely. Before the baby has any 
teeth, it is given pieces of hard bird meat to 
gnaw on, and when its teeth begin to come in, 
it cuts them on round shell ornaments that 
hang around the mother’s neck. 

The child learns an attitude toward the 
world: that if you fight hard enough, some- 
thing will yield—and that anger and self- 
assertion will be rewarded. 

The Mundugumor women actively dislike 
childbearing, and they dislike children. Chil- 
dren are carried in harsh opaque baskets 
that scratch their skins; later, high on their 
mother’s shoulders, well away from the 
breast. Mothers nurse their children stand- 
ing up, pushing them away as soon as they 


i erase 
snus 1 | 
Boy nt Wil! 
tua WI 
myct thes Cs 
jeg, CE 
pers (ive {me 
The false 
throug? {2 
tree fra 
ny wilt loot 
me ani tel 
io: moat ot 
ped 0 (ie 
vay fur) 
res 
rods ret 
i ments W 


¥ 









A 
fl 


/ 


, 
d 





2 the least bit satisfied. Here we find a 
aracter developing that stresses angry, 
ger avidity. In later life love-making is 
nducted like the first round of a prize fight, 
d biting and scratching are important 
rts of foreplay. When the Mundugumor 
ured an enemy they ate him, and laughed 
ey told of it afterward. 
In some cultures, adults are less interested 
the mouth and more concerned with train- 
jg the child to an early control of his bowels. 
ne later transfer to the genitals of attitudes 
cused on elimination makes for prudery, 
liste, lack of pleasure and foreplay in inter- 
‘urse. 
| We find among the Manus tribe a group of 
|icient puritans, where women never swing 
leir grass skirts, girls are never allowed to 
rt. Between husbands and wives sex is a 
jisty, covert, shameful matter; and other- 
|se it is adultery, heavily punished. Women 
id men both participate importantly in the 
ligious system, both conduct economic af- 
irs. If a man is stupid, his relatives seek for 
'm a bright wife to compensate for his de- 
jlencies. The sex act becomes a sort of shared 
lcretion, and the attitudes that both sexes 
we learned during childhood come into 
lay, not equally, for the female’s sexual role 
|completely derogated, while the man is to 
(degree continuing an enjoined activity. 
| Alternatively again, a people may feed 
\eir infants in matter-of-fact fashion, take 
limination with the greatest casualness, and 
»mmunicate with them instead by the way 
| which they carry them, confine their arms 
id legs, exert pressure on their skins, and 
attern the interplay between child and car- 
er. The Balinese conduct some communica- 
con through the mouth letting the infant 
‘ink freely from an upturned breast, but 
ling soft food on its mouth, when it is 
-one and helpless. 
But most of the Balinese child’s learning is 
‘cused on his whole body, on his mother’s 
urying him as a part of her body; he is pas- 
ve and relaxed, swinging in a sling as she 
ds rice or works with rapid rhythmic 
‘évements. When small children put their 





tte hit momo 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 129 


fingers in their mouths exploringly, the em- 
phasis seems to be on the sensation on the 
surface of the finger rather than upon the 
sensations from the lips or the mouth cavity. 
Love affairs are matters of the eyes, foreplay 
is almost completely concentrated in a 
glance-exchanging courtship; and the sense 
of tension falls quickly from this first clash of 
feeling. 


We look next at the way in which these 
South Sea peoples have patterned the rela- 
tive roles of men and women. Not only do 
they give us clues to possibilities in our own 
society, but also they make it possible for us 
to see more clearly some of the basic rela- 
tionships between men and women. 

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children and he does not, and increase his 
feeling that women are imperfect men. Sim- 
ilarly, in modern society the little girl, watch- 
ing the women around her, is no longer given 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


someday I will have a baby.” The difference 
between the sexes that is forced home on 
children in our world of walled-in, self-con- 
tained flats has to do with differences in 
occupation, in dress, in privilege. All women 
do not have babies, but most men don’t 
have to wash dishes. It is men who are 
fliers and gangsters and ship captains and 
policemen, men who win the ski jumps and 
become Presidents. 

3ut in societies where every woman mar- 
ries, and even the sterile woman is likely to 
adopt a child, where pregnancy is an obtru- 
sive and interesting event, little boys do learn 


that they cannot have babies, however much | 


they may play that they can and express 


those wishes later collectively in ceremonies | 


that imitate gestation and childbearing. True, 
the social scene, the arrangements of men and 
women into families, the words of kinship, 
tell them that they will be fathers, but being 
a father is much harder to grasp than being a 
mother. The little girl places her hand firmly 
against her mother’s swelling belly; there is a 
baby, and someday within her own body, 
shaped like her mother’s, there will also be a 
baby. 


His equipment for love is manifest to the 
very small boy—but what is it to be a father? 
This is something that goes on outside one’s 
own body, in the body of another. Further- 
more, it takes a very long time. For small 
children, the whole question of impregnation, 
followed so many months later by birth, is far 
more difficult to grasp than are gestation and 
birth. 

Whether or not adults show an active or a 
prohibitory interest in infant genitalia, chil- 


dren themselves become differentially aware | 


of them. Both sexes experience moments of 
heated orgiastic pleasure, and boys seem to 
associate these more easily with their genitals 
than do girls. Both sexes learn that the differ- 
ing names and phrases and behaviors that 
have been meted out to them as a boy, or 
girl, a “‘small male”’ or a “small female,” a 
“‘male thing’”’ or a “‘female thing,”’ are spe- 
cially relevant to their genitals. This learn- 
ing will have very different meanings, how- 
ever, to the extent that the small child is able 
to experience directly the continuity between 
its small child’s body and the adult’s. 

Recently in the United States there was an 
epidemic of parents’ attempts to protect their 
children from some of the misconceptions 
that psychoanalysis had discovered in 
neurotic patients by letting their children see 
them nude. When the next crop of neurotics, 
this time small children, reached the consult- 
ing room, a new alarm was set up: the clini- 
cians reported that children were still fright- 
ened and confused and unaccepting of their 
Sex. 

These well-meaning reformers had missed 
a serious link in the chain of learning. What 
the child receives in a primitive society, and 
what he is coming closer and closer to re- 
ceiving on our bathing beaches today, is the 
assurance that there is a continuous series of 
steps between his small body and that of an 
adult. The little boy needs to see the changes 
in body form and hair, the gradually develop- 
ing genitals, the spreading hair on chest and 
armpits, the first soft facial down that no 
razor will recognize, to bind his sense of him- 
self, still so small and undeveloped, to the 
man he will become. And the little girl, to be 
equally assured, needs to be one of a series of 
girls, up through the nubile girl with budding 
breasts to the mature young woman, and fi- 
nally to the just pregnant, the fully pregnant, 
and the postparturient and suckling mother. 
This is what happens in primitive societies in 
which the body is hardly covered. The full 
pageant of human development from early 
childhood to full maturity is visible. 

But let us consider those societies in which 
the small child does experience all the normal 
growth and expression of the adult body. 
There are no blind spots in the language 
that prevent anyone’s calling his penis by any 
name at all, or which devalue it and make 
it seem to vanish away, as can happen in 
languages in which prudery has robbed the 
human tongue of any words for the organs 
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jon with acts of excretion. People speak 
him of his penis as they do of his arms 
legs, his eyes or nose. It is something 
t he has, indubitably, definitely. He js 
ale. He is small, but someday by the steps 
le sees represented by the growing boysabout 
gm he will be an adult. He will be a man and 
ill not be a woman. 

To the small naked children, running 
ightly in the sun beneath the palm trees. the 
ittle girl’s sex membership is as clear as her 
brother’s, but her femininity is concealed 
deep within her, nothing that she can touch 
and see, depend upon or flaunt. 

The little girl in such a society also sees 
pregnancy treated with the greatest openness 
and simplicity. Childbirth itself may be 
shrouded from all but adult eyes. But no- 
where in any of these societies is pregnancy 
concealed. “I Wajan is pregnant, someday 
you will be pregnant. My! what a fat little 
tummy you have! Are you perhaps pregnant 
now?”’ In Bali, little girls between two and 
three walk much of the time with purposely 
thrust-out little bellies, and the older women 
tap them playfully as they pass. ‘‘ Pregnant,” 
they tease. So the little girl learns that al- 
though thesignsof her membershipin herown 
sex are slight, her breasts mere tiny buttons 
no bigger than her brother’s, her genitals a 
simple inconspicuous fold, someday she will 
be pregnant, someday she will have a baby. 
And having a baby is one of the most excit- 
ing and conspicuous achievements that can 
be presented to the eyes of small children in 
these simple worlds, in some of which the 
largest buildings are only fifteen feet high, 
the largest boats some twenty feet long. Fur- 
thermore, the little girl learns that she will 
have a baby not because she is strong or en- 
ergetic, but simply be- 
cause she 7s a girl and 
not a boy. Her sex 
membership may not be 
sO conspicuous now as 
her brother’s membership, 
but she has only to wait 
—someday—she will have a_ baby. 
But however clear the small boy may be 
that he is a male, there still remains the prob- 
lem of identification with an adult. He may 
know he will be a man, but this is no surer 
guaranty that he wishes to be a man than in 
our equally lopsided Western society a girl’s 
knowledge that she is a girl is any guaranty 
that she will want to be awoman. In fact, there 
is a strong possibility that the unsatisfactori- 


the more vivid if one’s sense of sex member- 
ship is clear and unequivocal at the age when 
only the most salient and conspicuous aspects 
of the opposite sex role can be seen: that 
women make babies, and that men ride 
horses, and kill enemies. 


‘These seven South Sea societies give us 
practically every variation on this particular 
theme. In Samoa and in Bali, the child grows 
up in a two-sex world. In Samoa the baby 
learns to respect the head of the household 
not because he is a man, but because he is the 
matai, headman. Both~boys and girls are 
equally shooed away, and both creep back to 
watch a feast or a pair of lovers in the moon- 
light. In ceremonials, the men have their 
feasts and the women theirs, but the greatest 
feasts of all are when the faupou, the cere- 
monial princess, and the high chief, or the 
manaia, the heir apparent, dance together, 
each wearing headdresses of human hair. 
Neither boys nor girls are hurried or pressed. 
Sureness of one’s own sex, and a picture of 
the adult world in which men and women 
both have satisfactory roles, combine to make 
it possible for Samoans to develop into easy, 
balanced human beings. 
Bali, inmany ways, contrasts sharply with 
Samoa. Samoan life is characterized by ease, 
long moonlight evenings in which people 
the same simple dances and effortlessly 
applaud a joke heard many times before. 
Balinese life is instead a highly elaborated 
razor edge, in which people whose emotions 
during childhood have been first tautened 
and then slackened turn from personal rela- 
tionships to endlessly complicated and inter- 
| woven artistic and religious forms. Women 
spend days making intricate offerings, men 


The heart is always hungry. 


ness of one’s own sex role—as an adult—is all . 
, odile, the novices are taken, after bullyings, 


131 


practice for months to perfect some orchestral 
piece, small children may be trained to dance 
in trance on live coals. Yet here also, men and 
women are not segregated, except as men 
sometimes have their ceremonies.and women 
have their counterparts of them. 

Among the Manus also there is a fair de- 
gree of even-handedness in the economic and 
religious life of a village. What is most signif- 
icant in Manus culture is a devaluation of sex, 
and ofthe husband-and-wife tie. The prudery, 
the equation of the sex act with exeretion, 
the close tie between women and property, 
the pivoting of all economic arrangements 
on marriage, so that adultery is always a 
threat against the economic system, all serve 
to make the woman’s lot less attractive than 
man’s. If women gossip, the male ghosts get 
very angry; if women sin with anyone, the 
ghosts make trouble. But Manus men may 
sin freely beyond the borders of the tribe, 
beyond their own tribesmen’s economically 
Important women. 


ALL this reacts on the children. When a 
woman has a child, she is isolated from her 
husband for a whole month, until he can re- 
deem her with a large payment to her brother, 
and meanwhile he is free to play about the 
village with the dispossessed older child. The 
tie between father and son formed in these 
early years is warm and durable, but the small 
girl first becomes attached to her father, and 
then, at five or six, must return to the women, 
because the taboos connected with marriages 
and prospective marriages would embarrass 
the men and boys among whom her father 
and brother move freely. Her identification 
with the female group is never so happy or so 
complete as her brother’s withthe male group. 

On the New Guinea 
mainland most peoples 
practice some variety of 
male initiation. The initi- 
atory cult assumes that 
men can become men only 
by men’s ritualizing birth 
and taking over—as a collective group— 
the functions that women perform natu- 
rally. 

Each Iatmul village boasts one large men’s 
house or more, built to stand for many dec- 
ades if not burned down in an enemy raid, 
with its attic filled with the great slit gongs, 
flutes, masks and all the impressive para- 
phernalia of the men’s cult. For initiations a 
great enclosure of leaves is built. Into this, 
sometimes through a gate shaped like a croc- 


scarifications and humiliations, to take their 
places with the adult men in the men’s house, 
which is appropriately enough called a womb. 
The initiatory myths recount how the sacred 
noisemaking objects were originally discov- 
ered by women, who gave the secret to men, 
and even entreated the men to kill them so 
that they, the men, might keep the secret for 
all time. 

The Mundugumor have done something 
quite different with the initiatory system. 
Upon the kinship patterns of the area, they 
have built a system that has divided man 
from man more thoroughly than any other 
known kinship system. Lineages are called 
ropes, and consist of a man, his daughters, his 
daughters’ sons, his daughters’ sons’ daugh- 
ters, and so on. All valuables, including the 
sacred objects that belong to the men’s cult, 
pass down these lines. If a woman has two 
sons, who would then belong to the same 
rope, a taboo divides them. Boys and girls 
alike grow up in a world that is hostile and 
divided against itself. There is no men’s 
house in which all the men gather, for no two 
men sit down comfortably together. The unit 
of society is the compound, where a man’s 
wives maintain an uneasy co-operation, and 
his daughters a certain degree of solidarity, 
while each mother turns her son into an 
enemy both of his father and of his half 
brothers. Initiation is no longer a collective 
act in which males are welded together, but a 
display given by an important man, in 
which those who have not been initiated can 
be cut and bullied by the already initiated. 
Girls are permitted to be initiated merely 
by observing taboos. 

(Continued on Page 133) 









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(Continued trom Page 131) 

In such a society women are handicapped 
by their womanly qualities. Pregnancy and 
nursing are hated and avoided if possible, and 
men detest their wives for being pregnant. 

It will be profitable to examine the under- 
lying structure of this initiatory cult. In our 
Occidental view of life, woman, fashioned 
from man’s rib, can at the most strive un- 
successfully to imitate man’s superior powers 
and higher vocations. The basic theme of the 
initiatory cult is that women, by virtue 
of their ability to make children, hold the 
secrets of life. Men’s role is uncertain, un- 
defined, and perhaps unnecessary. By a great 
effort man has hit upon a method of com- 
pensating himself for his basic inferiority. 
Equipped with various mysterious noise- 
making instruments whose potency rests 
upon their actual form’s being unknown to 
those who hear the sounds—that is, the 
women and children must never know that 
they are really bamboo flutes, or hollow logs, 
or bits of wood whirled on strings—men can 
get the male children away from the women, 
brand them as incomplete, and themselves 
turn boys into men. Women, it is true, make 
human beings, but only men can make men. 
Sometimes more overtly ,sometimes less, these 
imitations of birth go on, as the initiates are 
swallowed by the 
crocodile that repre- 
sents the men’s group 
and come out new- 
born at the other end; 
as they are housed in 
wombs, or fed on 
blood, fattened, hand- 
fed, and tended by 
male ‘‘mothers.’’ 
Behind the cult lies 
the myth that insome 
way all this was stolen 
from the women. 

To the Occidental, 
bred in a society that 
has exalted the 
achievements of men 
and depreciated the 
role of women, this 
all seems far-fetched, 
perhaps the more far- 
fetched when he real- 
izes that the men who 
depend for their sense 
of manhood on a fan- 
tasy structure of bamboo flutes are bold 
and fierce head-hunters. But if whole societies 
can build their ceremonial upon an envy of 
women’s role and a desire to imitate it, it 
should be easier to explore the possibility 
that envy of the other sex, or doubt of the 
authenticity of one’s own sex, is a possibility 
in the life history of both sexes. 


» hill, 


still. 


way 


that day 


Ass children reach four or five years of age, 
their own preoccupation with their sex and 
the preoccupation with it of the adults around 
them increases. The fact that in all these so- 
cieties it is girls who are permanently clothed 
first is again an expression that they are wait- 
ing women, while the boys have manhood 
still to achieve. Older boys and men find lit- 
tle girls of four and five definitely female and 
attractive, and that attractiveness must be 
masked and guarded. It seems that the more 
completely women’s femininity—as a posi- 
tive point, not a mere negation of maleness— 
is recognized, the more they are taught to 
protect it. A small girl, chic and entrancing, 
is sufficiently a temptation to a grown man so 
that societies usually have devices to protect 
her, circumscribe her, teach her not to ex- 
hibit her sex, which she herself lacks the 
wisdom to moderate. 
As little boys and little girls reach the age 
* at which they are experimenting with their 
own budding sexuality, they also reach a 
crisis in their relations with adults that in 
psychoanalytical theory has been technically 
called the Oedipus situation, for the Greek 
myth of Oedipus, who killed his father and 
marred mother. This is the period in 
whichc#ildren who are capable of intense feel- 
ing and capacity for pleasure, but without 
the degree of maturation necessary for adult 
procreative relations, must come to terms 
both with their parents and with their own 


FOR OR ORM en RIDE 


ss M ly SE oe 


By Elizabeth MeFarland 


Dear to me was the little brook 
And the path stumbling over the 


But dearer far the warm boy look 
And the hand that clasps mine 


The little brook trills its aimless 


And the path has far to roam, 
But the hand that found my hand 


Guided my footsteps home. 


mt keke KK Kk Kk OK OK 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“try em both 


SALE !” 


immaturity. The boy must give up part of 
his passionate attachment to his mother and 
his rivalry with his father, the girl her at- 
tachment to her father and her rivalry with 
her mother. Each must accept the own-sex 
parent as in some way a model for their own 
future behavior. At the same time they must 
accepta postponement of full sex satisfaction, 
and this includes a recognition that their 
parents belong to each other, and not to the 
children. 


In all societies, we find among boys some 
manifestations of what psychoanalysts call 
latency, a period in which overt interest in 
sex is discontinued, and the boys live in a 
world of their own, indifferent or openly hos- 
tile to girls. They have outgrown the eagerly 
accepted sensations of childhood, and they 
are not yet ready for the more sophisticated 
pleasures of adulthood. 

Certainly the age of five or six does pre- 
sent the child with a dilemma as to what he 
is going to do for the next seven or eight 
years about his relationships with adults, 
with the other sex and with his own body. 
This dilemma is sharpened when the child 
lives in a small biological family, his only 
female companion a mother who has fed and 
tended him lovingly and has developed in 
him a great depen- 
dency, and his male 
companion a father 
who, however 
friendly, is yet a rival 
for that mother’s 
love. 

The child of five or 
six is also at a stage of 
consolidating all that 
he or she has learned 
¢ so far and reshaping 
it into an approach to 
a wider world. Still 
close to the mother, 
at whose breast there 
is another baby—if 
not her own then a 
neighbor’s— shep- 
herding younger 
brothers and sisters 
whose control over 
their elimination is 
still uncertain, faced 
with a realization of 
his or her sex, the 
child’s behavior now will shape its later life 
deeply. The necessity for this lies in the long 
interval between human beings’ capacity to 
feel sex emotions and their readiness for 
parenthood. But it lies also deeply in the 
nature of the human family, in the circum- 
stance that parents were once children, and 
that their adultness is built upon their child- 
hood experience. As the father watches his 
five-year-old son posturing with a spear, 
sending an arrow straight to its mark, bid- 
ding for the mether’s breast or being pushed 
sharply away as too old for such indulgence, 
he lives again his own feelings when he at the 
same age was treated in the same way. 

In primitive societies we find that the role 
the father plays toward the child, the role of 
the mother, the role of the wife, are suffi- 
ciently stylized so that each individual father 
stands against the stylized picture. One often 
hears in our society, “If his father had been 
a different sort of man, then his problems 
would have been quite different.” But it 
would be even truer to comment also, “If he 
had been born into a society with a different 
form of fatherhood . . .’’ Where the style of 
fatherhood calls for great strength and dig- 
nity, a weak father threatens the develop- 
ment of the son so that that son has a lesser 
chance than his neighbors. But where the 
style of fatherhood calls for a friendly, easy- 
going father, then a strong, self-contained, 
powerful father becomes the threat. Even in 
our society, in which each small family is so 
isolated from others, there is still a style to 
which individual actions are referred, albeit 
faultily. 

Cultures differ very much in the extent to 
which children are permitted to play out and 
experiment with their sexuality. The Samo- 
ans condone light love affairs, but repudiate 
acts of passionate choice, and have no real 













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place for anyone who would permanently 
continue, in spite of social experiences to the 
contrary, to prefer one woman or one man to 
amore socially acceptable mate. The demand 
that one should be both receptive to the ad- 
vances of many lovers and yet capable of 
showing the tokens of virginity at marriage 
is sufficiently incompatible, and was solved 
first by placing the onus of virginity not on 
the whole young female population, but on 
the faupou, the ceremonial princess of the 
village. She was then better guarded than 
other girls and thus freed from temptation. 
As an additional protection, the blood of vir- 
ginity could always be counterfeited. The 
laupou who failed to warn her chaperons that 
she was not a virgin, and so on her wedding 
night shamed her village, risked being beaten 
to death—not for her frailty, but for her fail- 
ure to make an adequate provision of chicken 
blood. Marriages were arranged between 
families, with some attention to the wishes 
of the young, and the young in turn 
conducted with suitable partners the long 
liaisons that led to pregnancy and were re- 
garded as appropriate 
preparations for mar- 
riage, and reserved 
quick affairs ‘‘under 
the palm trees’’ for 
the unsuitable mates. 
Premarital affairs and 
extramarital affairs 
were conducted with 
enough lightness not to 
threaten the reliablesex 
relationships between 
married couples, sex re- 
lationships so reliable 
that they have now 
underwritten one of the 
highest population in- 
creases recorded in the 
modern world. 

The Samoan mother 
nurses her child gener- 
ously, or if she lacks 
milk a wet nurse nurses 
him; nursing is a slight 
but very specific phys- 
ical relationship. How- 
ever, he is given food, 
consoled, carried about 
by all the women of the 
large households, and 
later carried about the 
village by child nurses 
who cluster together 
with their charges on 
their hips. He is fed when he is hungry, 
carried when he is tired, allowed to sleep 
when he wills. If he does wrong—cries and 
disturbs the dignity of some consultation 
going on among the elders, defecates in the 
house, or has a temper tantrum—it is not 
he who is punished, but the child nurse whose 
duty it is to keep him out of such difficulties. 


Higginson: 


cordingly given 


ister and people. 


Wauen children are five or six they shift 
from being protected against the damage 
their own exorbitant demands and unregu- 
lated impulses might inflict on the dignity of 
life. The little girls in turn become child 
nurses, who must carry other babies out of 
earshot. The little boys begin to tag after the 
bigger boys, learning to fish, swim, handle a 
canoe. The girls’ attention is focused on do- 
mestic life and caring for babies, who are 
regarded as pretty tough and so more of a 
burden than a responsibility. The boys’ 
attention is shifted to being at the bottom of 
a ladder of skill and virtuosity, eager to 
be accepted by the older boys. The seeming 
miracle of transformation from demanding, 
uncontrolled youngsters to sober little 
child nurses and bait collectors goes on. 
The break between the boys’ group andthe 
girls’ group is fairly strong at this stage, and 
is reinforced by the strongest taboo of 
Samoan society, the brother-and-sister taboo. 
This includes not only one’s own sisters, but 
cousins, and of course all the girls of one’s 
own household. Brothers and sisters must 
never talk together casually or lightly, must 
never walk together or touch each other, or 
participate in the same informal pleasure- 
seeking group. As a fourth or even a third of 
the girls in one’s own village may be called 


ISLE 5S 
RELIGIOUS TOLERANCE 


17-Century Style 


In the Year of Our Lord 1682. 
To Ye Aged and Beloved, Mr. John 


There be now at sea a ship called 
Welcome, which has on board 100 or 
more of the heretics and malignants 
called Quakers, with W. Penn, who 
is the chief scamp, at the head of 
them. The General Court has ac- 
sacred 
Master Malachi Huseott, of the brig 
Porpoise, to waylay the said Wel- 
come slyly as near the Cape of Cod 
as may be, and make captive the 
said Penn and his ungodly crew, so 
that the Lord may be glorified and 
not mocked on the soil of this new 
country with the heathen worship 
of these people. Much spoil can be 
made of selling the whole lot to 
Barbadoes, where slaves fetch good 
prices in rum and sugar, and we 
shall not only do the Lord great good 
by punishing the wicked, but we 
shall make great good for His Min- 


Yours in the bowels of Christ, 


September, 1949 


“sister,” this effectively divides the older 
children’s groups bent on mischief and fun 
into one-sex groups. It also breaks the tie be- 
tween child nurse and young charge, when 
the young charge is a boy. 


‘lie brother-and-sister relationship is the 


focus of the male child’s break from a lusty © 


emotion-indulging early childhood in which 
he had his slightly older sister at his beck and 
call to a later childhood as a very small, very 
unimportant, very unskilled male in the older 
boys’ group. Nothing is enforced hurriedly; 
he simply learns, by watching others, that he 
is reaching the age where on his own initia- 
tive he sets a barrier between himself and 
his impulsive and irresponsible childhood, 
Throughout the whole period of early adoles- 
cence, boys and girls move in separate groups, 
maintaining their separateness by a certain 
degree of ceremonial hostility, sometimes 
verbal, sometimes in pitched battles with 
light missiles. Later, as each becomes ready, 
the girls are chosen for first love affairs by 
older boys who have been initiated into full 
sex experience by older 
girls. In each sex part- 
nership, one of the part- 
ners is expected to be 
sure and practiced. 

The Samoan adult 
sex adjustment may be 
said to be one of the 
smoothest in the world. 
Passion and responsi- 
bility are so blended 
that children are loved 
and cared for and reared 
in large families that do 
not rely on some slen- 
der tie between two 
parents for their only 
security. The adult per 
sonality is stable 
enough toresist extraor- 
dinary pressures from 
the outside world and 
keep its serenity and 
sureness. 

The price they pay 
for their smooth sys- 
tem is the failure to use 
special gifts, special 
intelligence, special in- 
tensity. There is no 
place in Samoa for 
the man or woman 
capable of a great pas- 
sion, of complicated 
aesthetic feeling, of deep religious devotion. 

A Samoan father is far too occupied with 
the even-paced relationships to his whole 
social group, his emotion is too well diffused 
over his entire family, to feel the insistent de- 
sire of his small wriggling son for his mother 
as anything that either threatens him or in- 
terests him. Similarly, mothers do not turn 
from an unsatisfactory life with their hus- 
bands, to which they have brought demands 
that can never be fulfilled, to a hopeless crav- 
ing that their sons may satisfy those demands 
instead. Perhaps more sharply than in any 
known society, Samoan culture demonstrates 
how much the tragic or the easy solution of 
the Oedipus situation depends upon the in- 
terrelationship between parents and chil- 
dren, and is not created out of whole cloth by 
the young child’s biological impulses. 


orders to 


—COTTON MATHER, 


We may now turn from considering the 
ways in which the child learns about his or 
her sex role and look at the whole question 
from a different point of view. If any human 
society —large or small, simple or complex— 
is to survive, it must have a pattern of social 
life that comes to terms with the differences 
between the sexes. If we look over the whole 
known human world we may ask: What are 
the problems that must be solved if a society 





is to survive? One of these is how to set up@) [ f ®*« 


arhythm of activity and rest, work and play. 

We may note the contrasts between the 
life of a woman with its sharply defined 
transitions of menarche, defloweration, preg- 
nancy, birth, lactation and menopause, and 
the life of man, shading imperceptibly from 
childhood into youth, from youth into man- 
hood. We may look at the monthly cycle 


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135 


through which women pass, one of height- 
ened and lowered tension and receptivity, as 
the body prepares itself tirelessly for the 
impregnation that may come, but does not, 
and compare it with the fitful states of zest 
and moodiness in men, which, unless pegged 
to their wives’ periodicity, seem to have no 
rhythm out of which a calendar could be 
built. 

Finally, we have the claims of students 
of endocrinology and fatigue who suggest 
that women have a capacity for continuous 
monotonous work that men do not share, 
while men have a capacity for the mobiliza- 
tion of sudden spurts of energy followed by 
a need for rest and reassemblage of resources. 

So striking are these contrasts that one can 
see that if a culture were built to the rhyth- 
mic specifications and capacities of one sex, 
it would fit most unevenly and grossly the 
other sex, and that all cultures in which men 
and women share the work of the world must 
somehow be a compromise. 

The Balinese manifest less fatigue than 
any people of whom we have a record. Day 
and night the roads are filled with men and 
women running lightly under loads so heavy 
that it takes several people to lift them to 
the bearers’ heads or shoulders. Balinese pre- 
fer to summon many hands to every task, so 
that when a house is moved or a giant forty- 
foot tower is carried to the cemetery, a hun- 
dred men are assembled for the task, and none 
strains beneath it. There is no word for 
“tired,”’ but only a word that can be better 
rendered as “‘too tired,” used on the rare oc- 
casions when there is pressure, as when the 
men plow in the great exhibitionistic events, 
each man racing his bedizened oxen across 
the high, dry rice fields in the mountains, and 
then going home to sleep for many hours, ex- 
hausted. 


Bur just as the work rhythm of Bali does 
not draw on the capacity of men to put 
forth special effort, so also the calendar 
makes no compromises with female periodic- 
ity. Menstruation and pregnancy are both 
ceremonially disqualifying—a menstruating 
woman may not enter the temple, even the 
small garden-temple courtyard in her own 
home; pregnant women and women who 
have recently given birth may not enter the 
houses where special gods are kept, or ap- 
proach too closely to a priest. The calendar 
brooks no readjustment to suit these femi- 
nine rhythms. The feast arrives, and the 
menstruating women cannot attend. The 
child is born, and the parents who would have 
been an integral part of some great feast are 
not allowed to participate. Unconcedingly the 
calendrically determined life proceeds, and 
women, and men through women, are de- 
barred from participation. 

In the wildernesses of the Torricelle Moun- 
tains of New Guinea, where food is scarce, 
the underfed Arapesh men and women spend 
much of their time going up and down the 
steep slopes, the women’s jaws shut tight 
against the loads that hang from their fore- 
heads. All work is heavy work, all roads are 
too long. Women do all the routine carry- 
ing—their heads are said to be stronger. Men 
share in the small routines of everyday life, 
care of children, making the fire, but on the 
whole, the rhythm of the work is closer to the 
supposedly male type of spurts of energy. 
Characteristically, the handwork that has 
occupied women’s industrious hands in so 
many societies is absent. Women’s hands lie 
as inert as men’s after the day’s long climb. 

Among the Iatmul head-hunters the women 
work fairly steadily but cheerfully in groups. 
They are responsible for the daily catch of 
fish, for gathering firewood and carrying wa- 
ter, for cooking, and for plaiting the great 
cylindrical mosquito baskets that are minia- 
ture rooms to protect human beings against 
the ravenous mosquitoes. For most of their 
waking hours they are occupied, and they 
display very little fatigue or irritation against 
the continuous exactions of housekeeping 
and fishing. Men’s work is almost entirely 
episodic—house building, canoe building, 
communal hunts for crocodile in the dry sea- 
son or for small rodents by burning down the 
grassland, or devising the elaborate theatrical 
settings for ceremonial. 





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136 


The ability of the Iatmul woman to work 
steadily at unexciting tasks, and the disin- 
clination of latmul men for any such tasks, 
were prettily illustrated by an episode when 
we first came to the village of Tambunum. 
Weasked Tomi, one of the native men, to get 
some clay from the riverbank and stop up the 
crevices between the mosquito wire and the 
unevenly laid cement floor of our mosquito- 
room. Tomi fetched the clay, and halfheart- 
edly started to fill up the cracks. Then he 
sent for his five wives. He divided the clay 
into two parts, and gave one part to his 
wives to continue filling up the cracks. With 
the other he modeled a very handsome croco- 
dile to adorn the doorstep. 

The Iatmul take menstruation lightly; a 
menstruating woman is not supposed to cook 
for her husband unless she is out of temper 
with him and wishes to do him some mild 
harm. But due to the way in which latmul 
households are organized, with two families 
living in opposite ends of one house, and 
usually several extra wives, widows and un- 
married daughters about, this works no 
hardship for anyone. At childbirth the 
mother may return to her own family, where 
she will be relieved from work, but no heavy 
taboos are laid on the husband. Social pres- 
sure is mainly exerted against the iniquity of 
getting more than one wife pregnant at the 
same time, and men may be publicly rebuked 
by the elders of their clan:*‘ Who do you think 
you are, to have three wives pregnant at 
once? Who now will do the work in your 
house? Who will bring the firewood? You, I 
suppose!’’ Men must be aroused into work- 
ing sago even to feed their own families. The 
village air is shrill with the vituperations of 
wives goading their husbands by insult and 
invectives to work sago for their households. 


But there is another contrast between the 
sexes that is as striking as their different 
diurnal and monthly rhythms and the pres- 
ence and absence of pregnancy. That is the 
contrast in the plot of their lives. Women’s 
biological-career line has a natural climax 
structure that can be overlaid, muted, and 
publicly denied, but which remains as an es- 
sential element in both sexes’ views of them- 
selves. This special female climax structure 
carries with it the possibility of a greater em- 
phasis on states of being than does that of the 
male. A girl #s a virgin. After the breaking of 
the hymen, physically in case she has one, 
symbolically in case her hymen is structurally 
negligible, by extension she is nol a virgin. 
The young Balinese girl to whom one says, 
‘Your name is I Tewa?”’ and who draws 
herself up and answers, ‘‘I am Men Bawa”’ 
(‘Mother of Bawa’’) is speaking absolutely. 
She is the mother of Bawa; Bawa may die to- 
morrow, but she remains the mother of Bawa; 


September, 1949 


only if he had died unnamed would her neigh- 
bors have called her ‘ Men Belasin” (** Mother 
bereft"’). Stage after stage in women’s life 
histories thus stands, irrevocable, indisputa- 
ble, accomplished. This gives a natural basis 
for the little girl’s emphasis on being rather 
than on doing. The little boy learns that he 
must act like a boy, do things, prove that he 
is a boy, while the little girl learns that she is 
a girl, and all she has to do is to refrain from 
acting like a boy. 

Against the set of physical certainties that 
make up the biological picture of a woman's 
life, the virgin and the childless stand out in 
sharp relief, a contrast that can be given to 
men’s lives only by definite cultural elabora- 
tion. 


The little girl is a virgin; after deflowera- 
tion she is no longer a virgin; something 
definite, identifiable, has occurred that is 
very different from the boy’s gradual experi- 
mentation with copulation. Puberty for the 
girl is dramatic and unmistakable, while for 
the boy the long series of events comes slowly: 
uncertain and then deepening voice, growth 
of body hair, and finally ejaculations. There 
is no exact moment at which the boy can say, 
‘“*Now I am a man,” unless society steps in 
and gives a definition. One of the functions 
served by the variety of male initiation cere- 
monies is to punctuate a growth sequence 
that is inherently unpunctuated. 
Menarche is an important ceremony 
among the puritanical Manus, who from then 
on conceal all menstruations between me- 
narche and marriage. There is no word for 
“virgin” in the language, and bleeding from 
the rupture of the hymen is simply equated 
with menstruation, which is itself believed 
to be reactivated by marriage. At her first 
menstruation the Manus girl is given a great 
ceremony; the other girls of the village come 
to sleep in her house, there are large ex- 
changes of food and ceremonial and splash- 
ing parties in the lagoon; then absolute se- 
crecy descends upon the girl’s later menstru- 
ation. But the corresponding ceremony for 
boys, in which their ears are pierced and 
charms are said over them, is a pallid affair. 
Something has happened in the girl, which 
has changed her from one physical state to 
another; something has been done fo the boy, 
which puts him in a different social status. 
In Bali, the circumstance of childlessness 
is assimilated to a sense of choosing different 
paths. A Brahman girl may become a virgin 
priestess—and then she must not marry—or 
marry, and later become a priestess. In the 
mountain villages men and women who are 
childless can reach the next to the highest 
point in the social hierarchy, but if they have 
any children one must be a boy, or their 
(Continued on Page 138) 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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(Continued from Page 136) 
status is socially crippling. One may reach 
almost the highest status by childlessness, 
and the woman who remains unmarried is 
spoken of as “seeking heaven,” but for full 
status in this world a man must have a child, 
and that a male. 

But however much cultures may refash- 
ion the fact of childbearing, pregnancy re- 
mains conspicuous and unconcealable—ex- 
cept within the confines of great cities or 
complex societies—and the difference be- 
tween the woman who has borne a child and 
one who has not remains absolute. Some so- 
cieties may classify any conception—even a 
miscarriage of two or three weeks—as put- 
ting a woman over on the childbearing side; 
others may insist on the birth of a live child; 
and others may classify a woman whose chil- 
dren have all died, almost at any age, as vir- 
tually on the childless side. But a distinction 
remains, absolute, irreversible. 

Again at the menopause a sharp, irreversi- 
ble change takes place. Where reproductivity 
has been regarded as somewhat impure and 
ceremonially disqualifying—as in Bali—the 
postmenopausal woman and the virgin girl 
work together at ceremonies from which 
women of childbearing age are debarred. 
Where modesty of speech and action is en- 
joined on women, such behavior may be no 
longer asked from the older woman, who 
may use obscene language as freely as or more 
freely than any man. But again something 
happens to the woman, finally, in a way that 
nothing happens to a man. 

When human béings view their biological 
inheritance and consider to what extent they 
are bound by it, women appear at once as the 
more intractable material. Conception and 
birth are as stubborn con- 
ditions of life as death 
itself. Coming to terms 
with the rhythms of 
women’s lives means 
coming to terms with life 
itself, accepting the imper- 
atives of the body rather 
than the imperatives of an artificial, man- 
made, perhaps transcendentally beautiful 
civilization. Emphasis on the male work 
rhythm is an emphasis on infinite possi- 
bilities; emphasis on the female rhythms is 
an emphasis on a defined pattern, on limita- 
tion. 

Human beings may also find the less pat- 
terned biology of the male an open challenge. 
It is not surprising that the age which saw 
continents opened up, the earth mined, and 
the skies turned into ordered trafficways 
should have regarded the rhythms of the fe- 
male as primarily a nuisance and a handicap. 
It is not surprising that such an age should 
have concentrated on painless childbirth for 
“junior mom,” pills that keep you “looking 
at your best even on those days,”’ television 
baby tenders, artificial feeding, and “looking 
like a girl though a grandmother.” 

Much of the ill-tempered railing against 
women that has characterized the popular 
writing of the last two years is a halfhearted 
attempt to find a way back to a more bal- 
anced relationship between our biological 
selves and the world we have built. So women 
are scolded both for being mothers and for 
not being mothers, for wanting to eat their 
cake and have it too, and for not wanting to 
eat their cake and have it too, as one might 
say, ‘What has become of the irreversibles 
that have given part of the meaning to hu- 
man life?” 


Men and women of all civilizations have 
been in some way preoccupied with the prob- 
lem of what constitutes the specific values of 
humanity—in what ways, how irrevocably 
human beings are separated from the rest of 
the animal world. In this question lies man’s 
recognition that his physical humanity, his 
erect stature and the potential capacities of 
his brain do not constitute the full secret of 
his humanness. Not even in the long period 
of gestation lies any guaranty of continued 
humanness. We speak in our current folk 
language of the beast in man, of the thin ve- 
neer of civilization, and either statement sim- 
ply means that we do not trust mankind to 
be continuously human. 


After a bad crop, you 
should instantly sow again. 




































































September, 194 
When we survey all known human soci 
ties, we find everywhere some form of 
family, some set of permanent arrangeme: 
by which males assist females in caring 
children while they are young. The disti 
tively human aspect of the enterprise lies 
in the protection the male affords the fi 
males and the young—this we share 
the primates. Nor does it lie in the lordly po 
sessiveness of the male over females 
whose favors he contends with other male: 
this, too, we share with the primates. Its di 
tinctiveness lies in the nurturing behavior 
the male, who among human beings ever 
where helps provide food for women a 
children. 
Somewhere at the dawn of human histo 
males started nurturing females and the 
young. Which women and which childre 
are provided for is entirely a matter of soci 
arrangements, although the central patte 
seems to be that of a man’s providing for 
woman who is his sexual partner and wha 
ever children she may happen to have. 


From the moment that actual long 
ings between human beings develop in whic 
male and female live together, and her recer 
tivity is such that she is accessible to his dé 
sire at any time, a host of new problems fae 
human beings. The male’s achievement as 
lover becomes tangled with his need for 
wife, with his tie to the children, with 
standing in the community. And a wife is i 
all societies regarded as something mor 
than the object or the means of satisfactio 
of physical desire. , 

The instant that human relationships ar 
patterned with implications of courtship 
marriage, prestige, a good street address a 
the rest, the male's ir 
trinsic spontaneous 
choice is compromised bh 
his other desires. He wa 
to keep his wife—this 
mean sleeping with 
more or sleeping with 
less. ““Do you wives think 
demands the exacerbated Iatmul husba 
“that I am made of ironwood that I am ab 
to copulate with you as much as you want? 
“Copulation isrevolting,” say Manus wome! 
“The only bearable husband is one whose ad 
vances one can hardly feel.’’ Each culturé) 
stylizes the preferences of men and wome 19 Gu ie | 


in wives, husbands and lovers, and permit§ 


more or fewer individual differences to de} 
velop. Men and women reared in the sam@ 

culture will share the same sexual ideals. 
But male sexual functioning seems 
work most easily when it is most automatic 
Once male sex functioning is complicated b 
sets of ideas about sentimental love, or b 
prestige, moral qualms, theories of the re 
tionship between sex activity and athleti¢ 
prowess or religious vocation, that sex fune 
tioning may become that much less automat 
and reliable. It is not an accident that in th 
elite groups—the aristocracy, intellectuz 
artists—of all cultures there has develope 
a variety of subsidiary and supplementar 
practices designed to stimulate male desir 
They occur with startling regularity, while ii 
those portions of a population where there 
less choice, and fewer confusing ideas, copu 
lation is a simpler matter. 
Viewed against his mammalian bac 
ground, man may be seen to have, vis-a-vis’ 
the female, far greater powers of initiatiy 
than do the primates. But, perhaps as oneo 
the choice dilemmas that stud the history a 
living things, the very circumstance that co! 
solidates his initiative, the institution of hu 
man marriage, introduces many new com 
plications. Put succinctly, the more he 
thinks, the less may he copulate, unless copu 
lation and thought are skillfully integrated at 
each level. In general, it may be said that th 
more interpersonal sex relations become, th 
more the actual personality of each pa ' 
his mood, state of fatigue, feeling about tf 
world and the other person are taken into ae 
count, the more possibility there is that som 
reduction in actual sex activity may occ! 
It is fairly easy for a culture to regula 
the active behavior of human males, confin 
it to certain times and certain places; all thi 
(Continued on Page 140) 


ae 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





Betty Crocker 


BAKING HINTS FOR 
CREOLE CHOCOLATE CAKE 


J 
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|. You add all the liquid in the 
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2. Guide batter into beaters with Chocolate and Coffee And Cpice 


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BETTY CROCKER 
CREOLE CHOCOLATE CAKE 
This recipe developed for SOFTASILK CAKE FLOUR 
onxLyY! Follow It Exactly And Make An Ideal Cake. 
For success—do these first: Have all ingredients room 
temperature. Preheat oven to 350° (moderate). Grease 
generously and dust with flour 2 round layer pans, 
8-in. diameter, 114 -in. deep. Measure level with stand- 
ard measuring cups and spoons. Sift SOFTASILK 
then spoon lightly into cup and level off. Do not pack. 
Just before starting to mix cake, pour 4% cup boiling 
strong coffee or water into 114 sq. unsweetened chocolate 
(114 0z.), melted. Mix well and cool. 
1% cups sifted SOFTASILK Cake Flour 
14 cups sugar 
1 tsp. double-action baking powder 
1 tsp. soda 
1 tsp. salt 
Yq tsp. cloves, if desired 


*3/, cup (V4 cup plus 2 tbsp.) high 
grade shortening 
Add.........< the cooled chocolate mixture 
Y2 cup buttermilk or sour milk 


VY) tsp. vanilla 


Sift together 
into bowl.. 


Beat vigorously with spoon for 2 minutes by clock 
(about 150 strokes per minute). You may rest a 
moment when beating by hand; just count actual 
beating time or strokes. Or mix with electric mixer 
on medium speed for 2 minutes. Scrape sides and 
bottom of bowl constantly. 


_.) Ya to V2 cup unbeaten eggs 
(2 medium) 


Continue beating 2 more minutes, scraping 
bowl constantly. Pour batter into prepared 
pans. Bake 80 to 35 minutes in moderate oven 
(350°). Frost, when cool. Icing recipe below. 
*Such as Crisco, Spry, Swift’ning or Snowdrift. 


WHITE MOUNTAIN ICING—Stir until well 
blended in small saucepan, 14 cup sugar, 14 
cup white corn syrup, 2 tbsp. water. Boil 
rapidly until mixture spins 6 to S-in. thread 
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If you live at an altitude over 3,000 ft., write Betty 
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— A SPECIAL CAKE FLOUR fer AMERICAS FINEST CAKES 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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(Continued from Page 140) 
from their mothers, and from the way their 
fathers pat their heads or hold them, unwor- 
riedly, close to their bodies, that women are 
expected to be receptive, not actively or as- 
sertively sexed. That whole societies can ig- 


ger climax as an aspect of female sexuality 
ust be related to a very much lesser biologi- 


: % how many children to 


cal basis for such climax. 

There are no data that tie the capacity to 
conceive with an orgasm in the female in the 
same direct way that capacity to impregnate 
is tied to ejaculation in the male. There seems 
no reason for believing that orgasms in fe- 
males are of comparable importance for con- 
ception, in at least the majority of females. 
There seems, therefore, to be a reasonable 
basis for assuming that the human female’s 
capacity for orgasm is to be viewed much 
more as a potentiality that may or may not 
be developed by a given culture, or in the life 
history of an individual, than as an inherent 
part of her full humanity. 


Every human society is faced not with one 
population problem but with two: how to be- 
get and rear enough children, and how not to 
beget and rear too many. The definitions 
of “enough” and “too many” vary enor- 
mously. In a young colonial country or a ris- 
ing military state there cannot be too many 
healthy children. Agrarian peoples with a 
limited amount of 
landare faced with the 
necessity of keeping 
the population stable 
or of letting their 
young people emi- 
grate. Primitive 
peoples living on 
small infertile bits of 
land struggle inces- 
santly with the ques- 
tion of balance: how 
to get the right num- 
ber of boys and girls, 


save and rear. And at 
the primitive level, as 
in our complex mod- 
ern societies, there 
was also the fear that 
the reproduction rate 
would fall so low that 
the society would die 
out. Many small South Seas populations, 
without any new contraceptive practices, 
began to die out in the face of the white 
‘man’s advance. When the groups were very 
small they sometimes died out altogether. 
Larger groups reeled for a generation and 
then regained sufficient stability to go on. 

Such reductions in the birth rate may be 
an accurate measure of despair, but we still 
know very little about the mechanisms in- 
volved. Very often they cannot be referred 
to such simple social conditions as a later age 
of marriage or a lower marriage rate, or to 
overt practices like contraception, abortion 
and infanticide. Behind these age-old de- 


. vices there lies a subtler factor: A willing- 


ness or an unwillingness to breed that is 
deeply embedded in the character structure 
of both men and women. 


i = 
We have seen that there seems good basis 
for believing that man’s desire for children is 
learned as a very small child, either by iden- 
tification with or envy of the mother as a 
childbearer or by identification with the fa- 
ther in his complete socially defined role as 
the begetter of and provider for children. 
This learning is one of the most basic to the 
preservation of a human society. 

A psychiatrist working in the United 
States once summarized his experience: “‘I 
have never seen a woman socially and physi- 
cally able to have children, who refused to 

ve children, who did not suffer, psychologi- 
Cally.” This statement may be interpreted as 
meaning that woman’s urge to have children 
is so basic that interference with it inevitably 
produces disorder, if not disease. But if one 
examines the psychiatrist’s statement again 
one finds a neglected adverb, “socially.” Itis 
equally easy to interpret his statement as 
meaning that those will suffer who, having put 
themselves in a situation that they have 


I RG I Kee 


ass 


By Ernestine Cobern Beyer 


A little work that’s never done, 
A little daily round, 

A little daughter, little son, 
A little flowering ground; 


A little quiet heart’s content.... 
Be thankful, O my soul, 

That love with all these /ittles blent 
Can make so large a whole! 


Ki RO A EK EES KOE 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


learned to believe calls for childbearing, then 
reject it. So it is also with the eldest son of a 
king who cannot bear the responsibility of 
the throne, or the mate who funks his task of 
taking over the ship at sea when the captain 
dies, or the young student who accepts the 
music fellowship to study in Europe and 
then fritters it away without learning any 
music. All these will also show serious psy- 
chological disorders. Human society has a 
great accumulated store of ways of teaching 
human beings what they should do, and a 
corresponding battery of punishments, ex- 
ternally and internally imposed, for those 
who fail to do what they have learned. 


Bur back of acceptance and rejection of 
childbearing there lies always a cultural tra- 
dition within which boys and girls learn to 
accept a two-sex world and the role of each 
sex within it. Societies may be differently 
successful in teaching each sex its reproduc- 
tive role, and when both sexes set their hearts 
against reproduction, such societies die out— 
even without benefit of contraceptives. 

So through many thousands of years peo- 
ple after people have struggled with the prob- 
lems of fertility and infertility, making one 
faulty and haphazard adjustment after an- 
other to the relationship between the number 
of children they want, the number of children 
they can afford, and the number of children 
who will be born. It 
is possible that we 
may someday evolve 
a culture in which 
there will be such a 
good communication 
within each paired 
relationship that no 
other control will be 
needed than the fe- 
male’s own natural 
monthly rhythm of 
fertility. It seems 
clear enough that the 
female’s sensitivity to 
the changes within 
her own body, while it 
may counsel hersafely 
to stay away from a 
moonlight tryst in a 
society in which love 
is taken lightly, is not 
strongenoughtoresist 
the thousand pressuresof a complex social or- 
ganization such as ours, in which natural im- 
pulses are stretched and fitted into a world 
defined by alarm clocks and factory whistles 
and commuters’ trains. But as we witness 
the desperate expedients to which simpler 
peoples have had to resort to fit their survival 
rate to their social structure, we may realize 
that it is not civilization alone that has alien- 
ated human beings from the rhythm of their 
own bodies. 

Between the period when our foraging an- 
cestors could be trusted to spit out at once an 
evil-tasting berry and perhaps find a root 
that contained the salt they badly needed, 
and today, when we begin to know enough to 
arrange a proper self-selective diet for a hu- 
man baby, human beings have fumbled, 
eagerly, clumsily, at the problem of fitting a 
man-made way of life upon an organism that 
has the skill to design such ways of life but no 
automatic capacity to fit them on. Between 
the first artificiality—the first bed made of 
dry grass, the first boulder rolled to provide a 
wall against the wind—and the most modern 
gadget of the atomic age, men have traveled 
the same road; and none of it has been nat- 
ural. It is a piece of sentimental nonsense to 
talk about the Eskimo squatting in a fur suit 
carefully tailored by his wife’s needle, shod in 
boots that she has chewed with wifely love, 
holding in his mittened hand a cunningly 
fashioned harpoon as he watches for a seal, as 
natural; and about modern man, in factory- 
made boots that his wife bought at a sale, 
dressed in a factory-made suit of wool from 
Australia as he tends a meat-canning ma- 
chine, as unnatural. 

It is like the arguments that rage among 
the nutritionists against reinforcing bread 
with vitamins, because it is an “‘unnatural” 
way of treating natural bread—bread that is 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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tools, milled in a modern mill and baked in a 
man-made oven. Our problem is not to be 
natural, which would mean in effect to strip 
off every vestige of civilization, and return to 
an animal life; and it is not to be more or less 
artificial. Our problem is to develop and elab- 
orate this precious system of invention and 
social practice that man alone of all living 
things has begun. We need not “more natu- 
ral"’ bread, made of a wheat at least approxi- 
mately more like the food of wild animals 
We need bread in which we can combine more 
“‘unnaturalness,"’ more, not fewer, results of 
research and skill and learning. 

Our humanity depends upon our relative 
infertility, upon the long period of human 
gestation and dependency possible only 
where there are few children, who can be 
reared long and lovingly. It depends upon the 
presence of warm human responses in both 
sexes that are not tied tight to a reproductive 
cycle in the female. 


In the America of today only in the by- 
ways, in the mountains, in the villages from 
which the young men go away is there found 
the sort of relationship between parents and 
child, between grandparents and grandchild, 
that is found in primitive societies. 

The American family is oriented toward 
the future, toward what the children may be- 
come, not toward the perpetuation of the 
past or the stabilization of the present. In a 
caste society, each parent sits eying a son 
who will, for better or worse, repeat the 
parental way of life, marry a girl from the 
same caste, walk and dress, and think, make 
love and be buried, in the manner of his an- 
cestors. In a mobile, fluid class society like 
America, the parents who sit*on the high 
steps of a brownstone house in Hell’s Kitchen 
or in the spacious houses of Hyde Park, Illi- 
nois, on a Nevada ranch or ina Pennsylvania 
mining town, when they look backward, in- 
voke memories that have no shared details. 
But when they look forward they may see al- 
most the same vision, sons identically clad in 
Brooks Brothers suits, hats set at the angle 
recommended to win the approval of the 
fairest girl, a bankbook in the vest pocket, 
the same make of car waiting at the door 


Wauere each village, each separate dialect 
group in Europe or Asia has been standard- 
ized by the experience of the past, people 
of America, north and south, east and west, 
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where they were born, by the way they hope 
their wives will look, not by the folds of 
mother’s skirt in which they hid their faces. 

The dating behavior of American adoles- 
cents that is held up in movies and radio 


*“Certainly I put them to bed—eight times! 












September, 1919 


serials is, of course, middle-class behavior. 
But just as clothes are becoming stylized in 
so many prices that the poorest working girl 
has a dress of cut, if not of make, like that of 
the much richer girl, so the styles set by the 
middle class spread. The most elite may shy 
away from the word "date," but they weegg 
as hard when they sit alone on a Saturday 
night. So it is not that we are getting less 
snobbish, or insisting less on class lines, but 
simply that the differentiations among the 
classes are getting smaller. 

With the establishment of dating in a 
group of junior-high-school boys and girls, 
the need for reassurance crops up. In many 
of the societies I have described, children are 
permitted a long surcease from sexual com- 
petition while they live in 6ne-sex children's 
groups, slowly ripening into adults. Parental 
love and withdrawal of love have not been 
organized around their children’s developing 
assertiveness and aggressiveness, but have 
instead been attuned to their bodies, bodies 
seen as bodies of boys and girls who will 
later be men and women, From this demand 
on their sexuality, far too great to be man- 
ageable for boys, and too early to be socially 
safe for girls, the children withdraw, to wait 
until they are old enough to re-enter the pic- 
ture, and find lovers for themselves on the 
model they have learned from their parents. 


Bur American parents are not primarily 
concerned with relationships to their ch’- 
dren as members of one sex or the other 
Primarily they are concerned with their chil- 
dren as persons, as little potential bundles of 
high achievement, who must be given the 
best education, the best habit training, for 
success in life. 

In other societies, growing up is a some- 
what frightening business to the child who 
thinks of it as taking on the bodily role of an 
adult. But in America, growing up means 
wearing long pants like his elder brother, 
driving a car, earning money, having a job, 
being his own boss, and taking a girl to the 
movies. « 

The game is described as dating; boys take 
out girls, girls have to be asked, boys have to 
ask, both must dress correctly according to 
the adolescent styles of the moment, the 
date must be conducted in some way so that 
it can be known to the fest of the group 
otherwise it doesn’t count. 

That dating is primarily a competitive 
game in which publicly affirmed popularity 
is the prize can be illustrated by considering 
the behavior of those who do not date, but 
withdraw, sometimes quite early in adoles- 
cence, to “going steady.’’ Here we find two 
groups: young people whose stirring sexual- 
ity has been genuinely aroused so that they 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


may be said to be ‘‘in love”’ with each other, 
and who find the game of dating meaningless 
because they prefer each other’s company; 
and young people who, without being in love, 
depend on each other for protection, the un- 
popular girl and the unpopular boy, con- 
cealing their failure in the popularity game 
by pretending to prefer each other. Outside 
the dating group are much larger peripheral 
groups: girls and boys who lack the money 
and the clothes; girls and boys who have such 
a deep interest in something else that it pro- 
tects them from wanting to spend their time 
In a game that is to them irrelevant. 

But what effect on the actual sex behavior 
of Americans does the dating pattern have? 
In the first place, it defines the relationship 
between a male and a female as situational. 
You “have a date,” you “go out with a 
date.” But the boy who longs for a date is not 
longing for a girl. He is longing to be in a 
situation where he will be seen by others to 
have a girl, and the right kind of girl, who 
dresses well. Children are drawn into the 
dating game not by their bodies, but by their 
assertiveness, their desire to succeed, to be 
popular. 

The girl learns that both in the office and 
on the dance floor, the more attractive she 
makes herself, the better chance she has for 
the next promotion or the right marriage. 
And she learns that attractiveness is some- 
thing that can be worked at, on which judg- 
ment and money and skill can be used. A girl 
has no excuse for relaxing in despair because 
initially she lacks a good figure or the right- 
shaped eyebrows. Proper diet or a carefully 
cut girdle will correct the one, proper cos- 
metics the other. 


THe boy is proud of the girl who keeps her- 
self well groomed. And male looks are coming 
more and more into the same category; his 
hair, his teeth, the right hat and the right 
suit, all show that he is paying attention—to 
promotion, to the customer or the prospect 
or the client, and to his desirability as a date. 
Viewed from the standpoint of another cul- 
ture, this gives a picture of a people, es- 
pecially a youth group, who are tremen- 
dously preoccupied with sex, whose only in- 
terest in life is love and whose definition of 
love is purely physical. Yet this seems to be 
an enormous misstatement. 

The dating pattern affects adult sex rela- 
tions in still another way. As a culture, we 
have given up chaperonage. We permit and 
even encourage situations in which young 


‘people can indulge in any sort of sex be- 


havior that they elect. At the same time we 
have not relaxed one whit our disapproval of 
the girl who becomes pregnant, nor simpli- 
fied the problems of the unmarried mother. 
We disapprove of abortion, and birth-control 
information is not generally available. We 
bring girls up to be free and easy and un- 
afraid, without the protections given by 
shyness and fear to girls of many other 
societies. We bring our boys up to be just as 
free and easy, used to girls, demanding to- 
ward girls. We actually place our young peo- 
ple in a virtually intolerable situation, giving 
them the entire setting for behavior for 
which we punish them whenever it occurs. 
The curious adjustment that American 
culture has made to this anomalous situation 
is petting, a variety of sexual practices that 
will not result in pregnancy. Technical vir- 
ginity has become steadily less important, 
but the prohibition of extramarital preg- 
nancy remains. Petting is the answer to the 
dilemma. But petting has emotional effects 
of its own; it requires a very special sort of 
adjustment in both male and female. The 
first rule of petting is the need for keeping 
complete control of just how far the physical 
behavior is to go. The controls on this dan- 
gerous game that is so like a ski slide, yet 
which must never be treated as a ski slide, are 
placed in the hands of the girl. The boy is ex- 
pected to ask for as much as possible, the girl 
to yield as little as possible. A date can be a 
success on which there is no petting at all, 
but merely a battle of wits, of verbal parrying 
while the boy convinces the girl that he is so 
popular that he has the courage to ask for 
anything, and the girl convinces the boy that 
she is so popular that she has to give nothing. 






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146 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





Doctor develops new 
Home Beauty Routine! 


Clinical Tests Show Amazing 
Results! 4 out of 5 Helped 

to Softer, Smoother, Lovelier- 
Looking Skin 


@ If your skin gets dry or rough, if 
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After many years of experimenting 
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Here are the 4 simple steps the women 


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on a wet cloth. 


2. Apply Noxzema as a powder base. 


3. Evening—before retiring, repeat morn- 
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4. Massage face lightly with Noxzema, 
pat on extra cream over any blemishes. 
Amazing Results 


The test was conducted for just two 
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lovelier-looking skin. Yes, 4 out of 5 
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their skin. . 


Read how 2 women helped 
solve their skin problems 


. ee 





Hazel Gradinger first 
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blemishes. She adds, 
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that it’s now my reg- 
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use Noxzema when I 
put on make-up and 
before retiring.” 





Mercedes Kibbee 
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If physical attraction is strong, then, when 
petting does occur, the boy expects the girl 
to keep it within bounds. The girl expects the 
boy to permit her to keep it within bounds. 

From this game, played over and over 
again, sometimes for ten years or so before 
marriage, arises the later picture of married 
life in America, in which it is the wifewho sets 
the pattern of sex relations. From it comes 
the inability of many American women to 
make complete sexual surrenders. Even be- 
fore the girl has matured enough to respond 
to the cautions of her own body, she has been 
faced with the need for being the conscience 
for two, and at the same time playing gaily, 
deftly, a game that is never finished and at 
which she may always lose. 

For the boy, the pattern is just as coer- 
cive. He learns to value the situation in 
which he is checked, to devalue the situation 
with the bad girl, the girl of whom he is only 
desirous for immediate physical satisfaction, 
and to value as the genuinely rewarding situ- 
ation the relationship to a woman who can 
always say No, and who says it frequently. 
Faced with the demand that they play this 
dangerous and exacting game, young people 
play it bravely; a surprising number take the 
good from the situation, the fact that boy and 
girl are partners together in keeping their 
heads above water. This partnership, in which 
each must rely on the understanding, the good 
sportsmanship of the other, is the basis of 
modern American marriage. 

During the dating period, there is the im- 
perative that one ought to be able to play 
with sex all the time and win. The younger the 
boy and girl when they learn to play this 
game of partially incomplete, highly con- 
trolled indulgence of impulse, the more per- 
fectly they can learn it. 
There are fewer chances 
of the break-through of 
deep emotion. But then ® 
comes marriage, with a 
different imperative. 
Now both man and 
woman must have a 
‘happy sex life,”’ defined not with the sym- 
metry of dating days in which the girl 
and boy, in the same dangerous situa- 
tion, joined hands to win together, but in 
which a happy sex life is defined differently 
for the man and for the woman. For the man, 
the demon to be avoided at all costs is lack of 
potency, defined in a number of quantitative 
ways—frequency, time, interval before re- 
arousal, accuracy in judging the strength of 
his own impulse. There is an implicit assump- 
tion for males that if one copulates one is 
happy. The sort of sex life that was once 
placed outside marriage, in the red-light dis- 
trict of the nineties, has to a degree been im- 
ported into it. Now, as then, the man is not 
schooled in any elaborations. Technique, 
even if learned, is to a degree learned un- 
willingly and despised. And while the new 
patterns of dating and petting were develop- 
ing, a tremendous clamor arose in the litera- 
ture in England and America about women’s 
need for the same sort of sexual satisfaction 
that men have. 


Asourt the time of World War I this em- 
phasis coincided with the loosening of sex 
controls and the entrance of women in greater 
and greater numbers into industry. Good 
women became women who should enjoy sex, 
and enjoy it in a way that is definitely 
analogous to male enjoyment. Now this is 
not an untenable way of viewing sex be- 
havior. Both in France and in Samoa, happy 
sex relationships are postulated on the male’s 
taking pride and pleasure in gratifying the 
female, in inducing in her a climax behavior 
comparable to his own. In neither Samoa nor 
France is simple copulation expected to pro- 
duce such results. 

We might possibly have shifted from the 
Puritan position in which good women took 
no pleasure in sex, and bad women took no 
pleasure in anything else, to a philosophy and 
a practice in sex in which men learned a 
variety of ways of evoking climactic be- 
havior in women. But a second influence— 
almost as strong as the first—entered the 
scene. This was the doctrine that women 
should have climaxes like men’s, and they 


All the reasonings of men 
are not worth one senti- 
ment of women. 









































September, 19 


should get them not by learned responsi 
ness, but from the simple act of copulatic 
If they did not they were voted as frigid 
a psychiatry in which a European male 
sion of sex differences was very influen 
Yet there seems no reason to believe 
climactic responses to simple copulatic 
“natural” to all women, or even to any lai 
proportion of women. 


So we now have a very complicated set 
standards of sex adjustment that have be 
developing side by side with the change 
adolescent sex behavior, but are not ve 
well integrated with it. During adolesce: 
the male learns to let his direct potency 
checked by a girl who learns not to be mo 
beyond the point of control. Then in 
riage they are faced with the demand 
he be simply and directly potent, and 
she experience climactic satisfaction fro 
his simple, unelaborated potency. The wi 
feels inadequate if she is not swept away. 
after years of learning not to be swept awz 
Yet the complete, total relaxation of femini 
surrender, as distinguished from specific a 
gasmic behavior, is hardly available 
women who have had to live through yez 
of bridling their every impulse to yield ar 
surrender. 

These discrepancies between the de: 
that are made on very young boys and gi 
to act out and yet control a whole series 
heterosexual activities, and the later stan 
ards that cause so many marriages to fail 
supply what amounts to an impossible d 
mand for sexual happiness, are not surprisin, 
But it does seem important to realize 
the more successfully young adolescents de: 
with the difficult problems of freedom an 
dating, the less prepare 
they are to meet sex adi 
justment in marriage. 7 


Literature in the United 
States at present is raucous 
and angry on this wh 
question of therelationsiig® 
between men and women. It has been fash 

' 


—VOLTAIRE, 


ionable to call America a matriarchy, a 
thus do considerable violence to a useful an 
thropological concept. A matriarchal societ' 
is one in which some if not all of the leg 
powers relating to the family—power ov 
property, inheritance, marriage—are lodge 
in women rather than in men. So we mai 
speak of matrilineal societies in which a mam 
inherits his name, his land and his position 
or any one of these, from his mothe 
brother, through his mother. Or we mai 
speak of a matrilocal society, in which house) 
and land are owned by women and pass fron . 
mother to daughter, and husbands move i 
and move out. Then there is a variety ¢ 
modifications, in which a woman is returne 
to be buried on her own kin’s land, or i 
which ties through the mother play an im 
portant but different role than do ties throug 
the father. 

When contemporary American society 
viewed against such sets of arrangements, 
is obvious that the word “‘matriarchy”’ no€. 
only is not descriptive, but actually obse 
the basic issues. In the United States wome 
take their husbands’ names and children | 


} 





















bear their fathers’ names. Women are e Se 
pected to live where their husbands elect to| 
liveandrefusal todosoistantamount todese fully 
tion. Men are liable for the support of thei = 
wives and children, and women are not liable} “= 
for the support of their husbands. In ou loved 
legal forms we are a patrinomial, patrilinea 

patrilocal and, legally, for the most part,a} 0D 
patriarchal society. The circumstance tha Ble 
American fathers don’t conform tosomefolk-| . . 
lore concept of a patriarch with a long bea | Ca 
and ten children is not relevant. Both me Tato 
and women are reared within this explici iv 
paternally oriented framework. We are af-} ia 
of course, a monogamous society in whic c 
every form of polygamy, even the most cas Bas 


ual, is frowned upon. ie 
The training, which is so similar fe Wa 
boys and girls, has very different impact a 
upon them. For the boy, it has two impor 
tant effects. He is trained by women to be 
male, which involves no identification of th 
(Continued*on Page 148) 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 

















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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 146) 

self with the mother-teacher. He is to be a 
boy by doing the things mother says, but do- 
ing them in a manly way. Only from older 
brothers and the older brothers of compan- 
ions does the little boy get any straight-out 
tutelage on how to be a boy. It was notable 
how enormously juvenile delinquency in- 
creased during the last war when the older 
boys were withdrawn from the family. But 
the older brother is himself straining to meet 
the adult role that his mother and the world 
have defined for him, and the small boy who 
tags along imitates and follows someone 
whose eyes are on future things—a job, a car, 
a raise. 

No one represents a permanent place on 
the ladder. In peacetime the small boy’s 
heroes, whether his own father keeps a gro- 
cery store or is the president of a bank, are 
policemen, firemen, fliers, cowboys and base- 
ball players, men who act out in their real- 
life roles the springing active motor impulses 
of the small boy’s body. His mother alter- 
nates between letting him jump on the sofa 
because the books say children shouldn’t be 
restricted and telling him not to break 
things. And in her voice, in the teacher’s 
voice at school, in the voices of everyone 
around him, the little boy who wants to be 
a policeman or a baseball player hears that 
he will grow up to accept some responsible 
money-making role. 

He learns that if he 


September, 1949 


doing better than her brother, not because 
she will be humiliated if she fails, but because 
it is easier for girls to be good. 

So there is built into the girl in America a 
conflict. She must do her lessons and obey 
her mother, or she will lose her mother’s love. 


her teacher’s approval, and the rewards thay 


are accorded to the successful. “ For all little 
girls,” reads the sign in a New York candy- 
shop window, “and for good little boys.” Hers, 
by natural right, but at what a price! If she 
learns the rules well, if she gets good marks, 
wins scholarships, by so much she has done 
an unforgivable thing, in her own eyes and in 
the eyes of all those around her. Each step 
forward in work as a successful American re- 
gardless of sex means a step back as a woman 
and also, inferentially, a step back imposed 
on some male. 


Later she will shift the field and get out of 
the unfair competition, and be a success in a 
different field, as a wife and a mother. The 
desperate need for success remains; it is not 
so strong as for the boy, because for the girl 
success is demanded only as it is demanded 
of all human beings, and not with a threat 
that if she does not succeed she will not be 
regarded as a true female. 

But this is becoming steadily less true. 
Subtly the demand for the same kind of 
character structure for men and for women 

is spreading. In a 
1946 Fortune poll, 


wants to argue for wo EK KX WF Re men were asked 


choosing the police 
force or professional 
baseball, he will have 
to argue not that this 
is what he wants to 
do, but that it is 


Unvofen lant 


By Elizabeth-Ellen Long 


which of three girls 
equally good-looking 
aman would prefer to 
marry: a girl who had 
never held a job, a girl 
who had held a job 


something in which It's little enough the joy there is and been moderately 
he can make money And more than enough the successful at it, or a 
and advance. Life is sorrow, girl who had held a 
a job at which he can And few are the dreams of lad or lass job and been ex- 
succeed if he tries. Which live to see tomorrow. tremely successful. 


He also learns that 


The preferences rani gy f 


the reward of success It’s little enough the love there is 33.8 per cent for the 
is love and approval. And more than enough the lack, moderately success- 

The chief trap for And there's not a kiss I gave away, ful, 21.5 per cent for 
the boy in this pat- When young, that I'd want back! the extremely success- 


tern lies in the con- 
ditional nature of the 


ful, and only 16.2 per 
cent for the girl who 


whole process. On the KK & & Kwek Ree had never held a job. 


one hand, he can al- 

ways win applause by taking the next step, 
moving from the third team to the second 
team, by gaining a pound or growing an inch; 
the applause is hearty and ungrudging from 
parents who feel they owe their children every 
chance to succeed. On the other hand, none 
of this acceptance and this applause is final. 
Mother loves you if you succeed; father is 
grinning and proud if you succeed, sometimes 
a little ruefully comforting when you fail. 
But at no time in childhood, often at no time 
in one’s whole life, is it possible to arrive, to 
win love and praise that are not strictly con- 
temporary and conditional and which can 
never be taken away from one. 


The role of sisters and girls and wives isa 
complex one in this world in which the boy’s 
whole springing masculinity is diverted into 
the game of success. Because it is the moth- 
er’s and not the father’s voice that gives the 
principal early approval and disapproval, the 
nagging voice of conscience is feminine in 
both sexes—that voice which says, “You 
are not being the success you ought to be.” 
The man who feels he is failing is a man who 
is angry with women and angry with those 
values for which women stand—social values, 
““sentimental schoolmarmish goodness.” 
Meanwhile, what is the position of the girl 
whose easy and successful competition with 
her brother is assured by the conditions of 
home and the school system? Seen through 
male eyes, she has it easy, always gets the 


‘breaks. Instead of being told that she mustn’t 


do things because she is a girl, she is told that 
she must learn the same things as a boy. The 
boy is told that he ought to be ashamed to be 
beaten by a girl, and outworn symbols of 
sheer male physical superiority are invoked 
for such routine tasks as remembering to 
brush one’s teeth or do one’s lessons. At the 
same time the girl is told that she ought to be 


The moderately suc- 
cessful are still preferred, but with this pref- 
erence goes increasing pressure on a gir! 
to work before marriage, perhaps to work 
until the first child comes, and to “‘begin 
doing something,” if it is only volunteer 
work or vigorously pursuing a hobby, as 
soon as her children are in school. Men 
want their wives both to reassure them by 
being less successful than they are and to 
gratify their competitive aspirations, vicari- 
ously, by ‘‘being successful.” 

So throughout her education the girl is 
faced with the dilemma that she must display 
enough of her abilities to be considered suc- 
cessful, but not too successful; enough abil- 
ity to get and keep a job, but without the 
sort of commitment that will make her 
either too successful or unwilling to give up 
the job entirely for marriage and mother- 
hood. ‘“Two steps forward and one step back” 
is the dance call she must obey. Or take the 
consequences. And what are the conse- 
quences? Failure to marry? If that were all, 
it might not be so serious. There are more 
women than men in the world, and societies 
have found it very possible to stylize vows of 
celibacy and poverty and still give women 
dignified lives. The nun who offers her poten- 
tial wifehood and motherhood to God on be- 
half of all-mankind, and who substitutes 
prayer and care for the children of God for 
the creation of particular children, can feel 
herself a part of God’s plan, fulfilling the 


duty of human beings to “cherish and prog, 


tect the lives of men and the life of the 
world.” 

But the woman in the United States who 
chooses a career instead of marriage is ac- 
corded no such satisfying and accredited 
place in the world. The little girl who hears 
the call of success more sharply than the call 
of future wifehood and maternity hears a 

(Continued on Page 151) 






LILLY f 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


OMAR KIAM, favorite designer of the 
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. . . ”° 
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PHILIP MANGONE, holder of “Golden 
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that PLAYTEX gives so effectively-” 


149 





OLEG CASSINI, of Hollywood and New 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL September, 1949 











F YOU'VE BEEN SHOPPING lately, you know what big 
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(Continued from Page 148) 
call to competitive action in which no holds 
are barred. Her brother has been better 
schooled than she has for this expected be- 
havior in a competitive world. Fair play, no 
bullying, do not throw your weight around, 
, are part of the ethics both she and he learned 
on the playing fields, but here the pretense 
that all boys are stronger than all girls was 
kept up. To the extent that American 
women—most American women—follow the 
rules of fair play and give and take, they do 
so because they think of themselves as strong 
human beings, human like the men of whom 
they refuse to take an advantage. But to the 
woman who makes a success in a man’s field, 
good behavior is almost impossible, because 

her whole society has defined it so. 

A woman who succeeds better than a 
man—and in a man’s field there is no other 
practical alternative to beating a certain 
number of men—has done something hostile 
and destructive. To the extent that as a 
woman she has beauty or attractiveness of 
any sort, her behavior is that much more de- 
structive. The mannish woman, the ugly 
woman may be treated as a man in disguise, 
and so forgiven her successes. But for the 
success of a feminine woman there are no 
alibis; the more feminine she is, the less can 
she be forgiven. This does not mean that 
every woman who en- 
ters business or fields 
where she is in an ex- 
treme minority is hos- 
tile and destructive. 
But it does mean that 
any woman who in the 
course of her child- 
hood had: an extra 
amount of destructive- 
ness developed and re- 
pressed is in psycho- 
logical danger when 
she is placed in a role 
that is so destructively 
defined. To the woman 
whose maternal atti- 
tudes are highly devel- 
oped, the position may 
be wholly intolerable. 

So brother and sister, 
boy and girl, educated together, learn what 
each wishes from and what each can give 
to the other. The girl learns to discipline 
and mute an ambition that her society con- 
tinually stimulates, as all girls working in 
white-collar jobs are said to have “‘careers,” 
and careers are glamorous, while most 
men with similar skills merely have jobs. 
And we have the situation, that looks so 
strange on the surface, that as more and 
more women work, women seem on the 
whole less interested in the battle that per- 
mits them to succeed professionally. A half 
century ago the eyes of the specially able 
girl who went to college faced ahead toward 
a profession, a career. The idea of marriage 
was often pushed aside as a handicap. Today, 
the girl of the same ability is usually willing 
to admit that she wants to marry, and seems 
more willing to sacrifice her career to mar- 
riage than to sacrifice a chance for marriage 
to her career. Because it is now more and 
more accepted that girls should work until 
they marry—and if one is unlucky, this 
means all one’s life—girls work hard at ac- 
quiring skills and professions. If they have 
brains and ability, sheer virtuosity plus the 
need to succeed may lead them to become 
engrossed in their work, but seldom so en- 
grossed that the desire for marriage 1s 
blocked out. 


on my lawn.”’ 


Nor will society today treat the woman 
who is not chosen with the simple pity ac- 
corded the wallflower of a century ago. Suc- 
cess for a woman means success in finding 
and keeping a husband. This is much more 
true than it was a generation ago, when men 
were still supposed to do the seeking, and 
some women found their new freedom out- 
side the home so intoxicating that they could 
abandon themselves to their work. Nor is 
this surprising in a world where the un- 
married man is also looked upon as a failure 
in human relations, a queer bird who, in 
spite of all the girls there are to marry, 


Mark Twain was a born borrower, 

especially of books. 
neighbors undertook to cure him. 
When Twain asked for the loan of a 
book, his neighbor said, ‘‘Certainly. 
But I’ve made a rule that any 
volume taken from my library must 
be read on the premises.” 

A week later, the neighbor came 
to borrow Twain’s lawn mower. “Of 
course you may have it,”’ said Twain. 
“But ’ve made a rule that any lawn 
mower of mine must be used only 


—Reprinted from A TREASURY OF LAUGHTER, 
edited by Louis Untermeyer. Copyright, 
1946, by Simon and Schuster, Inc. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


never succeeded in finding one. But the more 
successful a man is in his job, the more 
certain everyone is that he will make a de- 
sirable husband; the more successful a woman 
is, the more most people are afraid she may 
not be a successful wife. 


The American marriage ideal is one of the 
most difficult that the human race has ever 
attempted, and the casualties are surprisingly 
few, @onsidering the complexities of the task. 
In the American marriage ideal, choice by 
both partners is not only approved but de- 
manded. Life is easier if parents approve, 
but neither the law nor social expectation 
demands that they should. The ideal girl and 
the ideal boy choose and marry each other in 
spite of all obstacles. 


They may have been members of the same 
high-school gang, dated together, and then 
finally realized that they were made for each 
other. They may have met on a train, a boat, 
in an accident, at a fire, in a shipwreck, 
standing in line at the Grand Central Sta- 
tion, on a blind date, or by mail. All this is 
the special lucky chance which brings the 
two together that each may choose the other. 

Very small primitive societies often phrase 
marriage as choice, but the choice is among 
some eight to ten girls, most of whom, usually 
all, the boy has known 
all his life, or if they 
are sought in the next 
village, all of whom at 
least come from a com- 
pletely similar back- 
ground. But in the 
United States, theoret- 
ically only the major 
racial divisions limit 
choice, so that several 
million boys and girls 
are potential mates if 
they meet and fall in 
love. 

Romantic love when 
the choice is among 
only ten girls, all of sim- 
ilar backgrounds and 
appropriate domestic 
skills, can safely follow 
the dictates of physical attraction. The 
nestling of a curl on the neck, a way of 
glancing from under the eyelids, a little 
trill of laughter in the girl, or in the boy 
a certain swing of the shoulders, can be 
used to distinguish one young farmer or 
one young fisherman from ancther. Such 
delicious qualities are not safe guides when 
one is choosing a mate from a million 
otherwise unidentified people. Yet it remains 
the ideal for men, and only a little less the 
ideal for women. 

As individual choice is expected to be the 
one criterion for planning a marriage, so also 
individual choice and the price of the mar- 
riage license and ceremony are all that is re- 
quired for two unmarried people who are of 
age (subject to some racial bars in some 
states) to marry each other. Most states de- 
mand a doctor’s examination; sometimes the 
couple are required to wait three days. But 
nothing else is required. There is no insist- 
ence that the man have a job or prove that 
he can make a living. There is no require- 
ment that the girl have skill necessary for 
homemaking. Alone, without a single record 
of the other’s past, and without a single 
socially required guaranty of the future, the 
two are permitted to contract a state to 
which emotionally, as well as legally, they 
are theoretically bound for life. 

Nor are the newly married conceived of as 
needing material help. Friends may give 
showers, but this depends upon the exi- 
gencies of time and place. No dowry, no 
bride price, no settlement on the wife, no 
wagon loaded with feather beds and copper 
kettles, no cow, no plot of ground, no newly 
built tent are essential to the new marriage. 
This does not mean that many fathers do 
not give their daughters or their sons sub- 
stantial gifts, but this is extra, it is not ex- 
pected. 

So without benefit of the careful sanctions 
with which many other societies have sur- 
rounded their new marriages, each young 


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152 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


couple starts off life alone. It is no question 
of the bride’s fitting into the relentless dom- 
ination of a mother-in-law, or the husband’s 
imposing his own style of life or accepting 
that of his wife. Although the consumption 
skills of the wife are more crucial to the class 
position of a family, the ideal is that the hus- 
band be in agreement with the choices; the 
details he leaves to her. Together they plan 
when the first baby is to come—unless they 
belong to a faith which feels these are matters 
which should be left to God; they name it, 
and plan its future. Here again, all the details 
of discipline and training are left to the wife, 
but the husband is supposed to take an in- 
terest. 

The sexual ideal with which young people 
come to marriage, always one to which men 
are expected to give only lip service, is that 
of chastity for both. The man who can say 
to a girl that she is the first is still valued by 
American girls almost as much as the man 
values being his wife's first lover. Until the 
era of petting, all the husband’s premarital 
experience had to be ignored, and, if possible, 
pushed out of the wife’s consciousness. Now, 
each is condemned to wondering how far the 
other has gone, with whom, under what cir- 
cumstances. The various conventions of 
frankness that are growing up are an overlay 
on the old concealment based on a prevalent 
but repudiated double standard, but they are 
still an overlay. For the old requirement of 
real virginity in the bride and a decent ret- 
icence in the groom—which included a taboo 
on displaying any skill as a lover—there is 
being substituted a determination to start 


| with a “clean slate.’’ Starting with‘a clean 





slate often means making a clean breast of 
all one’s past sex experience, but this is also 
a very effective way of making sure that it 
contributes nothing to the new. marriage. 
Instead of offering each other the relaxation, 
the capacity to pause and listen a little to 
the beating of another heart because the 
sound of one’s own quickened heartbeat has 
ceased to be so astonishing, the attempt is 
made to offer the new marriage, which is to 
be ‘‘for keeps,”” an as if position in which 
none of the past is relevant. 


| Tuts ability to block out the past, to enter 


each new situation, be it job or love affair, 
with the kind of innocence that it seems to 
Europeans could only be acquired by amnesia 
from a blow on the head is a peculiarly 
American characteristic. Nostalgia for the 
past is out of place among a people who 
must always be moving, to a better job, a 
better house, a new way of life. So Amer- 
icans do not find it shocking to say to three 
different girls in a year, ‘You are the only 
girl I have ever loved,”’ because the girl who 
came before is defined as unloved by the very 
fact that another is loved now. Each lover 
brings to marriage a conviction that this is 
the real thing, the only reality for either one. 
If it fails, then it is not the real thing, but the 
next experience may be. 

Greater sex experimentation has not there- 
fore contributed so much as it sometimes 
does to an easier sex relationship in marriage. 
Facility remains as a suspect reminder that 
the slate cannot be wiped clean, and past 
failures consciously repudiated are still there 
as a carking anxiety. The exaggerated over- 
concern with the other that is the American 
version of good interpersonal relations, in 
which each worries for fear the other will 
worry, puts an extraordinary strain on sex 
behavior, and especially dampens sponta- 
neity. The more women realize what sex satis- 
faction can mean to men, the more they 
worry for fear their husbands are not getting 
it, and the more men worry as to whether or 
not their wives are unsatisfied, the less able 
either one is to respond simply and imme- 
diately to the other. 

The pressure for divorce is easy enough 
to understand on many counts. The emphasis 
on choice carried to its final limits means 
that no choice is irrevocable. If their choice 
of each other was what made a marriage 
a ‘‘real marriage,’ then once either makes 
another choice, its reality is gone. The 
spouse who clings to such a marriage is 
committing one of the worst acts in the 
American list of sins, limiting the freedom 


September, 1949 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


of another person, freezing a past mistake 
into a present prison. 

So an ethics that is peculiarly American 
has arisen in the United States, to support a 
marriage-and-divorce code of great contra- 
dictoriness. Young people are still encouraged 
to marry as if they could count on marriage 
to last for life. At the same time they are ab- 
sorbing a knowledge of the great frequency of 
divorce and the ethics that may later enjoin 
divorce upon them. As long as divorce was 
limited to the selfish and the self-indulgent, 
there were very few divorces, and it was safe 
to encourage young people to think of di- 
vorce as something that could happen to 
other people, but not to them. Divorce has 
now been so absorbed into our ethics that 
husbands or wives lie sleepless and torn, 
wondering. Not only the possibility that any 
marriage except the marriage where both 
partners are deeply committed to some re- 
ligious orthodoxy may end in divorce, but the 
phrasing of divorce as something that at 
least one of the partners in an imperfect mar- 
riage ought to get, is permeating the whole 
country, making marriage many times more 
difficult. 

It is difficult on two counts: because the 
expectation of permanency is still great 
enough to brand every impermanence as a 


Next Month 


“He’s got to be a boy dog!” Mrs. 
Scott said anxiously. “I’m not going 
through that again!” 


HE Scott twins and I agreed to 
that. We would have agreed to 
anything to get that dog—specially 
since our youth was almost over 
(we'd graduate from grade school 
in June). We had the pup in mind: 


he belonged to our two worst ene- 
mies. And, of course, there was the 
litle matter of raising two bucks 
for a dog tag. But I guess a guy’s 
willing to beg, borrow or steal (we 
mainly borrowed) for a dog like 


Randolph. 


RANDOLPH 


by Ahmad Kamal 


complete in the October JouRNAL 





failure, if not a sin, and because to all the 
other insecurities of American life insecurity 
about marriage is added. 

Marriage in former generations offered 
one refuge from this eternal uncertainty. 
Whether a man succeeded or failed, his 
wife was there, and whether a woman was 
an invalid, a failure at housekeeping, an 
incompetent mother or a paragon, her hus- 
band was there. 

But today, with growing recognition that 
divorce may come to any marriage, a mar- 
riage is something that has to be worked at 
each day. As the husband has to face the 
possibility of losing his job, so also the wife 
has to face the possibility of losing hers, of 
finding herself companionless, out of the job 
she chose, often with small children to care 
for alone. Both husband and wife face the 
need to rechoose each other, to reassert and 
re-establish the never-permanent claim of 
one upon the other’s choice. The wife in curl 
papers is replaced by a wife who puts on lip- 
stick before she wakes her husband, and the 
husband with a wandering eye finds that his 
eye wanders less happily because at any mo- 
ment it may light on someone whom he will 
choose instead of his wife. As it is her obliga- 


| tion to make herself continuingly desirable, 


so it is his obligation not to put himself in 
positions where other women may become 
desirable to him. This means never going out 
in mixed company without his wife. It means 
that all casual flirtations take on a menacing 
quality. Where there is freedom to divorce, 
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Yet the implied expectation of perma- 
nency, still based of course on statistics —for 
frequent as divorces are in some age groups, 
most marriages are still permanent mar- 
riages—not only does not protect the new 
marriage, it actually compromises it. For 
American behavior in marriage is behavior 
that depends on the finality of marriage. 
Quarreling, sulking, neglectfulness, stub- 
bornness could be indulged very differently 
within a frame that could not be broken. But 
now over every quarrel hang the questions: 
“Do you want a divorce? Do I want a di- 
vorce? Will that be the end of this? Is that 
where we are going?” 

There is no reason why we cannot develop 
manners and customs appropriate to the 
greater fragility of marriage in the United 
States; they are very badly needed. For it 
seems unlikely that the other solution, tight- 
ening up on divorce laws, 
is likely to occur. The 
very reasons that made 
divorce necessary, the 
enormous heterogeneity 
of our population and the 
great chances of malad- 
justment under oursystem 
of free marital choice, would remain. The 
more likely development would seem to 
be forward to a new pattern of behavior 
that fits the new conditions. And there are 
signs that such a new pattern of behavior 
is developing. 

In a pattern for marriage which accepts 
the fact that marriage may be for life, but also 
may not be, it is possible to set to work to 
find ways of establishing that permanence 
which is most congruent with bringing up 
children. Although it is possible to argue that 
children are more damaged when they live in 
an unhappy home than when they live in a 
better relationship with just one parent, it is 
not possible at present to claim that children 
are better off in a broken than in a whole 
home. One of the most important learnings 
for every child is how to be a full member of 
its own sex and at the same time fully related 
to the opposite sex. This requires the con- 
tinuing presence of a father and a mother to 
give it reality. 

One of the particular characteristics of a 
changing society is the possibility of deferred 
maturity. In very simple societies children 
have completed their acceptance of them- 





Other Views. Sizes and Prices of Patterns on Pages 60 and 61. 


Vogue Design No. 6851. ““Easy-to-Make” 


(36-38). 60c. 


Junior Vogue Design No. 3302. One-piece dress, 9 to 15; 29% to 33. 60c. 
Vogue Design No. 6847. Coat, 12 to 20; 
Vogue Design No. S-4007. One-piece dress, 12 to 18; 30 to 36. $1.00. 

Vogue Design No. 6831. Hat and bag. Hat, 21)4 to 22%; bag, one size. 40c. 

Vogue Design No. S-4011. Coat and skirt, 12 to 20; 30 to 38. $1.00. 

Junior Vogue Design No. 3306. ‘“Easy-to-Make” two-piece dress, 9 to 15; 29% to 33. 75c. 
Vogue Design No. 6854. Waistcoat, 12 to 20; 30 to 38. 50c. 
Vogue Design No. 6724. “Easy-to-Make’ 
Vogue Design No. 6836. Suit, 12 to 18; 30 to 36. 75c. 


If your friend is one-eyed, 
look at him in profile! 





















































September, 19 


selves and their roles in life by the time the 
are six or seven, and then must simply wai 
for physical maturity to assume a comple 
role. But in most societies, adolescence is 
period of re-examination, and possible re 
orientation of the self toward the expre 
goals of society. In cultures like ours, t 
may be a second or a third adolescence, ai 
the most complex, the most sensitive, ma 
die still questing, still capable of change 
No one who values civilization and realiz 
how men have woven the fabric of their live 
from their own imaginations as they playe 
over the memory of the past, the experienc 
of the present and the hope of the future, ca 
count this postponed maturity, this possibility 
of recurrent adolescent crises and change o 
life plan, as anything but gain. 

But a world in which people may reorient 
their whole lives at forty or fifty is a world in 
which marriage for life 
becomes much more diffi- 
cult. Each spouse is given 
the right to, and the means 


for, growth. Ever since 
—FRENCH PROVERB, g 7 
women have been edu- 


cated, marriages have been 
endangered by the possible 
development or failure to develop of both 
husbands and wives. ‘‘He outgrew her,” or, 
less common but with increasing frequency, 
“She outgrew him.” To all the other ex- 
orbitant requirements for a perfect mate 
must be added “‘capacity to grow.” 

Someday a discovered and intractable dis- 
crepancy in rate of growth may seem a really 
legitimate reason for divorce, and one that 
both couples can accept as simply as do those 
peoples who accept childlessness as a reason 
for ending a marriage. Once there is recog- 
nition that change in rate of growth is a 
function of living in a complex modern 
world, then the marriage that is developing a 
dangerous discrepancy may be given pro- 
fessional help, just as the childless may seek 
the advice of the sterility clinic. And as 
in the sterility clinic, some of those w 
seek help can and some cannot be hel 
But the whole way of looking at life will be 
changed. 

For just as there is no good marriage in 
which each does not wholly choose it, so 
there is no good divorce that is not chosen by 
both partners. The acceptance of a religious 

(Continued on Page 156) 


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(Continued from Page 154) 

faith that includes the ideal and promise of 
indissoluble marriage carries with it dignity 
for man. But a civil marriage that marries 
any pair who choose each other and can show 
no legal impediment, and then will not per- 
mit them to choose to end that choice, is a 
travesty of all the values of human dignity 
There are, at best, something like 64,000,000 
church members in the United States, and 
many of these are no longer guaranteed by 
their faith that they will be able to stay 
married for life. For the other 76,000,000 a 
pattern must be found that will make it pos- 
sible for them to treat divorce when it does 
occur, with dignity and regret. 


"There are signs that a vigorous younger 
generation are doing just that. They are 
Jearning to handle the unprecedented and 
contradictory premarital freedom that they 
have been accorded by society so that they 
know the rules and can keep them, They are 
developing new patterns of learning to know 
each other, to replace the outmoded long en- 
gagement. New methods of getting ac- 
quainted and demonstrating confidence are 
being worked out. These include more stages 
of partial commitment, the slow involvement 
of more friends in the possible marriage, pro- 
vision for more retreats, with unimpaired dig- 
nity for each partner. They are making more 
realistic demands on the personality of the 
future partner, partly under a sobering rec- 
ognition of how many marriages in the war 
generation have gone to pieces under pres- 
sures of absence, housing, and so on. 

Meanwhile the society as a whole is be- 
coming more conscious of the terrific strains 
that have been placed on marriages, and of 
the need for a variety of new measures, pre- 
marriage counseling, marriage counseling, 
nursery schools, housekeeping services, and 
so on, to reduce the strain on each young 
couple asked to build singlehanded a whole 
way of life in a world in which neither they, 
nor anyone else, have ever lived. 

Young married people seem to be, if any- 
thing, more anxious to have children than 
they have been in our immediate past. Chil- 
dren are regarded neither as an inescapable 
part of life nor as a penalty of marriage, but 
as a value that can be consciously sought and 
worked for, a value that makes life worth 
living. The demand for symmetry between 
husband and wife is of course being felt here, 
the demand that each share in the planning 
for the children. 

But if such new patterns are to develop, 
it is crucial that in theory, and in practice, 
the fact that divorce may come to any 
marriage—except where the religion of both 
partners forbids it—must be faced. The 
stigma of failure and of sin must be removed, 
the indignities of divorce laws that demand 
either accusation or collusion must be done 
away with. Social practices must be de- 
veloped so that the end of a marriage is an- 
nounced, soberly, responsibly, just as the be- 
ginning ofamarriageis published to the world. 
If we recognize that we live in a society 
where marriage is terminable, and in some 
cases should be terminable, we can give every 
newly married pair a chance to recognize the 
hazards they face, and to make genuine 
efforts to survive them. 

If we once accept the premise that we can 
build a better world by using the different 
gifts of each sex, we shall have two kinds of 
freedom: freedom to use untapped gifts of 
each sex,,and freedom to admit freely and 
cultivate in each sex its special superiori- 
ties. Just as for endless ages men’s mathe- 
matical gifts were neglected and people 
counted one, two, three and a dog, or were 
limited to counting on the fingers of their 
hands, so women’s intuitive gifts have lain 
fallow, uncultivated, uncivilized. Once. it is 
possible to say it is as important to take 
women’s gifts and make them available to 
both men and women, in transmissible form, 
as it was to take men’s gifts and make the 
civilization built upon them available to both 
men and women, we shall have enriched our 
society. We can build a whole society only 
by using both the gifts special to each sex 
and those shared by both sexes—by using the 
gifts of the whole of humanity. THE END 






September, 1949 


NOW! proor that brushing 
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X-RAYS SHOW HOW PROPER USE OF 
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Eminent dental authorities supervised 
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their teeth with Colgate Dental Cream 
right after eating. The other followed 
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The average of the group using 
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tooth decay! The other group developed 
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Colgate’s has been proved to contain all 
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tS 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


BUSY DAY 


(Continued from Page 40) 


like a pear with a bel_ around it. Leaving 
his tricycle he walked up the street, letting 
the stick skitter on the sidewalk in monot- 
ee eine little leaps, feeling the pleas- 

t tinglings in his hand. 

He passed the black gangster car wonder- 
ing if the fat mian was going to kill Mrs. 
Kummer. He picked up the beat of the danc- 
ing stick. “‘I don’t know and I don’t care and 
I don’t give a little dare.”’ 

Mrs. Kummer’s cat crept around the cor- 
ner of the house. It wasa gray cat with matted 
fur and Mrs. Kummer told Phillip once that 
the cat was older than he was. 

“Skinny cat has got no fat,’”’ he derided 
the animal. 

The cat ignored Phillip and crept back 
around the corner. 

The stick bounced along the sidewalk 
and bowed suddenly on a crack. A bow and 
arrow. Sticking his small tanned hand in his 
pocket he searched for a piece of string. 

“One a Indian two a Indian three a Indian 
four, five a Indian six a Indian going to the 
store.” Tying the string on the heavy end of 
the stick he straddled it and trotted around 
in a small circle. 

“Alferd had a cat,”’ he told the horse. “‘He 
put the cat in a cardboard box and poured 
kerosene over it. I'll bet Alferd stole matches 
from his mother, cause he set the box on fire 
and burned up the cat. I wouldn’t do that. 


Not to you or Jyp, either one.”’ He galloped 
down the shaded street to the store. 


Parking his tricycle Phillip climbed up the 
steps into the kitchen. 

“Thanks, Phillip,” said Mrs. Spence, taking 
the loaf of bread from him. She was short and 
skinny and her hair was gray now. She 
hustled around the kitchen like an ant does 
on the sidewalk. She opened the fresh bread. 

“T want a bread and butter and sugar 
sandwich,”’ he said. 

“No, too near dinner.” 

Phillip studied her a moment. ‘“‘ You’re 
not the boss. This isn’t your day to clean.” 

“T’m the boss while your mother’s taking 
care of your baby sister that’s sick,” she said. 

“Ts she real sick?” 

“Georgia was up all night with her.” 

Phillip walked across the kitchen to the 
screen door, opening it. 

“Where you going?” Mrs. Spence asked. 

“Sit on the steps,’’ he answered. She 
didn’t say anything and he went on out. 

Mrs. Spence was singing church songs. She 
don’t go to the same church I do. I go to a big 
church and she goes to a little one. 

“Jesus is my big bright light,” she sang 
from the kitchen. 

“Jesus is my big bright light,’’ he sang 
softly. Sometimes she said just plain Jesus 
and sometimes she said Jee sus, like that. 





Back and Other Views. Sizes and Prices of Patterns on Page 127. 
Yardages given are for Size 14. 


Vogue Design No. 6901. ‘‘Easy-to- 
Make” one-piece dress, 12 
to 20, 30 to 38. 
PEROQEN GF =. ct cos cs ios < $ .60 


Gray wool jersey, 





3% yds. @ $3.25.... 10.16 
: Grosgrain ribbon, 
’ PRE AS © ais eis jeseivi os AA 
PEPEROUTISHMES = cross 64s T « .00 
Slide fastener......... 30 
TOG So es 8s 10 
MIE UGKIC) c/c.0.50 sre + «= OD 
(1 ST a eee 10 
$12.55 


Vogue Design No. 6842. Coat, 12 to 
20, 30 to 40. 
SEAT Ve on, ale oS See 
Wool fleece, 





984 yds. @ $4.95... 13.00 
Lining, 

234 yds. @ $1.00 .... 2.38 
Interfacing, | yd....... AO 
SOITEMEIILEE RG Soo eric'a. «)'s 0%. 15 
MRMER ee 5 5 ty.")s,-,-1~" LO 

$16.78 


Vogue Design No. 6724. ““Easy-to- 


Make” blouse, 12 to 20, 
30 to 40. 

Pattern met chals cistever $ .40 
Cotton lace, 

154 yds. @ $3.50... 5.70 
Velvet cord, 1 yd...... a5 
SIRIEMENIT Riel cs. ctr wis ssis 5 = .10 
SMES 0 fas bites wes os .05 

$ 6.50 


Vogue Design No. 9334. Glove. 6 





to 7%. 
> Ie 
SEMPER i. 2d 0's 2 o's $ .d5 
Gray wool jersey, 
% yd. @ Cot eee eo, 
§ 1.57 





6901 


Vogue Design No. 520. Suit, 12 to 
18, 30 to 36. 





Patternet see ono $ 2.00 
Tweed, 

3% yds. @ $3.95.... 13.33 
Lining, 

1% yds. @ $1.00.... 1.87 
Interfacing, 1 yd....... 40 
Buttonmolds.. rate .20 
Bin din eect ae eee 10 
Slide fastener........ + 2 
Thread ste een 10 

$18.25 


Vogue Design No. 6580. ‘‘Easy-to- 
Make” skirt, 24 to 32 waist 


measure. 
Patterns. 2 acco $ .50 

Taffeta, | 
64 yds. @ $1.29.... 8.07 
Slide fastener......... 2D 
Thread. Se eae 10 
$ 8.92 


Vogue Design No. 6603. “‘Easy- 
to-Make”’ blouse, 12 to 20. 
30 to 38. 





Pattern). oat. neers nO) 
Taffeta, 

1% yds. @ $1.29.... 1.62 
Slide fastener......... 25 
Thread: sate PAR ; .05 

$ 2.42 


Vogue Design No. 6874. ‘‘Easy-to- 
Make”? blouse, 12 to 20, 30 
to 38. 
Patterns Se soe $ .50 
Wool jersey, 





136 yds. @ $2.95.... 4.06 
Slide fastener......... 25 
Threads 2 S.s0cee oe .05 

% 4.86 





V 







Brand 


Certified’ Fabrics for Home Sewing 
Save for You 


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a Fabrics are certified by 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Jesus Chrysler is the son of God the Father. 
Charles said George Washington was the Father 
of Our Country. He and God and Jesus 
Chrysler have long hair like girls. That makes 
Lonnie and Harold have three fathers. I only 
gol two. Lonnie’s father drinks beer. I'll bet 
God and George Washington don’t drink beer. 

He heard his mother come into the kitchen. 
She and Mrs. Spence talked about his baby 
sister. He stood up and went inside. 

His mother’s eyes looked sad and her face 
was brown and soft and damp. She sighed as 
she sat down and put her elbows on the table. 
She smiled at him. 

“Ready to eat, big man?”’ she said. 

“T’m hungrier than anything,” he said. 
“Will you play with me after lunch?” 

‘Lord, no. I don’t know when I'll find time 
to do half the things I have to, I can’t even 
find time to go to my club today.”’ She sighed 
again. ‘ You go find Charles and we’l! eat.” 

“Well, I don’t know where he is,”’ Phillip 
said glumly. 

“I saw him on the front porch steps read- 
ing those silly magazines when I came down- 
stairs,”’ she said. 

Phillip ran out the back door and rode his 
tricycle around the long thin sidewalk that 
curved around the big side porch to the front 
of the house. He rode up to the front steps. 

‘**Lunch’s ready,”’ he said, making a U turn 
and racing furiously to the back porch. He 
parked his trike and ran up the steps. 

Charles was leaning against the doorjamb. 
“Beat you, Phillip, beat you,’’ he laughed. 

““You cheated,”’ Phillip said. “* You come 
through the house, you big cheater. Mom, 
Charles came through the house. He’ll wake 
up the baby.” 

‘I didn’t either, you big tattletale.’ 

“Stop that quarreling,” their mother said. 
‘Phillip, go wash your hands. They’re filthy. 
Charles, I told you not to go through the 
house.” 


“He's just a cheater,” Phillip said, walking 
toward the bathroom. He came back and sat 
down at the table. 

“I don’t like this,”’ he said, pointing to 
Mrs. Spence’s boiled cabbage. “It gags me.” 
The cabbage looked tired, it was a pale gray- 
ish green. 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Spence defensively, ‘‘all 
cowboys eat that kind. Isn’t that so, Mrs. 
Sterling?” 

“It gags me,” he said. 

““You’ll eat what I put on your plate,” his 
mother said. 

“Charles isn’t eating his.’”’ He glanced 
slyly at Charles. ; 

‘*When I need help to run things, I'll ask 
you.” Her voice was quiet. ‘‘ Now eat it and 
keep still.” 

Charles smiled at his plate. Mrs. Spence 
said, ‘‘All cowboys s 

“Tt looks like throw-up!”’ Phillip said. “I 
hate it!” 

“Now you just shut up,” his mother said. 
“Tt’s good for you.” 

‘“‘That’s not fair. Charles isn’t eating his. 
I'll sit here all after 2 

The cold water from the glass hit him in 
the face. ‘‘ You'll sit there till you eat it.” 
And while he was still speechless she said, 
“Now clean up that water and eat.” 

Phillip gulped. 

“Don’t you dare cry,’’ his mother said. 

Phillip burst into loud sobs and jumped up 
from the table. 

“Phillip!” his mother said, rising from her 
chair as he ran howling across the kitchen to 
the dining room door. 

“T hate you!’ he screamed. “I hate you!” 

“You stop that! Stop it! If you wake that 
baby . . .”’ she yelled, running toward him. 
Charles and Mrs. Spence sat silently, watch- 
ing. 

Phillip ran into the dining room and around 
to the other side of the table. ““You’re not 
fair,” he hollered, keeping the table between 
them. “‘ You’re not fair.” 

“Phillip. Stand still I say,’’ she yelled. 
“‘Oh-h-h.”’ She doubled back and grabbed at 
him. 

Phillip turned expertly. ‘“‘ You’re not fair,” 
he cried. ‘“ You cheated.” 

“‘Charles,”’ she called. ‘Charles, come here 
and help me.” 





























September, 1949 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Charles came slowly and reluctantly and 
stood by one corner of the table and his 
mother went around the other way. 

“Aw, come on,” Charles said halfheartedly. 
“Do like she says.”’ 

When Phillip reached Charles he stopped. 
Charles did not touch him. ‘Okay for you, 
Charles,” he threatened, ‘okay ——” the 
flat slap of his mother’s hand struck Phillip 
sharply in the face. He dropped to the floor 
and put up his arms as she continued to strike 
him. 

“Stop that screaming!” his mother said. 

“Don’t! Don’t!”’ he wailed, worming his 
way along the floor. “‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 
He huddled in the corner shielding his face 
with his arms. 

“Stop it!” she said, holding her hand in 
position to slap him again. “Stop that crying! 
Hear me? Stop it!” 

Stepping back, she leaned heavily on the 
table and looked down at him, her shoulders 
shaking. ‘‘ Now get back there and eat.”’ 

She sighed, still leaning there and shaking. 


Phillip didn’t look at anybody as he 
climbed back into his chair. He glumly mixed 
his cabbage with his potatoes that had gotten 
cold so he couldn’t taste it so much but he 
gagged and choked several times under his 
mother’s scolding eye and she told him to 
stop it once and he didn’t say anything back 
but he still choked anyway. If he died from 
eating that stuff then they’d be sorry and it 
would be good enough for Charles and all of 
them. And it wasn’t cowboy cabbage. 

After the meal was over his mother gave 
him a partly filled milk bottle and told him to 


| go out and feed the puppy. 7” 


Don’t borrow trouble: borrow 


= money, and trouble will come of 


its own accord. 


—MAURICE SWITZER: 
Meditations of Marcus O'Ralius 
(Kelly-Springfield). 


“Can I have a cookie?” Phillip asked. 
“Sure,”’ his mother said, smiling at him. 
“Can I have two cookies?”’ 

“T suppose,” she said, carrying some dishes 
to the sink. 

Phillip put one of the cookies in his pocket 
and ate the other one. ““Mom, can I build a 
gang house ? Charles is. He won’t let me be in 
his gang.” 

“You've got a fine gang house in the ga- 


rage. Now you go feed the dog.” 


“Oh my gosh,” he grumbled, picking up 
the milk bottle and walking toward the back 
door. ‘‘ That’s not even a gang house.”’ 

Til do something famous someday and they'll 
all be nice to me and I'll tellthem about this and 
then they'll be sorry, boy. I can’t do nothing. 
Mom and Charles is big cheaters and they're 
nol fair and Mrs. Spence ts an old dumb liar. 
Cowboy cabbage! Boy, they'll get it someday. 

He sulked toward the garage that lay to 
the right of the house on the back driveway, 
carrying his black six shooter with his finger 
curled around the trigger ready for the first 
sign of trouble. 

Pushing up the latch on the door with the 
barrel of his gun he jumped in quickly. 
“Reach!”’ he rasped, ‘“and don’t move.” 

The puppy stood watching him blandly 
with his fat wobbly legs spread wide, then 
turned around and lay down. 

Phillip walked quickly over to the pen. 
“Take that an that an that!’ he yelled, 
clicking the black shiny gun violently into the 
sickening sweet milky smell. He put the gun 
into its holster and climbed awkwardly over 
the pen wall. 

“I built this pen, Jyp,” he said. **Cheater 
Charles helped. If you didn’t scream so much 
at night mom would of let you stayed in the 
kitchen. Old dumb Mrs. Spence said you left 
fur around too.” 

Jyp walked to the milk dish and looked 
In it. 

“You're not like Harold’s dog,” Phillip 
said. ‘ His dog is just white and black spotted 








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and picked him up and put him against his 
face, 

“You’re my dog and I paid a million dol- 
lars for you. I’m older than you are. You're 
only amonth old, Mrs, Kummer’s cat’s older 
than you are too,” he said. ‘Charles the 
cheater says your legs’ too short.” 

Jyp stuck his neck out and yawned with 
his short needle point teeth. He looked over 
Phillip’s arm down at the milk dish and be- 
gan to wiggle. 

“You're acute little monstrokidy though,” 
Phillip said, and put him down. He sat down 
himself and poured the milk 

‘“Now come here, sir. Drink your milk,”’ he 
commanded, ‘‘and no back talk cause you'll 
sit there till you eat it.” 

The puppy sniffed at the bowl and then his 
pink tongue was flashing in and out into the 
milk, his round belly swelling and stretching 
nearer and nearer to the floor with every 
slurp. 

“Oh Lord,”’ Phillip said. He shoved him 
away from the dish. “Stop bolting your food. 
You'll get a bad case of indecision, young 
man, gulping it like that. You eat like a pig.”’ 

The pup tried to slip past the arm, the milk 
sparkling on his stubby nose and white 
whiskers 

‘*Now,”’ Phillip said. ‘We'll settle this 
once and for all.’’ He lifted his arm and Jyp 
darted back to the bowl. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Phillip said. ** You 
can’t sneak past me. I’m the boss. Just march 
yourself right back here.”’ Jyp stuck his head 
down in the bowl 

“Did you hear what I said?”’ Phillip said, 
and grabbed him by his hind legs and pulled 
him onto his lap. Holding him up by his front 
legs, he shook him. Jyp looked at him 
thoughtfully 

“There. That’s better,”’ Phillip said. “* Now 
listen to me. And pay attention. I’m not talk- 
ing for my health. And stop that iternal day 
dreaming.’’ He lowered him back to his lap. 
He shook his head disgustedly. ‘‘When are 
you going to learn to mind?” 

Jyp lay still for a second, glancing at the 
milk bowl and then back at Phillip, and made 
a dash for the bowl. 

‘No you don’t,” Phillip said, mopping 
him across the floor onto his lap again. *‘ You 
can’t fool me. I got eyes in the back of my 
head.”’ He lifted him by his front paws again 
and plumped him down. 

“Sit up!’’ He took his hands away and the 
puppy fell over, scrambled up and scampered 
for the bowl. 

Phillip grabbed him by the back of the 
neck and carried him over to the corner. 





“Pil have to run along now, Mr. Simmons— 


but thank you for a lovely ecening.” 





September, 1949 


“Now sit up,” he said crossly, shoving him 
into it. “Anybody can sit up in a corner.”’ He 
took his hands away. Jyp flopped to the floor, 
Phillip grabbed him. 

“Don’t you got any bones?” he cried, 
throwing him back in the corner. “ You'll 
learn to mind me, you little devil. Now 
up!’’ He slapped the pup across the face. 

Jyp yapped and hunkered down in the 
corner. 

“Stand up!” Phillip said, putting his 
hands on his hips. ‘* You’ll not get any sym- 
pathy. You’re not hurt, You can’t fool me.” 

Jyp tried to dodge past him and Phillip 
kicked, knocking him the length of the pen. 
“T told you about that,” he cried, as Jyp hit 
the floor with a thud. Jyp yelped and scuttled 
away leaving a small spreading puddle. 

“And what'd I tell you about that, you bad 
dog?” Phillip shouted. ‘* Now you're really 
going to get it!’’ He cornered him and shook 
him violently. Jyp’s tongue came out pant- 
ing and he squeezed his eyes tight shut. 

“No dog of mine is going to act like that,” 
Phillip yelled, slapping him sharply. “* Not in 
my gang house. You'll learn to mind if you 7 
never learn nothing else,” he panted, watch- — 
ing the little brown eyes squeeze shut with 
each blow. 

“T’ll teach you!” he yelled, pounding him 
harder. 

“Stop that insane crying. Or it'll be that 
much worse.”’ He landed a solid punch into 
Jyp’s stomach. It made a dull sound as if the 
puppy were all skin and milk. 

“T’ll teach you!” he panted. ‘I'll teach 
you. Stop screaming. Hear me? I'll teac!) 
you.” 

Jyp lay on the floor loosely with his ees 
shut and suddenly Phillip stopped, hear: 
the loud stillness of the empty garage and ‘lie 
dull red throbbing of his own heart poundi : £ 
through his whole body as he leaned over the 
pup. He stood up and backed off, looking 








down at the pup. He shoved his hands in his )} ¢ 


pockets. 


‘“‘What’s the matter with you, Jyp?” he | 


said. 

Jyp opened his eyes cautiously. 

“T’m not going to play with you anymore,’ 
Phillip said. ‘‘ You’re a cheater. I’m not never 
going to play with you again.” He took the 
crumbled cookie out of his pocket and looked 


at it and threw it on the floor. “I’m going to }} 


find Lonnie and Harold and play in the apple © 
tree, that’s what I’m going to do.” 
Jyp stood up, still watching him cautiously. 
“And you can’t play with us,” he said, and | 
climbed over the pen and ran out the door | 
away from the silence. 






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LADIES 


Jyp sniffed once at the cookie and trotted 
to the milk bowl. 


The trunk of the apple tree leaned almost 
to the ground. One small cowboy step put 
you in the tree itself among the black sturdy 
branches that had been worn smooth and 
shiny where many cowboys had sat. They 
were almost as shiny as the black smooth 
leather on Charles’ bike seat. The lower part 
of the tree was the hide-out. It was hidden 
from view of the house by a jungle of stickery 
barberry. 

Phillip and Lonnie and Harold sat in the 
tree eating green apples. 

“This is my tree,” Phillip said, turning to 
Lonnie and Harold. 

Harold spit out part of an apple. ‘It’s not 
neither, it’s your mother’s.” 

“Tt’s mine,” Phillip said. 

Harold didn’t say anything. They sat si- 
lently for a while eating their apples, ducking, 
holding their breaths, and clinging tightly to 
the limbs of the tree once when Phillip’s 
mother came out on the back porch to shake 
a dust rag. Phillip looked down at the stickery 
green bushes and held tighter. 

After she went back inside the house 
Harold said: 

“Apples don’t make me sick.” 

“Mom says they will,” Phillip said, scoot- 
ing out on a limb and stretching for another 
apple. “She knows more’n you do. She knows 
more’n your mom too.” 

“Aw,” Harold said. He looked at his dan- 
gling feet and then at Lonnie. “‘ They’re mak- 
ing Lonnie sick,” he said, smiling at Lonnie. 

“T’m not sick,”’ Lonnie said, blinking his 
blue eyes rapidly at the ground then looking 
at Harold and Phillip. He had on blue denim 
overalls. The farmer kind with straps that 
went over his shoulders. Not like the cow- 
boy kind that Phillip and Harold wore. His 
face was almost as pale as his lank blond 
hair. 

‘“How come you’re not saying nothing, 
then?” Harold asked, staring at him. 

Phillip searched Lonnie’s face, too, waiting 
for an answer. 


Lonnre blinked at his apple core pensively. 
Then he edged toward the trunk of the tree 
where the other two sat. ““You guys know 
what I told you yesterday?” he said softly, 
squinting his eyes until they were almost 
shut. 

“Yeah,” they both said. 

Lonnie waited a moment. “I know how 
they get there,”’ he said seriously. 

“‘Aw, you don’t neither,” Harold said. 

“Oh yeah?” Lonnie said. ‘‘I do too.” 

“Okay,” Harold scoffed. ‘“How then?” 

“Well.”’ Lonnie paused dramatically. 
‘First the man and the woman get undressed 
in front of each other,” he said slyly, watch- 
ing their faces for a reaction. 

‘‘What’s that got to do with it?”’ Phillip 
asked, disgustingly spitting out a bite of a 
wormy apple and picking another one. He 
turned it over and over. It was all right. 

“Listen!’’ Lonnie cried, throwing his apple 
to the ground. “Listen, will you.’ 

The apple rolled several times in the dust 
mixing slowly with its wetness and covering it 
with a dark shiny mud. Phillip dropped his 
own apple. 

“T wouldn’t take my clothes off in front of 
any old girl,” Harold said. 

“Your mother’s a girl,” Lonnie said, ““an 
she gives you baths.” 

“That’s different,” Harold said. “Besides, 
you don’t know.’ 

Phillip felt his face and ears burning. 

“Oh yeah?” Lonnie grinned slyly. “I do 
too know.” 

“I think you’re a liar,’’ Harold said. He 
looked at Phillip. ‘‘Isn’t he a liar, Phillip?” 

“Yeah, Harold. Lonnie’s a dirty muddy 
liar. You’re a liar, Lonnie,” he said irre- 
fragably. 

Lonnie didn’t say anything. 

““You’re nothing but a liar,’”’ Harold cried. 
‘And your dad drinks beer all the time! Liar! 
Liar 1” 

“I’m not neither,’’ Lonnie said. 
you’re botha couple of big babies.’’ He looked 
at them a moment. “I’m not afraid of neither 
one of you guys,” he said. 


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LADIES’ ILOME 


‘ 


JOURNAL 


“Oh yeah?” Phillip said. “And you know 
what you are? You’re a son of a bitch.”’ It 
came out fast. Phillip smiled. 

Glancing around furtively Lonnie sensed 
the slight jar of the screen door being shut 
and grinned faintly at Harold. 

“T didn’t hear you, Phillip,” Harold said. 
“What'd you say?” 

“Yeah, say that again, you big sissy,” 
Lonnie threatened, smiling faintly with an- 
ticipation. ‘Go ahead. I just dare you!” 

“Son of a bitch,”’ Phillip said happily. 

Lonnie and Harold were already swinging 
down from the branches of the tree. They 
hit the ground, ran a few feet and ducked 
through an opening in the bushes, Mouth 
open Phillip watched them disappear be- 
fore he thought of turning in the other direc- 
tion. 

“You get down here this minute!” 
mother said. 

Phillip dropped an untasted apple and be- 
gan climbing hurriedly down the tree, finding 
the old footholds automatically. By the time 
he reached the ground he was crying, He hesi- 
tated, holding tightly to a low limb. “I’m 
sorry, mom,” he cried. She jerked him loose 
and pulled him inex- 


his 


orably toward the hollowly against his 
house until they K KK *ESeeee ears. ‘‘They’d be 
reached the steps sorry,” he said, and 


where Phillip made 


a wild grab at the 
banister. ‘Stop, 
mom!’’ he yelled. 
“Stop! I won't do it 
again, mom! I’m 
sorry!”’ She turned ity 
suddenly, glaring 


angrily at him and 


jerking him loose as eke Cantihs 
hauled him up the pS sand ‘ 
steps Claims they belong to him—well, 


His hand struck the 
door jamb. “Oh, my 
hand, my hand,” he 
cried, “you've broke 
my hand! Oh-h-h... 

His mother half 
dragged him into the 
bathroom. “I'll fix 
your nasty mouth,” 
she said, shaking him 
angrily. “I’ll not have 
any son of mine talk- 
ing like that.” 

“Don’t! Don’t!” 
he howled, as his 
mother picked up the 
soap. “Please! 
Please .. .”’ He tried 
to cover his face with his hand. She held 
him by the hair, bringing his head back while 
he fought doggedly, his teeth clenched 
tightly, his lips drawn in. 

His mother clamped her hand over his nose 
shutting off his breath, and his mouth came 
open. She worked the soap in. 

““Ah-hgg ——” He became aware of little 
animal noises that were himself blubbering in 
his own ears. : 

“Now let me tell you, young man,” she 
said, letting loose of him. He stumbled 
blindly to the toilet. 

“Tf I ever ever hear you say that again —— 
Stop that crying,” she threw the soap back 
into the soap dish again. 

‘“‘Isn’t it enough that I work around this 
madhouse all day—And this is all the thanks 
I get—Trying to make it decent,” she stood 
there panting at him for a moment. 


county seat, 


Anne's lace; 


in his face. 


“Ou, if your father...” she wiped the back 
of her hand across her forehead. “‘Stop that 
mad yelling,’ she paused. ‘‘Stop it.” She 
marched over and banged open the door. 
‘Now straighten up and stop that gagging. 
Or I'll give you more!” she threatened. 

Then she went out leaving the door wide 
open. 

Across the hallway he could see the base- 
ment door not quite shut creaking faintly 
from the gentle updraft of air. Nobody was 
watching as he slipped over and grasped the 
cool knob in his hand and ran down the steps 
to the basement which was /zs home. 

“Nobody likes me,’’ he choked, still retch- 
ing and rubbing his sleeve across his mouth. 


i A, 
: Gillen vod 
C wns Shdbe ke ae, ' 


Alma Roberts Giordan 


Goldenrod owns these fields, and if 


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Locked in the record books at the 


” Titled and taxed and ribboued and 
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Let him go and point to ownership— 
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August will dress his field in ponent 


Goldenrod in September will fecal 


Ki RR, Fe Oe a a 








September, 1919 


“Lonnie and Harold the cowards don't like 
me and neither does my mother,’ he hurried 
into the laundry room, almost tripping over a 
basket of dirty clothes, 

“T can’t even play with Charles cause I’m 
too little,”’ he hiccuped, turning on a fauce’ 
over one of the large white tubs. 


“ANp Mrs. Spence is a dumb ox and don" 
even know how to play.” 

He took a long drink and spit it out, Then 
he took several mouthfuls more and spit 
them out too, finding a towel he rubbed 
it all over his face and neck and inside his 
mouth. 

“TI wish I was dead,”’ he sobbed, looking 
around the large bare room, 

“T wish I was dead,” he walked tiredly 
back to the steps and sat down, his sobs 
ebbed, coming now in broken gulps. 

He looked across to the further wall where 
his sled leaned. ‘*They’d be sorry if I was 
dead, boy,”’ he said. He looked sadly at the 
rope that coiled about the runners of the sled. 
“The only reason mom gives me Christmas 
presents is cause she’s got to. Everybody 
hates me."’ And he started to cry again. 

The room pressed 


jumped up. “Boy, 
they'll be surprised.”’ 
He ranover tothe sled 
and untied the rope, 
It made a fine cow- 
boy lasso. “ They're 
going to get it.”” He 
slipped the twisted 
loop over his head 
and pulled it tight 
against his throat. He 
looked up at the ceil- 
ing, at the black pipes 
crisscrossed above his 
head, and threw the 
loose end of the rope. 
He had to throw it 
twice before it went’ 
over the pipe. 

‘‘It’s all their 
fault,” he said, and 
climbed the rope 
hand over hand until 
he was on tiptoes. 
But he could not 
climb himself any 
higher than tiptoe. 
It choked him and 
he had to stop climb- 
ing. 

“They'll be sorry,’”’ he said. His voice 
sounded loud in his ears. He jumped up off 
the floor and grabbed the rope as high up as 
he could reach. But he could not hold it. The 
rope slid through his hands in a long hot burn 
and he fell on the floor and bumped his head 
hard on the concrete. 

Crying jerkily, he climbed up on a box and 
wrapped the rope around his wrist and held it 
tight in his hand with his arms stiff up over 
his head, and jumped off. 

A splitting roar enclosed him in a funnel of 
black emptiness, and he couldn’t breathe any 
more. He tried to breathe and he heard soft 
echoing whispers. The blackness grew into a 
deep floating grayness. Calling desperately. 
Who are you? What is your name? 

He shook his head, his eyes closed, but the 
blackness kept getting grayer, the whispers 
more insistent. 

Phillip! they said, Phillip! Who are you? 

‘““My name’s Phillip,”’ he said lazily, open- 
ing his eyes to the dazzling brightness of the 
sun on the ceiling coming in at a window. The 
whispers were fast-fading dreams. 

He was still alone. 

He slipped the knotted rope over his head 
quickly and threw it away, sitting up ro 
and rubbing his neck. 

It was raw and burning and the back of ni€ 
head pounded heavily. He stood up dowigh 
“I’m sick to my stomach,” he said. 

He looked guiltily at his feet, feeling aw- 
fully little and awfully tired. 

“‘T wish I was as big as Charles,” 

Slowly he climbed the stairs. 


he said. 


THE END 








LADIES’ WOME JOURNAL September, 194 


True! Your First Cake of Camay 
rings a Softer, Lovelier Skin! 




































Beauty's a lovely complexion! Good looks 

are a soft, clear skin! Yes, and your first 

cake of Camay can make your skin smoother and 
lovelier—if you'll give up careless cleans- 
ing—goon the Camay Mild-Soap Diet. Doctors 
tested Camay care on a large group of 

women with different types of skin. Almost all 
these women won lovelier complexions, each 
with her first cake of Camay. Follow directions on 


the wrapper—you'll be more attractive, too! 


TEXAN TAKES CAMAY BRIDE! . 





Crrolyn had a host of admirers before Bill took charge. 
Buc from their first dancing date together, no one else 
counted. Carolyn fell for Bill’s easy Texas drawl—and 
he couldn't resist her Camay complexion! 






7 


Even the color camera with its 
magic can’t do justice to Caro- 
7 lyn's complexion. Her skin has 
a smoothness, acarnation-fresh- 
ness, that takes your breath 
away. ‘My first cake of Camay 
made such a difference,” she says. 


The eyes of Texas were all on 
Carolyn, as she and Bill honey- 
mooned in the Lone Star Strate. 
A skin that’s soft and glamor- 
ous is a magnet for admiring 
glances! Go on the Camay 
Mild-Soap Diet. See how much 
lovelier your skin can be. 


MRS. B. MARSHALL WOMAC 
the former Carolyn Lucretia Moore 
of New York 


Portrait painted by Were 


THE SOAP GF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN 








Dependents at 76, the Rufus Austins, 
| of Cape Girardeau. Missouri, share home 


of son-in-law Carl Middleton. 


By ELIZABETH and ELIOT JANEWAY 








CM SO Ae rae 


Ss 
Ss ‘ NY \ 


RU» 
SS ill 


bt 


eee 7 


N March, 1946, when the Austins moved in with the Middletons, they 

had no intention of staying. ““We always had our own place,” Mrs. 
Austin says proudly. “Always had three bedrooms too.” But their son Paul 
had sold the house which they had been renting from him—his wife was > 
sick, and he had finally decided to settle in Florida. Paul Austin had arranged 
with the buyers for his father and mother to stay on, using half the house, 
until they found a place of their own. But it didn’t work out. It was only a 
six-room, one-bathroom house to start with, and the new people who'd 
bought it kept moving more relations and in-laws in every week. It was too 
noisy for the old people, for Ella and Rufus Austin. It was noisy and 
crowded, and when you're 73 there’s only so much of that you can stand. 

So they had to move. And for the first time in their lives they couldn’t 
find a place of their own. There wasn’t a flat or a little house that they could 
afford anywhere in Cape Girardeau. Even though the children were willing 
to help with the rent, Paul in Florida and Esther in New Mexico and Celesta 
Middleton right there in town, everything Mrs. Austin could find was too 
high. Well, there was only one thing to do, though they hadn’t thought 
they'd ever come to it. They moved in with Celesta and her husband and 
family. 

It was in everybody’s mind, of course, that this was a temporary arrange- poms 
ment. Esther wrote from New Mexico (she and her husband, Elbert Brock, 
have a chicken farm near Gallup), asking her mother and father to come out 
for a visit. When Grandma and Grandpa Austin came back in the fall, 
everyone said, they'd surely be able to find a place to live. It was only for a 


PHOTOGRAPHS BY GORDON COSTER 


To be near children Austins sold Indiana garage, moved to “Cape,” where Rufus 
worked as mechanic; peak pay, $36 a week. They met at church in 1885; Rufus in- 
vited pretty Ella to “keep step” with him. They've been “keeping step” ever since. 





“Suppers ready” 


“Game” of stroking Grandpa’s gray hair delights Bar- 


bara Jean, 


erandson. 


whose father. 
Of 


8 children 


Bill 


born 


Abernathy. 


to 


\ustins, 


1s 


9 
» 


Austins’ 
survive. 


In works hop 


back out. 


birdhouse. 


in Austins’ basement room, makeshift but snug, with radio, favorite rocker, canary. 





“so small you go in oe 


ve and David, 14, build : 


Od 


| jobs paid $249.40 last year. 


y 
Z 
4, 


es <a 


o 





Never hearty eaters, food budget is $5 to $7 a week. 





= 
= 
= 


= 


4% 


0 alle 
No bosses in Middleton re Mrs. Austin and 
daughter Celesta Middleton, 41, share work of holiday 
dinner. They feel any family ae le >m ean be “talked out. 


oy 








month that they’d be staying with the Middletons, sleeping in the 
back bedroom that Mary Ellen Middleton had had to move out of. 
Pretty soon they'd have “‘a place of their own” again. But they haven’t 
found one yet. 

How do they manage, the three generations of them, living to- 
gether in a little five-room house? Well, it takes a lot of contriving and 
compromise and, above all, forbearance. But of that the Austins and 
the Middletons, young and old, have more than their share. They have 
faced the problems and difficulties of living together, and though they 
have not solved them all, they have surmounted the biggest difficulty. 
They have kept intact their mutual affection and respect, so that the 
six people living in the house on Whitener Street in Cape Girardeau, 
Missouri, are a united family. The annoyances and disagreements 
trouble but do not disturb their serenity. Here is a family that 
enjoys doing things together, whose members—the Austins, now both 
76, Celesta and Carl Middleton in their early 40’s, Mary Ellen, 19, and 
David Lee, 14—understand and take pride in one another. 

While the Austins had been aw ay, their furniture had been stored 
down in the Middletons’ basement—the big double bed, the bureau, 
the extension table, the icebox, and a century of photographs, from 
Grandma Austin’s parents, severe in sepia, to her great-grandchildren. 
Instead of moving back into Mary Ellen’s bedroom, the Austins took 
over the basement for their own. To the left of the cellar stairs, where 
the afternoon sunshine comes in through the high windows, they set 
up their furniture and made themselves a home. It’s a makeshift, all 
right. A patchwork of different-colored curtains cuts off the “room” 
where they sleep and eat, where the canary’s cage hangs in the shaft 
of sunlight, from the rest of the cellar. Its damp when the furnace 
isn’t going, which is none too good for Grandpa Austin’s rheumatic 
leg. And Grandma Austin has no view from the high little windows, no 


167 





“No ban on roller skating” for granddaughter Mary Ellen, 19, and beau Bryan 
< oD oO oD / 3 
Parnell, though family, active in church work and Christian Endeavor Society, 
disapproves of dancing. Bright red tassels decorate Mary Ellen’s own skates. 


Like many unfamiliar with old-age security, the Austins believed their insurance barred state aid; now find they may be eligible. 





err 
a 
te Sh / 


‘A pattern called Youth” is newly engaged Mary Ellen’s choice for wedding silver. She 





will marry Bryan when he graduates to take job teaching. Music major at Southeastern 
State until last semester, Mary Ellen’s parents regret her decision to leave school. 


Five-room Middleton cottage houses 3 generations, 6 people. On Tuesday Mrs. Middle- 
ton irons between meals in dining room. Mary Ellen does her dresses when she comes 
home from job in Woolworth office. At night room is sleeping quarters for David. 








+ 





BE 


si Se i Tastee 





e : ; , Cet et <p i 
era - E . a * a wh. 


Carl Middleton, 44, likes job as salesman for Jewel Tea Company, is proud of gleam- 

























ing new truck from which he sells Lroceries, housewares. Ambitious, he regrets end- 


ing formal education with high school, plans to take winter course in bookkeeping. 


place to sit and watch the world go by. But it does mean independence 
and privacy. It is at least a reasonable facsimile of “a place of their 
own.” 

And, equally, it allows to the Middletons a place of their own. What 
has been accomplished is a great deal more than just moving the 
members of the family a little farther apart and letting Mary Ellen 
sleep in her own room again instead of in the living room. The Austins, 
by moving downstairs, have gained for everyone many of the advan- & 
tages of a two-family house. No longer are the three generations bound 
to the same schedule, whether it is convenient for everyone or not. 
Now Grandma Austin gets meals for herself and Grandpa downstairs, 
using a hot plate and a small kerosene stove, and the old people can 
thus eat what and when they please. They have their own prized 
possessions about them, and Grandma enjoys the bit of housework 
that looking after them involves. On the Sundays that they are at 
home, or on holidays, the two families have dinner together, or go off 
with a box lunch on a picnic. But then the occasion is a kind of party, 
almost a celebration, not a nagging everyday necessity. Mary Ellen’s 


young man, Bryan Parnell, will be with the family, too, most likely, 


SS OR TF 





Monday’s washday for the Middletons. Tuesday is reserved for the Austins, whose base- 

ment room is next to laundry. On curtain-wall between, Grandma Austin has pinned 
: - : : ~ ee 33 

motto by which she lives and in which she firmly believes—“Be of good cheer. 





“oa \ 


“es 2 ’ 
Fede = 






d you bring the candy?” Like Toni Friedrich, 2, Carl’s 500 customers are good 
nds, rely on “rolling shop.” Company discount to employees helps Middletons keep 
1 bills to low $20 a week for 4. As little as $20 ayear covers their outside recreation. 


and he and pretty Mary Ellen are apt to begin making music any 
chance they get. 

Mary Ellen met Bryan at a band rehearsal during freshman year. 
“He was so snooty!” she says. “So awfully snooty that he wouldn’t 
talk to me at all. So I blew a sour note,” and she giggles. Last Christ- 


mas Mary Ellen made ap her mind that it was definitely Bryan for her, “Mark Twain country” 
and now the diamond on her finger says so out loud. Huck Finn age, though mud, dangerous currents rule out swimming for David, best 
friend Jackie, dog Midge. David likes camping, gardening, music; plans to go to college. 


\P Books of gospel songs stand ready on the upright piano in the 
Middleton living room, for the family is bound together, too, all three 
generations of it, by its interest and devotion to its church. “We give You praise.”’ Carl, ordained minister in General Baptist Church, preaches 
It doesn’t work perfectly, of course. There are times when the Sunday services at Kinder Chapel, 45 miles from “Cape.” Family accompanies him. To 
Middleton family does want to get off by itself, and the old people’s Middletons, faith is an important part of daily living; they tithe income for church. 
feelings do get hurt because they have been “left out”—the picnic Pes — 
on Mother’s Day, for instance, when they did not go along. Then 
Grandma Austin will reflect out loud that she and daddy were happier 
staying out with Esther in New Mexico, and will wish that they were 
back there. And Mrs. Middleton will button her lips shut over any 
reflections on how childish old folks can be. Or Mary Ellen, who is 19, 
after all, and engaged, with a real diamond ring, will burst out to her 


plans sermons carefully from extensive library, but often looks down at the 
idly faces before him and finds planned sermon won t do at all,” gives impromptu 


in simple neighborly fashion. Middletons often join “all-night sings” at church, 





mother that she wishes Grandma would stop saying that she ought to be in at nine 


o’clock every night. Or David Lee will wonder, just above his breath, when he is 


going to have a little more room to keep his nature collections. Because if a 


fellow is going to be a forest ranger when he grows up, naturally he’s interested 
in collecting things. And if he has to sleep on a roll-away bed in the dining room, 
he hasn’t got much place to keep them. 

But these troubles and difficulties do not have a chance to grow very big in the 
house on Whitener Street. There is too much going on that brings the family 
together. Besides, Grandpa Austin’s clever mechanic’s fingers still know their 
work, They bring in enough money to give the Austins a real sense of inde- 
pendence. Grandma helps out with baby-sitting too. Independence, privacy, 
common interests, all lubricated with patience and affection—these keep the 


household running. (Continued on Page 192) 


Bowed heads as Grandpa Austin says grace before Sunday picnic in churchyard of Kinder Chapel. 


ania heed PRB ERM VR. = < 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Milealtime A@letimuire 


FOR SEPTEMBER: a Peach Sunburst dessert . . . new glamour for soups... 


new recipes for a spiced broth and a butter cake. 


WL 





La-a-azy, hazy September —when summer slips away 


Whether you serve ice cream elaborately or as a 
simple sundae, it’s always wise to use the very finest. 
That’s why I suggest Meapow Gorn. For you can 
tell that Meapow Gotp’s made with good country 
cream the minute you taste it. And I think Meapow 
Gotp even looks more appetizing . . . so smooth- 
textured and creamy (never spongy!) I like its 
packaging, too, with the special color for each flavor. 
(You can buy the flavor by the color.) Try some 
today, do. I know you ll find it’s better. 





By Beatrice 


Cooke 





IG bet Chis will Kappen you ee 
Some time soon Sis or Jimmy will be appearing in 
the kitchen with a new school friend—and that 
inevitable request for a double hand-out. That’s when 


you ll rate ““World’s Best Mom,” 


if you try my 


suggestion steaming cups of delicious CHox 
mn, with its ! Tardy -Bell Trouble 00 : ; 
os Bea cs ey ee sa oe siete. J th Instant Hot Chocolate! I find that Cuox is both rich 
itu s more y : 
% meroleidessert Ive’ f eee pee Ake and thrifty. Because sugar 
pe a une think it suits , Junior and whole milk are already 


September’s magic mood exactly. 


Peach Sunbursts 
(8 servings) 


3 whites of Meadow Gold 1 tsp. almond extract 
Select Grade A Eggs 2 cups sliced peaches 

V4 tsp. salt 

14 tsp. cream of tartar 

l cup granulated sugar 

1 tsp. vinegar 

l tsp. water 


4 tbsp. sugar 

2 tsp. lemon juice 

4 maraschino cherries 

1 quart of Meadow Gold 
Vanilla Ice Cream 


1. Combine egg whites, salt and cream of tartar. 
and beat to a stiff foam. 


Ww 


. Beat in sugar, one-half tbsp. at a time, alter- 
nately with combined liquids (vinegar, water, 
and almond extract) a few drops at a time. 
Continue to beat until mixture is very stiff and 
mounds well. 

3. Shape meringue into nests 3 to 4 inches in 

2. diameter on a cookie sheet covered with heavy 

brown paper. Shape with pastry tube or spoon. 


4. Place meringues on top shelf of oven and bake 
SEO 


about 50 minutes in a very slow oven (275° F.) 
Remove from brown paper and cool. 


5. Sprinkle peaches with sugar and lemon juice. 


6. Heap ice cream onto meringue nests; arrange 
peach slices on ice cream in sunburst fashion 
and top with a maraschino cherry half. 


NOTE: If desired, meringues may be sprinkled with 
very moist coconut before baking. 





A problem, isn’t it—getting your scholars off in the 
morning? But you can save juice-squeezing time at 
breakfast —and even give the children some extra 
“juice vitamins” —if you try my discovery 
VecamatTo! It’s a ruby-red, wonderfully piquant 
cocktail blending the vitamin-rich juices of seven 
salad vegetables. With something no other juice 
cocktail has as far as | know—real lemon juice for 
extra zip! For a healthful appetizer before any meal 
—and a satisfying drink between meals — VEGAMATO 
is wonderful. Just pick up a can at your grocer’s 
today and see. I know you'll like it—and the things 
you can cook with it, too. Like this: 


Hot Spiced Vegamato Broth 
(Serves 6) 


Heat 5 cups VEGAMATO juice with a few grains 
of savory. Add 4 bouillon cubes; stir until dissolved; 
remove from heat. Stir in 2 teaspoons lemon juice 
and a few drops of tabasco. Garnish with lime 
slices studded with whole cloves. 


How 


init... making CHox the 
only preparation I know 
which will produce a good 
cup of rich hot chowalate 
when you simply add hot 
water. You can make very 
fine candy, fudge sauce, 
and cake topping with 
CHox, too. Ask your 
grocer for a box, hm? 
You ll enjoy it! 





Try this. Give old favorites new flavors 


Ever try glamorizing stews or soups with water chest- 
nuts... bean sprouts ... bamboo shoots . . . mush- 
rooms .. . and pimentos? It works wonders! No 
problem, either, if you do as I do and just use the 
contents of a can of LaCHoy Mixep CHINESE VEGE- 
TABLES. This single ingredient turns an ordinary stew 
—or a special Chop Suey —into a gourmet’s delight! 
And the LaChoy name is an assurance of quality. 


Send for your free Chinese Recipe Book now! 
6 complete Chinese menus. 27 exotic recipes. A 
treasure! Write to Dept. J-5, LaChoy Food Products 
Division, Beatrice Foods Co., Archbold, Ohio. 


Meadow Gold Butter Cake 


long since you’ve made a butter cake? Probably too 


long, if you ask the family! For there’s a rich flavor and 


mois 


t freshness to butter cake which make it an unfailing 


favorite. How about trying the golden beauty shown in 
the picture opposite ? Here’s the recipe: 


3 
3 


V4 tsp. salt 
¥, cup Meadow Gold Butter 
14 cups granulated sugar 


-_ 





cups cake flour, sifted 
tsp. baking powder 


3 Meadow Gold Eggs, un- 
beaten 

1 cup Meadow Gold Ho- 
mogenized Milk 

14 tsp. vanilla extract 

ly tsp. almond extract 


- Sift flour, baking powder and salt together. 
- Cream butter thoroughly until light. (Slightly firm 


butter is better than butter at room temperature.) 


Add sugar gradually; continue to cream until very 
fluffy. 


. Add eggs one at a time. Beat hard after each addition. 


Combine flavorings and milk. 


. Add sifted dry ingredients (in fourths) alternating 


with milk and flavorings (in thirds). 

Pour batter into two 8” square pans, or two 9” round 
pans and bake at 350° F. for 30 to 35 minutes, 

Cool and frost with your favorite chocolate-butter 
frosting. Sprinkle a fringe of yellow-tinted coconut 
around the top edge of the cake. 


For cooking —and for serving— 
I always make a point of using 
Meapow Gotp Butter. For ex- 
perience has convinced me it’s 
consistently better. Maintains 
its freshness and fragrance even 


when melted (the surest test of quality I know). And in 
many localities each quarter pound of Mrapow Gotp 
comes wrapped in aluminum foil. Keeps the delicate 
goodness twice as long! 





© 1949, Beatrice Foods Co, 


‘old Butter, Eggs, aad Milk makes this butter dike melt in your mouth! 


The richness of Meadow ( 





~~ 


“I 


i) 


When baby’s cra 


“Childhood Constipation” 


LADIES’ HOME 


nkiness means | 





“It's the laxative made especially for infants 


and children... children of all ages.” 


VW your child is cross and 
that crankiness comes from 
‘‘Childhood Constipation” . . . it’s 


wise to know what to do. Give her 
Fletcher’s Castoria. 


Thorough and effective—yet so gen- 
tle, it won’t upset sensitive diges- 
tive systems. 


Made especially for children — con- 
tains no harsh drugs, will not cause 
griping or discomfort. 


So pleasant- tasting — children love 
it and take it gladly without any 
struggle 


Chat Hetcher 


The original and genuine 


CASTORIA 


Get Fletcher’s Castoria at your drug- 
store today. Be sure you see the green 
band and the Charles H. Fletcher 
signature on the package—then you 
will know that what you are getting 
is the original and genuine. 






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© JOURNAL 


* HOW AMERICA LIVES x 


September, 19 


Living With Your Children 


By LESLIE Bf. HOWMMAN, M.D. 


Professor of Neuropsychiatry, Duke University School of Medicine 


FIVE-ROOM house on a pretty, tree- 

lined street in Cape Girardeau, Mis- 

souri, is housing three generations of 

grownups (David Lee Middleton is 14, 
and his sister, Mary Ellen, is 19 and -en- 
gaged to be married), and proving to be an 
important solution to the problem of fam- 
ily responsibility and family loyalty. Mr. 
Middleton, 44-year-old salesman, and Mrs. 
Middleton, 41-year-old housewife, have ac- 
cepted as guests for the past three years 
Mrs. Middleton’s parents, the Austins, each 
a ripe 76. The home is a very happy one, 
filled with people. It is also filled with 
good humor, friendliness, mutual respect 
and a calm sense of responsibility. 

It is not simple or easy for three genera- 
tions to live under one roof. Conflict be- 
tween generations, in these United States, 
is likely to be especially severe, because 
American parents have practiced the princi- 
ple that children have littleresponsibility to 
their parents. American 
parents have wanted 
their children to get 


I hope the set of rules which I found the 
Austins following can help other families re 
view their relationships with parents wha 
are aging. I hope these rules may also help 
some oldsters who are making it difficult 
for their children. 


Mrs. austin doesn’t approve of the way 
young women dress today, the hours the 
keep or the amount of paint they use. Her 
own convictions are clear, but she admi 
that times have changed. Her rule in thi 
matter is: 

1. Mind your own business. Offer no ad 
vice that is not requested, and then think 
twice to be sure the advice isreally wanted, 

No matter what time her granddaughter) 
comes in at night, she never says any# 
thing. I doubt if she knows that Mrs) 
Middleton tells her daughter that Mrs 
Austin worries if she comes in late. 

The Austins have maintained their finan 
cial independence. They) 
want no money help ag 
long as they can ge | 









; 


‘ 


e 


ahead, to have more edu- 
cation, and to have a 
better station in life. 
Over and over, one 
hears the statement of 
parents—my children 
owe me nothing; they 
didn’t ask to be born. 
Parents are apt to meas- 
ure their own success by 
the success of their chil- 
dren. The Middletons, 
with their happy accept- 
ance of family responsi- 
bility, make one wonder 
whether the pendulum 
has not swung too far. 
This problem of aging 
parents is one that we 
must face realistically. 
Thanks to medical 
science and a high stand- 
ard of living, more 
people are living into old 
age. Oldsters come to a 


é John Clerk, one of the most 
pugnacious of lawyers, once 
had a brush with the House of 
Lords. It seems that he pre- 
served the old-fashioned 
“enow,”” whereas his younger 
brethren said “‘enough”’ 
(enuff). Retaining this old 
usage while presenting his ar- 
gument, he was interrupted 
by the Lord Chancellor saying, 
“Mr. Clerk, in England we 
sound the ‘ough’ as ‘uff,’ 
‘enuff,’ not ‘enow.’”’ 

“Very well, my lord,” con- 
tinued the very self-possessed 
advocate. “Of this we have 
had enuff; and I now proceed 
to the subdivision of the land 
in dispute. It was apportioned 
into what in England would 
be pluffland, a pluffland being 
as much land as a pluffman 
ean pluff in a day.”’ 

The Lord Chancellor could 
not withstand the apt riposte, 
burst into laughter saying, 
**Proceed, Mr. Clerk. I know 
enow of Scotch to understand 



















along. When Mr. Aus 
tin’s brother offered te 
build them a_ house 
and they love a place of 
their own—they refused 

The second rule is: 

2. Refuse all financie 
aid not imperativel 
needed. 

This is not to say thal 
small gifts are not gra 
ciously and appreciatively 
received. A necess y 
warm coat is accepted 
when an old one is worn 
out. But more gifts a 
refused by the Austing) 
than are accepted. 

The third rule, I thin 
is the most importa 
one. Mr. and Mrs. Austir 
have a genius for reliev: 
ing their relatives of any 
sense of guilt because) 
the Austins choose to live 








place where energy and 
full health fail, and they 
can no longer support 
themselves with com- 
plete independence. Then comes their prob- 
lem of economic dependency and, even 
more important, emotional dependency. 

If children assume the duty of financial 
support, will they do it with an attitude of 
resentment? What emotional satisfaction 
can the oldsters have if there is giving with- 
out warmth and affection? 

The Middletons’ answer to the problem 
is warming. Their protective attitude seems 
to come out of a sense of love and respect. 
For example, Mary Ellen wants the Austins 
to get to church and sees to it that they get 
there. To her friends, it seems at times an 
interfering task. Mary Ellen dismisses any 
discussion of the point. To her, her duty is 
simple—to take care of the grandparents 
when they need her help. 


Te Middletons are fortunate in work- 
ing out the problem of three generations in 
one house. They are all, from the oldest to 
youngest, of good disposition. The whole 
family is content with simple things, not 
overeager for the things money brings, 
all deeply religious. 

The elder Austins are the ones who have 
taught the good balance between giving 
and receiving. I believe they have done the 
succeeding generations a good turn by 
showing them one can prepare in early life 
for old age, in that it is possible to exercise 
children in the art of living successfully 
with another generation. 


your argument.” 


more and more simply 
and to live on a very 
meager income. Whet 

the Austins moved into 
the Middleton house they had the room 
of the 16-year-old daughter. Within a short 
time, however, they began to assemb 

reasons why they should set up their 
housekeeping in the basement. ‘They lik 

the privacy of being by themselves. 

“They like to sit down at their own table 
and eat what they like.” ““They wanted 
room for their own things.” ‘‘They pre- 
ferred to be away from company.” “Tt’s 
cooler in the basement.” 

The third rule is: 

3. Make your children feel comfortable 
when you decide to live simply. Avoid 
giving them a sense of guilt if they live 
on a higher economic level. 

A fourth rule the older Austins folloy 
also makes for ease of living with anothe 





generation: 7 


4. Make and keep your own friends. D 
not be dependent upon another genera-=| 
tion’s friends unless they want you. 


The Austins make their friends in the 


community and in the church group. They ii 3 
2 Min 


do not restrict themselves to people @ 








eo 


fe 


i 


” 


a ee 


f 


“ 


You use g 
thily } 


fa 


hy 
iu 


their own age, but they make theirff)wnj 








| 


friends and are not parasitic on their c! 
dren’s or their grandchildren’s friends. 
A fifth they follow is: : 
5. Live with your children only as long 
as you know you are wanted. 
Ever since the Austins moved in, ee 
years ago, they have been hunting for rooms 
of their own (Continued on Page 227, 





mm linn 





fee 


3 


- | Mei 4 >. 
pe 


al 





You use only the blandest soap for your baby’s 
daily bath. And you always find time to change 
him and keep him comfortably dry and happy. 
His skin is so tender—so easily irritated by even 
(Ge slightest roughness. Baby’s skin actually is 
thinner than yours. Studies show that it would 
chafe more quickly, be injured sooner. 


SCOTTISSUE 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


He depends on your wise care to keep his ten- 
der, thinner skin from hurt. One discomfort you 
can spare him is a rough or flimsy bathroom tissue. 
Check for 3 “tender skin’’ qualities in his tissue. 


“Old linen” softness that doesn’t chafe. Quick 
absorbency for thorough cleansing. And just the 
right strength to prevent tearing and shredding. 


Every minute of the day his tender baby skin needs your watchful care 


173 









Zs 


pe cwanee ot 
absorb?” of? 


£24 white toilet 5 


‘900 sHEET, 





COMPANY. 


More mothers every aay are finding this ideal 
combination of ‘tender skin’’ qualities in ScotTissue. 
ScotTissue is soft as your own caress on baby’s 
thinner skin. Up to 6 months, fluff up 20 or more 
sheets of ScotTissue and pad diapers with them. 
Just flush away the soiled tissue. Saves diaper 
laundering and baby will love it. 


Trade Marks ‘‘ScotTissue,’’ ‘‘Soft as old linen’’ Reg. U.S. Pat. Off. 


IS SOFT AS OLD LINEN 








CW paral Y MANES 


you? DINING ROOM a al ! 






*Pattern 26291 





oe AS SURE AS YOU'RE BORN . . . yOu can give 
your dining room a sparkling new look, just 
like this one, for less than $50! 


First things first .. . start with the floor —all | 
professional decorators do! You'll find a Birp 
ARMORLITE Rug the satiny glowing key to your 
handsome new- -looking dining room! Its resilient, 
tough enamel surface laughs at wear...anda 
whisk with mild soap and water at cleaning time 
keeps it glossy and bright. Perhaps you're sold 
on traditional, or may be you lean toward modern 
ideas ... you'll find your perfect floor in BirRD 
ARMORLITE’S gleaming decorators’ colors and 
original patterns. Bird’s fine products have been 
famous since 1795... dependable is the word 
for Armorlite quality! 


Recipe for dining: fix an old table 
.and paint. 





Create your own dado with a plywood 


strip... paint rich brown below, 
creamy ivory above. 


A 


We've been working up smart decorating ideas 
that a few dollars and a little work on your part 
will turn into attractive rooms like the one pic- 
tured here. We’ve designed and snipped and sewed 
and painted .. . and we’ve proved that you can 
easily do every one of these tricks yourself, and 
give your dining room a thrilling new lift for un- 
der $50! Try some of these ideas . . . it’s amazing 
how far a BiRD ARMORLITE Rug and your inge- 
nuity can go toward snubbing decorating costs! 





* Materials used, in addition to Armorlite: plastic furniture 
covering, Boltaflex — about $4.00 a yard; Boston Varnish 
Company Kyanize paint — about $5.25 a gal.; Ben Mont 
paper draperies, 79c a pair. 


Your treasured plates in holders give 
interest to the wall. 


Try on colors, drapes, rug patterns... redo your whole home in the “‘Color 
Schemer,”’ Bird’s new book that’s yours for only 10c! The **Color Schemer” 
is chock full of ideas; lets you experiment with color in your home. Just ask 
your dealer for the ‘“‘Color Schemer”’. . . and while you're there ask to see 
the other beautiful Armorlite patterns — he can help you choose the other 
things you need too. You'll find Brrp ARMorRLITE Rugs and Floor Cover- 


ings at department, furniture and floor covering stores everywhere. 


BIR Desrmerlte and finceam 


‘LOOR JOVE RINGS & 


EAST WALPOLE, MASS, 











LADIES’ HOME 


JOURNAL 


*« HOW AMERICA LIVES x 


! 


By 


PHOTO BY GORDON COSTER 


HAT dresser all for yourself you’ve never got around to 
buying, those unbuilt basement shelves your husband 
is tired of hearing about, that roomy downstairs coat 


closet the architect left out—here they are for little effort 


and little money. 


with other pinch hitters, to make a foot of storage space 
grow where only an inch of it grew before and to bring or- 
der out of chaos in the house or the apartment that is burst- 
ing at the seams. As whose is not these days? From hang- 
ers to full-sized closets, their designers have your head- 


ache in mind—how to keep shrinking quarters shipshape. 





Rollers make it easy to pull out this 
underbed chest when you clean the floor. 
Chest and lid of one piece means there are 
no hinges to rust or break. Plastic-coated, 
nearly 5 long, it holds three blankets, or 
yut-of-season clothes, costs less than $4. 


MUNN - 
| h 


MARGARET DAVIDSON 





At least here are their substitutes, along 

































September, 1949 


You may not live like the Middletons and 
Austins—six people of three generations 
in arented, five-room house which has only 
three closets, and those too narrow for 
hangers. But what family has enough stor- 
age space? The attic has gone the way of 
antimacassars, and the hold-all basement 
is going. More room in less space is the 
modern problem, New and inexpensive 
ways of adding to the putting-places in your 
house without making any structural 
changes are now available. If you have a 
closet like this, left, 7’ wide but only 14” 
deep, maybe your husband can supplement 
it with a home-carpentered storage unit. 
Or maybe you'd rather buy a storage wall 
like the one shown at the far right. Finished 
on the back, it can be used as a 7'9)0”-high 
partition if you have no wall to set it 
against. Even in a hall, the shelf plus 
can be inoffen- 
sively painted the color of the wall. Beside 
it, a spring holds handles of broom, carpet 
sweeper and mop upright against the wall. 
The chest, below left, fits under most beds. 
Two or three medicine cabinets like that 
below right, will go on the back of your 
bathroom door. The small shelf in th 
closet, opposite, gives extra room without 
extra dimensions by hanging shorter gar- 
ments on rods below its undersurface. 


hanger, opposite below, 





‘A medicine cabinet is never large 
enough,” says Mrs. Middleton. But here 
is a spare of white enamel, 22%” x 20%4”, 
for about $4.50, the cost of one broken 
bottle of toilet water. Closed, it latches 
securely. Three fit the back of one door. 


A step-down shelf 18” wide in a closet 
54” wide allows nearly two square feet of 
extra space. A hanger holding three 
blouses on a very special ladder arrange- 
ment, another for a man’s whole suit, an- 
other for several pairs of trousers, rack 
holding 72 ties, hatrack, shoe racks, 
blanket box also save space. Blanket 
box: under $9. Others: under $4 apiece. 


Don’t swipe your husband’s, but do use 
these clear, plastic boxes, intended for 

hing bait and tackle and divided into 
sections, to keep jewelry in. Each under 
$1. Gloves in boxes; handkerchiefs, belts 
and stockings in compartment tray; ar- 
tificial flowers and doodads in a covered 
accessory box; nothing on top of any- 
thing else keeps dresser drawers tidy. 





Metal wall brackets for back entry or 
utility room can be tipped forw ard or not 
to hold eases of soft drinks; canne -d food 


". juices, so handy to mp in quan- 


r, 80 vexatious to store. They'll hold 
any width of shelves for le a y supplies, 
milk bottle 25, old ne wspapers aw aiting the 


junkman, snow boots, hibern¢ iting garde n 
tools, anything that’s better where it 
won't be stumbled over. Their adjustable 
width and ease of installation make for 


flexibility. About 5’ high, less than $5 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


PHOTOS BY STUART 





This plywood wall closet is shipped 
knocked down and painted with a primer 
coat. Two sections with adjustable 
clothes rods mean space accommodated 
to garment length—long or short. The 
height thus gained is utilized by movable 
shelves. Unit shown: 4’ wide, under $85. 





Here are your rubbers and galoshes off 
the floor, your wet umbrella and rain- 
coats separated from your other coats 
on a wooden shelf-hanger knocked down 
and tinfinished at your department store. 
Useful wherever you need a shelf and 
rod. (Under $3, 30” long.) Beyond, your 
broom, mop and carpet sweeper are cor- 
raled in a wire basket, with your cleaning 
brushes and supplies convenient above. 
The rack is 17” long, and the unit costs 
somewhere in the neighborhood of $3. 


175 








A lot of women who use Fels-Naptha Soap would think 
we were kidding, if they saw this announcement. 
And they would laugh right in our faces. 


They use Fels-Naptha because it already contains 

a wonderful ingredient—in addition to good golden soap. 
A proven ingredient, known for years for its active, 
dirt-removing ability .. . NAPTHA. 


So... we don’t make any laughable announcements 
about adding ‘miracle’ ingredients to Fels-Naptha Soap. 
We're content to make a laundry soap so good 

that women just smile—with pleasure—when they see 
the results it gives them on washday. 


If you want better washday results—better in 
every way—we suggest you try 

the mild, safe soap with no ‘miracle’ 
ingredient—Fels-NAPTHA Soap. 


ia 


MADE IN PHILA. 
BY FELS & CO. 






FOR EXTRA CLEANING ACTION USE 


Fels-Naptha Soap 


MILD, GOLDEN SOAP AND ACTIVE NAPTHA 





ee 


September, 19 


176 


MUSHROOM 


CREAM SAUCE 





Me : 7 
Za Va |) 
g UA a 





DONALD « TUART 
~ 







ity t \ 48 


to make a delicious 


sauce, just by using 
ing and sauce, ju anne 
4 ee lae Coe pbells Cream - ee 
bopene ee ‘5, luxury and ric ness for 
. pre’s new luxury Siokenere 1c? 
poe ef diated at trifling cost! Try 
scores Oo shes, 

i ‘ul recipe! . 
delightful rec fe 
Baked Tomatoes with Mushroom Topp 

a 


3 tablesp. chopped bacon a) 
2 tablesp. melted fat from bac 


oe | 
ee 
yl 
4 






























Z 
1 small onion, ae om Soup 4 Broccoli, ham and macaroni Casseroles: one, family size, to Stay at home: {wo to share. 
’ of Mushro | B 
1 can Campbell's ee cuttin} inch pieces 4 bw 
1% cups toasted bread cubes, Ya cup milk ‘ a 
3 medium tomatoes ‘ook bacon until ? 
350° F (moderate). Cook n in bacon 
Heat oven ese skillet. Brown on Camila 
crisp; Teel mix the onion, 2 cae e comes from ow ) 
at. Un ‘of Mushroom Soup just ‘old ti the bread 
Cream © and bacon. Lightly nas se. Heap mush- 
p ae ire! bona teed in half crossw sae. 3ake at 
tad , Cone tena on cut halves oF ea 30 minutes, | By Lou ELLA «@. SHOUER 
pak ‘oor 2 ak aN = ie 1e 
a he oe 350 F in a greased poking Per tomatoes ar wel 
‘ ; v0V" ying is browned ar and milk: heat | 
* en until 1oRE mbine remaining aie kes 6 servings. | . ; 
peated: ras sauce Oveiamatces: Mikki = JHOL GH the Austins and the Middletons live under one roof. 
and serve as sa LOOK FOR TH seed a : 
they eat their meals separately. except on holidays or special oc. tie 
Casions, Grandma Austin still likes to “do” for 'gramp,” as the “4 
nite: bol Pia 
; © SAUCE YOU EVER children cal] him, but always welcomes the Offerings her daughter d 
FOR THE FINEST TOMAT brings down to their little apartment at suppertime, [pn return, she . 
. ‘ , , fe » 
re 1? AMPBELL’S TOMATO SOUP often gets UP early in the morning and bakes a pan of corn bread for } 
: 
ry Y- 28 USE C | the Middletons breakfast. ber 
\ hot Casserole that wil] be the main dish for dinner is a fine 
thing to share, Most Casserole coneo, lions are economical and quite 
stretchable. It takes No more time to make a little extra than it does , 
Clever cooks ; 5 b 
sh Nees good, but look tO prepare enough foe your own family, Here are some hearty candi- 
ae not only taste ¢ x, ell’s : yy < ; 
a Be Tee cosy to do both a ne ee dates—planned for six, Surely there’s someone down your road or ‘ 
ood. 2 just as it comes fos : 
oniate Soup, aie cane it over ree across your street that would welcome your friendly sesture—so Bai: 
can! For example, eat loaf, . ou 7 ea 
the can elets, fish cakes, m let’s be neighborly and share the 
burgers, om ? 5 y 
leftovers, etc. 


casserole. 
the follow- 

t to try one of 

Or you may wan 


i sy-to-fix sauces: : a 
on Teme ee ae nee eo ablee and meat loaf 
parce ) Cook 1 cup sliced eae Campbell’s are popular, not only with the Eine 
nantes ntil soft. Add 1 ca eae : | | 
reba : 2 teasp. sugar, 1 teasp. v 

Tomato Soup, sp. 


| Mrs, Austin’s meat balls A welcome dinner in a dish for a Cold fall pen 
evening: 


Chyyy 
j . a > ars ac » at 
J ~ ( — hi oe r . We When 3 PORK CHOps AND RICE CREOLE a 
as 5 minutes. Is akes either one to a , lurch supper, she ; 
cn eae Add to 1 can Campbell’s 

Chili Tomato Sauce— 


ees a 
5 shili powder mixe 
Tomato Soup, % teasp. c p 


Says, ey ervone Passes up the fried chicken. 
3 ater. Heat. 

i tablesp. cold wa 
to paste in 1 


Season 6 pork shoulder chops well on both fH ty , . 
sides with salt and pepper. Brown well In BPE, 2 tabi, 


* cipe for Chili 
e—Follow recipe ees 
Teale Saute aainc 14 cup grated American 
omator aS mall; 


7 3 efore heating. _ 
chsddaeichcess bp Clip these suggestions for your recipe file 


oe. 7 
ra . 4 } ora ee 
P> i 





MRS. AL STIN’S ME AT BALLS 


Mix together 114 pounds ground beef, 4 
pound bulk pork Sausage, | tablespoon salt, 
14 teaspoon Pepper and 2 eges. Pyt through 
meat grinder (using the coarse knife) 3 


hot skillet. Remove chops and drain off all J 
but ] tablespoon fat. Slice Z 
brown With 


fat. Add 21 2 Cups hot water 
] can condensed tomato soup. Add ly cup 


Onions and Jil: 
l clove garlic, minced, in the J& 


to the pan, and | Bilew, 


chopped green onion. tops if you have them < 
; - =s ~~ >) i * . Ta . ! 
= medium-sized peeled raw potatoes, 2 me or us€ an extra onion at point mentioned |)», 
ee: . dium-sized peeled raw onions, |] apple, 

4 } ai a 

& yr 


2 Cover and bake ina moderate oven, 350°F.. *% ame 
cup water over them. Bake. uncovered, |] 1-] Vy hours or until meat and rice are o © Cdk 
hour in moderate oven. 350° F. Serves 6. der. If at any timie rice becomes ic t ni ' 

Mrs. Austin uses the same mixture for ticularly toward the end of the baking ee, 
4 SUST COUDNF Keep WWOUSE meat loaf. adding ly cup milk with the . 


WITH 007 CAMPBELLS SOUPS... AS SOUPS 
--- AS SAUCES... ANO iv COOKING / 








peeled and cored, and ] steen pepper, 
seeded. Add ground mixture to meat. Rol] 
6 crackers fine with rolling Pin and add to 
meat mixture. Mix well. Shape into balls 


above; 14 cup diced celery; 
per, chopped: 2 tablespoons chopped Pars- 


cup washed raw rice. Season with 
I teaspoon salt. a little Pepper, 14 small bay 


ls green Pep- Fix), 


Ts 

leaf, crushed, a pinch of thyme and a pinch ay 
about the size of a golf ball. Brown meat of marjoram. Mix well and Pour over pork Jo "© 2p, 
balls in hot shortening or salad oil. Drain off 


fat. Place meat balls jn Casserole. Pour | 
eight-ounce can tomato sauce mixed with ! 


cracker crumbs. Pack in loaf Pan. Pour | 
eight-ounce can tomato sauce over loaf and 
bake 115 hours in moderate oven, 350° F. 


chops in Casserole (for a smal] casserole 


ieee ee w 
for 2, use 2 chops and lé of rice mixture). §- 


time—add a little hot water. Serves 6, 


The following recipe is as 800d re. File 


heated as when freshly baked. 





HUNGARIAN PORK 
AND SAUERKRAUT 









Have 214 pounds fresh pork shoulder cut 
into 14-inch cubes. Season with salt and 
pper and dredge with flour. Slice 3 or 4 
large peeled onions. Brown meat in 3 table- 
ms shortening or salad oil. Remove 
t. Brown onions in the drippings. Add 2 
tablespoons paprika, 4 teaspoon pepper 
nd 144 cups water, simmering until 
browned bits in pan are loosened. Now add 
2 cans sauerkraut, 1 green pepper, seeded 
and chopped, and 2 teaspoons salt. Mix 
well. Divide meat between a small cas- 
serole for 2 and one for 4; or if you're a 
larger family, put meat in one large cas- 
serole. Put the sauerkraut mixture over the 
meat. Cover casserole or casseroles and 
bake in moderate oven, 350° F., 1 hour for 
small casserole, 144 hours for large. Just 
before serving, stir in 1 cup thick sour 
cream—%% cup to larger casserole, 14 cup 
to small, or use the | cup if baking all to- 
gether. Serves 6. 


Youngsters who won’t eat cabbage or 
broccoli seem to like this dish—our old 
friend macaroni and cheese in new com- 


pany. 


BROCCOLI, HAM AND MACARONI 
CASSEROLE 


Cook 1 eight-ounce package elbow maca- 
roni in 3 quarts boiling water to which 
you've added | tablespoon salt. Cook until 
just tender. Drain and rinse with boiling 
water. While macaroni is cooking, prepare 
other ingredients: Dice | can chopped ham 
and prepare 2 cups chopped cooked broc- 
coli (this is a good dish in which to use left- 
over cooked broccoli). Melt 14 cup butter or 
margarine. Blend in 4 cup flour smoothly. 
Add 2% cups milk. Cook until thickened, 
stirring constantly. Add 34 cup grated 
cheese, 1 teaspoon grated onion and 14 tea- 
spoon dry mustard. Fold in 1 cup mayon- 
>< Combine with macaroni, broccoli and 

opped ham. Season with 2 teaspoons salt 
and 1% teaspoon pepper. Stir thoroughly so 
the seasoning gets well mixed through. 
Pour inte 1 larger casserole or divide be- 
tween 2 casseroles. Bake in a moderately 
hot oven, 375° F., 25-30 minutes. Serves 6. 


Casseroles of red beans are as popular in 


‘the Southwestern states as Boston baked 
beans are in New England. 


SPANISH BEANS 


Soak 2 cups washed dried red beans over- 
night or several hours in 5-6 cups water. 
Add 31% teaspoons salt and cook until ten- 
der in water in which they were soaked, 
about 40 minutes. Cut 4 pound bacon into 
pieces. Partially fry. Add 1 green pepper, 
chopped, 1 clove garlic, minced, and 2 on- 
ions, chopped. Add beans and liquid, | tea- 
spoon chili powder, a pinch of thyme, 16 tea- 
spoon dry mustard, 2 tablespoons brown 
sugar, 2 tablespoons chopped parsley, 4 
bay leaf, crushed, 1 No. 2 can tomatoes. 
Add a little more salt to taste. Pour into 
casserole. Bake 114 hours, uncovered, in 
moderately slow oven, 325° F. 


A California hostess sent us this recipe. 
I hope it will be as popular at your house as 
it has been at mine. 


SCALLOPED CHICKEN 


Toss 2 cups bread crumbs in 2 tablespoons 
butter or margarine over low heat for a few 
minutes. Season with | tablespoon grated 
onion, 14 teaspoons poultry seasoning and 
VY teaspoon salt. Have ready about 2 cups 
diced cooked chicken. Make a custard 
@@Vy as follows: Melt 4 tablespoons butter 
ll Blend with 4 tablespoons 
flour and add 3 cups hot chicken stock. 
Cook until thickened. Season to taste with 
salt and stir into 2 slightly beaten eggs. Re 
turn to heat and cook just about two min- 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


DELRICH 


utes more. Cool. Combine the seasoned 
crumbs, chicken and custard in alternate 
layers in shallow casserole, or 2 casseroles if 
youre sharing, beginning and ending with 
crumbs. Bake in moderate oven, 350° F., 
until set—about 30 minutes. Serves 6. 


In many households, there are often left- 
over vegetables. Combined in a casserole, 
they make a very economical main dish. 
Other vegetables might be used in the fol- 
lowing dish—but this combination is par- 
ticularly good: 


VEGETABLE CASSEROLE 


Combine 24% cups cooked green beans, 114 
cups diced cooked potatoes, 6 slices crisp 
bacon, crumbled, and 1 large onion, 
chopped. Melt 6 tablespoons bacon drip- 
pings in saucepan. Blend with 6 tablespoons 
flour. Add 334 cups milk gradually. Cook 
until smooth and thickened—stirring con- 
stantly. Add 34 cup grated cheese, salt and 
pepper to taste. Combine with vegetables. 
Pour into baking dish (or 2 baking dishes if 
you're making it for 4 and 2). Sprinkle with 
corn flakes. Bake in moderately hot oven, 
375° F., 30 minutes. Serves 6. 


Oftentimes frankfurters are the most 
economical buy at the meat counter, and 
they are good casserole material. Here’s one 
the children will like: 


FRANKFURTER-POTATO CASSEROLE 


Hard-cook 6 eggs. Boil 6 peeled potatoes. 
Simmer 6 frankfurters 5 minutes. Peel eggs. 
Slice eggs, potatoes and frankfurters. Ar- 
range in layers in | large baking dish, or | 
medium and | small one. Pour over 3 cups 
seasoned thin cream sauce. Cover with 
buttered cracker crumbs. Bake in moder- 
ately hot oven, 375° F., thirty minutes. (114 
cups diced ham may be substituted for 
frankfurters.) 


Beans are always good casserole material, 
and here’s a different way to bake Lima 
beans. 


LIMA-BEAN CASSEROLE 


Soak 1 pound dried Lima beans overnight. 
Cook with a piece of salt pork in boiling 
salted water until tender. Mix in 14 can 
condensed tomato soup; | onion, chopped; 
1% green pepper, chopped; 2 hard-cooked 
eggs, sliced; and 14 cup grated cheese. Sea- 
son with salt and pepper. Mixture should be 
quite juicy. Pour into | large casserole or a 
casserole to serve 4 and a smaller one for 2. 
Cover with bacon strips. Sprinkle with ad- 
ditional cheese. Bake in moderate oven, 
350° F., until bacon is crisp—about 30 
minutes. 


A bachelor friend invented this dish. 
Since he lives alone, he always has plenty to 
share with friends in his apartment house. 


VEAL-AND-HAM CASSEROLE 


Cut 3 pounds veal shoulder into 1-inch 
cubes. Dice 4 pound raw smoked ham. Roll 
pieces of meat in flour and brown on all 
sides in 2 tablespoons hot shortening. Re- 
move meat from pan and fry 12 cup chopped 
onions in the drippings. Drain off fat. Add 
21% cups hot water to pan and simmer a 
few minutes until all the browned bits are 
loosened. Pour over the meat. Add 2 cups 
diced raw potatoes, 2 teaspoons salt, 1 tea- 
spoon pepper, 114 teaspoons Worcestershire 
sauce and 4 cup sliced celery. Pour into | 
large casserole; cover and bake 1144 hours 
in moderately slow oven, 325° F., or until 
meat is tender. If you want one casserole 
for 4 and one for 2, divide meat, vegetables 
and gravy at this point. Top with baking- 
powder biscuits. Use a biscuit mix to save 
time. Bake casserole or casseroles in hot 
oven, 450° F., until biscuits are browned, 
10-12 minutes. Serves 6. 


TT aT I 











QUICK’N EASY BIRTHDAY CAKE 





MADE WITH DELRICH MARGARINE by Priscilla Parks, Delrich Home Economist 


2% cups sifted cake flour ¥% cup Delrich 

3 teaspoons double-acting margarine 
baking powder % cup milk 

4% teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon vanilla 

14 cups sugar 2 eggs 


(Makes 2 8-inch layers) 


First color your Delrich. Have all ingredients 
at room temperature. Sift flour, baking pow- 
der, salt and sugar together in mixing bowl. 
Add Delrich, 2/3 of the milk, and vanilla. 


Discovered by thousands of 
women! The sweet, full rich 
flavor of Delrich makes cakes, 
pastries, cookies—all baking far 
more delicious when Delrich re- 
places ordinary tasteless shorten- 
ings. Just taste the fresh, really 
rich flavor of Delrich—and know 


POOP Oe eee e eee eer Sees O DOSES OSSOOSOSESOEEEESOSEES 


In states where fne sale of colored margarine 
is NOT permitted 


DELRICH €Z COLOR 44 
Delrich flavor is SEALED IN! Fresh and 
sweet—fully rich! Delrich is easy, quick to 
color—no more mixing bowl mess! Just 
pinch the color berry, knead, shape and chill! 
In states where the sale of colored margarine 

1S permitted 


DELRICH in Golden Yellow QUARTERS 
Ready toserve in golden quarter-pounds. Per- 


fect in texture—so easy to spread, even when 
you take them right out of the refrigerator. 


_salt and 3 squares melted chocolate. Mix 


@T. Cc. P. CO., 1949 


Beat vigorously 2 minutes. Add remainder 
of milk and the unbeaten eggs. Beat 2 min- 
utes. Pour into 2 round greased and waxed- 
Paper lined 8-inch layer cake pans, 1/4 
inches deep. Bake at 350° F. (moderate 
oven) 30 to 35 minutes. 

FROSTING: Cream 1/2 cup Delrich with 1 
pound confectioner’s sugar. Add few grains 












well, add 11/2 teaspoons vanilla and 4 to 5 
tablespoons cream to desired consistency. 


THRILL! 


why only Delrich can bring new 
taste perfection to everything 
you bake! And for many cooking 
uses, too! 

Try Delrich Margarine on hot 
vegetables— good! Costs so little 
—brings so much in enjoyment! 


THE CUDAHY PACKING CO., CHICAGO, ILL. 


Most delicious spread on toast 


Spread its golden goodness —its full, sweet flavor 
on the toast and hot rolls you serve—and com- 
pare the rich, satisfying goodness of Delrich with 
any spread you have ever tried! Nutritious, too! 
Enriched with 15,000 units of Vitamin A— packed 
with food energy! 






are” 
Oo 











es 


~l 


an 


LADIES’ 


Choost this one versatile pattern 
in hand-crafted table crystal. 
Cape Cod has enduring beauty 
- - . it is versatile, compatible, 
pleasing. The Bride’s choice for 


her table set with place mats, 


bright check cotton or snowy 


linen and lace. Complete service 
for twelve, eight, six, four or 
individual pieces in open-stock 


at leading dealers, everywhere. 


IMPERIAL GLASS CORPORATION — BELLAIRE, OHIO 





HOME 








JOURNAL 


September, 1949 


LET GEORGE DO IT 


(Continued from Page 35) 


shack stood a large sign suggesting in bold 
hand-lettering: 


LET GEORGE DO IT! 
If it’s tough... 
If it’s dangerous... 
If it’s embarrassing ... 
If it’s ticklish... 
If you don't want to do it... 
LET GEORGE DO IT! 


“How fascinating!’’ Libbie said. 
do you suppose it means?”’ 

“Sounds like an imaginative handy man,” 
Hal said. 

“Oh, I don’t think so. It says ‘dangerous.’ 
Handy men don’t do anything dangerous.” 

“That’s probably just publicity.”” He re- 
read the sign and then slid out from behind 
the wheel. ““Anyway, I’m willing to try his 
talents on the car. It’s certainly something I 
can’t and don’t want to do.” 

Libbie sat and waited while Hal pulled on 
a bell rope outside the door. There was a loud, 
not unpleasant peal, a cross between the 
clang of a dinner bell and the clank of a cow- 
bell, and in a moment a man appeared. 


“Hello,” he said, look- 


“What 


ing at Hal. Then he looked 
at Libbie and grinned and 
said, ‘‘Hel-/o,’’ in an 
amused voice as though 
there were nothing funnier 
than a very pretty honey- 
blond girl. ‘“‘What can I 
do for you?” 

He had on a grayish 
sweat shirt, dungarees that 
were soft and mottled from 
much washing, and a pair 
of battered old sneakers. 
He was about half a head 
shorter than Hal, but with 
enormously wide shoulders, and when he 
struck a match for his cigarette you could 
see the muscles ripple along his forearm. His 
features were large and irregular, with a look 
of just having subsided after a laugh or of 
being just about to break into a laugh, and 
his sandy hair was cut so short that it stood 
up in a crisp brush all over his head. He was, 
Libbie judged, about twenty-four, and she 
thought he had the cockiest, most insolent 
face she had ever seen. 

“My car,” Hal said, “‘won’t go.” 

The man shook his head. “Gee, that’s 
tough,” he said. “‘The nearest service sta- 
tion is all the way the other side of town.” 

“Well, what about you? Can’t you fix it?”’ 
Hal jerked his head in the direction of the 
sign. ‘‘According to that, you can do any- 
thing.” 


capacity 


woman. 


every man. 


Tue man strolled over and leaned against 
the car, answering Hal but addressing him- 
self to Libbie. ‘‘ You’ve got it wrong. The fact 
is, I can’t do anything—that is, not anything 
special, like fixing a car or laying bricks or 
designing a house, or any of that business 
people do to earn a living.”” He spoke in a 
deep, lazy voice, looking at Libbie with his 
amused gray eyes. ““What the sign says is 
that I’ll do your dirty work for you—the kind 
of stuff almost anybody can do but lots of 
people don’t want to, like firing the cook or 
getting your Pekingese out of a fight with a 
boxer or breaking it to your husband that 
you smashed up the new car or going to the 
store for something during a storm.’”’ He 
stretched, and his chest almost burst through 
the sweat shirt. ‘‘You’d be surprised how it 
pays off.” 

Hal grinned. “‘I’d like to have you on my 
permanent staff,’’ he said. “But right now 
my problem is to get this car to the service 
station. If I can use your phone, Mr. ” 

“Levitt. Jeff Levitt.” 

Libbie spoke for the first time. “I thought 
it was George,” she said, looking at the sign. 

“That’s just for business purposes. . . . 
Now about the phone,” he said to Hal. “If 
you call the service station they’ll send a tow 
truck and it will cost you five bucks or more. 
For three bucks I’ll pull your car over there 
with mine. It’s not tough, dangerous, embar- 





Beauty, charm, even men- 
tal qualities attract men 
much less than a woman's 
to be happy . 
should be understood by every 
In this lies the mys- 
terious charm of women who, 
though not beautiful, some- 
timesno longer young, attract 
—BORIS F. SOKOLOV: 
The Achievement of Happiness 


rassing or ticklish, so it’s a little out of my 
line, but I don’t believe in all this over- 
specialization.” 

Hal laughed. “It took a long time to wg 
around to that.” 

Jeff winked at him, and leaned his arm on 
the window where Libbie was sitting. “ Did 
you ever know a man,” he said to her, “who 
wouldn’t take advantage of a chance to talk 
about his work?” 

He didn’t wait for her answer, but went 
and got his car, a battle-scarred jeep with 
Let GEorGE Do It neatly lettered in white 
on both doors, and attached it to Hal's 
bumper with a tow rope. 


You’p better sit in your car just in case,” 
Jeff said, ‘‘and the young lady can ride with 
me, 

Hal scowled a little. It was the first time 
Libbie had seen him scowl, and she thought 
he looked kind of cute, like an angry little 
boy. ‘‘In case of what?” he demanded. 

“Why, you know, pal, in case it won't 
just steer itself and come along peaceable,” 
Jeff said in a soft, reasonable voice. “‘ And of 
course I know you'd like 
to have the lady with you, 
but the fact is this car of 
mine isn’t balanced just 
right—some wartime dis- 
ability—and with a load 
like this to pull it might 
topple over unless some- 
one sits on the other side.” 

Libbie gave a little 
snort through her nose— 
a noise that only she could 
have made attractive. 
“That’s the most ridic- 
ulous double talk I ever 
heard,” she said. “Hal, 
why don’t you send for the tow truck and be 
done with it?” 

“No use,” Jeff said. “It went by here just 
before you came—there was a big smashup 
on the highway and there’s no telling when 
it will be back.”’ He gave Hal a man-to-man 
look. “‘ With all this talk, we could have been 
at the service station five minutes ago. What 
do you say we get going?” 

Hal’s momentary unnoyance was gone. 
He shrugged and said cheerfully, ““O.K. It’s 
your jeep,” and got in his own car alone. 

Libbie was a little annoyed with him for 
giving in so easily, but at the same time she 
admired him for not making an issue of such 
a small thing. She turned back once or twice 
and waved at him and he waved back gaily 
and blew her a kiss or two. He was so nice, 
she thought, so awfully nice. 

“You going to marry him?” 

The question was so sudden that Libbie 
jumped, and then looked at Jeff with indig- 
nation at his impertinence. But he was not 
looking at her. He was watching the road and 
humming to himself, and she almost thought 
she had imagined the question, until he 
added: 

““You’ll be bored, you know. He’s a good 
fellow—anybody can see that—but he has no 
real imagination. He lives just the same as 
everybody else he knows, and his idea of ex- 
citement is to go where it’s warm in Janu- 
ary, instead of cold.” 

“It’s my idea of excitement too,” Libbie 
said. ‘‘It’s my idea of heaven.” She had not 
intended to get into a discussion with this 
impudent stranger, but the subject carried 
her away in spite of herself. “‘Plenty of sun 
and the right clothes for every occasion and 
nothing to worry about except what shoul- 
der to pin the orchids on.” 

He did not speak for a while, and this was 
one of the times she turned and waved at Hal. 
Hal had everything, she thought. He wasg} 
good-looking and good-natured and every- 
thing. It was certainly not going to be hard 
to fall in love with him before her two weeks 
were up. 

““You’ve been frustrated.” Jeff spoke as 
suddenly as he had before. “‘You were very 
poor. You lived in a place where there was 

(Continued on Page 180) 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL, 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 178) 
never enough light or heat, and your clothes 
never looked as nice as the other girls’, and 
you've always had to worry about bills and 
stuff, so now you want to marry a man who 
can take you away from all that and give you 
security for the rest of your life.” 

Libbie stared at him. ‘‘ Where,” she said, 
“did you get that?” 

He tried to look modest, but it didn’t go 
with his face. ‘I’m a psychologist,” he said. 
“T figure people out.” 

She was going to tell him how far off he 
was, but then she thought she wouldn’t, be- 
cause he really wasn’t so far off at that, not 
when you came right down to it. She hadn't 
ever been really poor or lived in a hovel or 
not had enough to eat, but she’d never had 
any of the things she’d dreamed about 
either—things like a fur coat and a dress that 
wasn’t one of a hundred copies and a good 
seat for a hit show and an orchid. For a girl 
who was prettier than most, who had been 
led by everything she’d read and heard about 
to expect life to be a little lavish with her, 
that was really a kind of starvation. She had 
never, until she came to Sky Lodge, had any 
honest-to-goodness luxury. 

“Well,” she said, “‘it’s just as easy to fall 
in love with a rich man as a poor one.” 

Jeff said, “‘There’s nothing wrong with 
being rich, as long as you know how to get 
some fun out of your money. But if you’re 
just going to do the same old stuff that every- 
body else does, what’s the use of it? Now you 
take me—I don’t suppose I'll ever be rich, 
but look what a good time I have. I never 
know what’s going to happen next.” 

“I can’t imagine anything worse,”” Libbie 
said. 

He didn’t answer her. He’ began to hum 
again, deep down in his big chest, and every 
once in a while he’d wave to somebody along 
the road and grin, and his eyes would crinkle 
up until they were almost closed. 

Libbie felt peculiarly lonesome, out of it. 
“How did you happen to get into such a crazy 
business, anyway?”’ she asked him finally. 

He gave her that look that said he thought 
she was funny, and she was sorry she had en- 
couraged him. But he only answered: 

“It started at college. First I'd just do 
some guy’s assignment for him, or type his 
notes, but then one day a fellow asked me if 
I’d call up his girl and tell her he couldn’t 
take her to the prom. He didn’t have the 
nerve to do it, and nobody else would do it 
for him, even for five bucks, but I couldn’t 
see that there was anything to it. From then 
on, I was in business.’’ He shook his head. 
“Tt always surprises me how many things 
there are that people are scared to do, or 
that they don’t like to do. To me, it’s all 
the same.” 


“Burt haven't you any ambition?” Libbie 
asked him. ‘‘You’ve been to college—you 
could get a good, steady job and maybe work 
yourself up to something important. You 
can’t spend your life like this, just—just do- 
ing what nobody else wants to do.” 

He slowed the car to light a cigarette and 
look at her again. “‘ Why not?” he said. ‘‘I’ve 
got a talent for it, a sort of knack, the way 
some people can paint a picture. A man has 
to do what he was meant for.’’ He leaned out 
the window to shout a greeting to a fat old 
lady who was driving by in a jalopy, and she 
waved at him, calling him by name and smil- 
ing with purest joy. When his head was back 
inside he said, “‘Of course some woman is 
always falling in love with me and trying to 
change me, but I guess I have to expect that.” 

Libbie had a preposterous feeling that he 
was including her—that because she had sug- 
gested in the most casual way that he ought to 
have more ambition, he was conceited enough 
to think she had some personal interest in 
him. 

“Tt’s hard to imagine what a woman 
would see in you,” she said icily. “‘The ridic- 
ulous way you’ve chosen to make a living in- 
dicates that you are unstable, impetuous, 
reckless, unreliable and callous—exactly the 
kind of man no woman wants.” 

He was humming again, apparently not 
listening to her, and she found this so infuri- 
ating that she began to formulate some still 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


more scathing remark in her mind, but before 
a could make it sufficiently virulent he 
said: 

“What makes you think I’m callous?” 

“Just for example, the girl whose boy 
friend decided not to take her to the prom,” 
she said immediately. ‘“That’s a tragedy for 
a young girl, and nobody else ‘would have 
any part in breaking her heart, but you 
didn’t care; you told her without a qualm, for 
five dollars. Now do you want me to tell you 
why I think you’re unstatle, unreliable, reck- 
less and impetuous?” 

He chuckled, which was not at all the re- 
action she had expected. ‘‘No, thanks,” he 
said. 

From close behind them a horn beeped, 
and Libbie realized guiltily that in her an- 
noyance with this Jeff she had forgotten all 
about Hal. She turned and waved to him 
again, and this time he looked at her a little 
sadly and shook his head. Maybe it had 
seemed to him from back there that she was 
enjoying herself with Jeff, and maybe he 
wasn’t altogether happy about a girl who 
could enjoy anyone so unsolid. The work of 
three days might be unraveling because of 
this—this George-of-all-trades. 

“Listen, George,” she said, ‘“I want you to 
stop now so I can go back and sit with my 
friend. It’s perfectly silly that ——”’ 

“Okay,” he said before she could finish, 
and stopped the jeep. ‘‘But the name’s Jeff.” 

“George is your business name; isn’t that 
what you said?” she inquired sweetly as she 
climbed out. “‘And this is strictly business, 
you know.” 

She got in next to Hal, who beamed im- 
mediately when he saw her, gave a satisfied 
sigh and settled back in his seat. 

“T was getting kind of lonesome,” he said, 
“with only the back of your head to look at. 





Defeat isn’t bitter if you don’t 
swallow it. 


Not that it isn’t a very pretty back of the 
head.” He put one nicely browned, well- 
tended hand over hers. “You know, Libbie, 
I can’t remember ever before missing a girl 
so much when she’s been away from me only 
fifteen minutes. It must mean iH 

The jeep ahead stopped suddenly, jarring 
Hal’s car and shaking the rest of what he had 
been about to say out of his mouth. Libbie 
glared furiously at Jeff, who had come and 
stuck his head in their window. 

“This is it,’’ he said. ‘All out.” 

The service station was in a well-populated 
part of the village, and a number of the in- 
habitants had gathered there by the time 
Libbie and Hal got out of the car, evidently 
hoping for a little excitement. A few of them 
walked around the car and then shrugged, ob- 
viously disappointed to find it unblemished. 

“What happened?” asked one thin old 
man with no apparent teeth. “I don’t see 
nothin’ unusual.” 

“No, their car just stopped and I towed 
’em in,” Jeff said. ““I had to come this way 
anyhow to get a skunk out from under the 
Blackwells’ back porch. They haven’t 
smelled it yet, but they?ve seen it.’”’ He 
grinned around at all of them. “Anybody 
want to come and watch? .. . What’s the 
matter?” He laughed. “No takers? Well, I'll 
be seeing you.” 

He saluted the group and then looked at 
Libbie and gave her a little bow, smiling in 
that amused way of his. The natives all 
watched him drive down the street in his jeep. 

“What a boy, that Jeff!’’ someone said. 
“‘ Ain’t nothin’ he won’t do.” 

“Yeah,” another man agreed, “‘and I 
betcha when he comes back he don’t smell of 
skunk neither.” 

Libbie turned away and went in to where 
Hal was talking to the mechanic. Small towns 
were stupid, she thought. Nothing ever hap- 
pened in them, and they were always looking 
eagerly for some little break in the monot- 
ony. They could actually make a hero of a 
man who would crawl under a house to catch 
a skunk. A hero! she thought, and she was 





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filled with such angry contempt for anyone 
who would stoop to making a living that way 
that she did not hear Hal until he spoke to 
her twice 

“Libbie, what are you dreaming about?” 
he asked her, lowering his voice so that only 
she could hear. *‘ You look lovely when you 
dream, your eyes all starry like that.’’ He 
added in normal tones, ‘‘ The car needs new 
points, or something. It won't take long.” 

They took a little walk in the meantime, 
down a lane in back of the service station, 
and Libbie let him hold her hand. Here was a 
real man, she thought, a substantial citizen 
who sat at a desk and helped his father run a 
railroad instead of crawling under porches 
after skunks. And he knew how to look at a 
girl: not as though he thought she were funny, 
but admiringly, with appreciation and sweet 
speeches. It seemed to her that already she 
could feel the first faint stirrings of love as 
she glanced up at his handsome profile above 
the English-tweed jacket. 

“‘Have you ever seen anything so absurd 
as that let-George-do-it character ?’’ she said. 
“Imagine a strong, healthy man, a college 
graduate, frittering away his life like that.”’ 

Hal shrugged. ‘It’s his life,’’ he said, and 
then looked at her shrewdly. *‘ Why should it 
annoy you? You'll probably never see him 
again.” 

‘‘Heavens!”’ Libbie gave a little laugh. 
“Tt doesn’t annoy me. I was just comment- 
ing. After all, he’s a perfect stranger.”’ 


But for some reason it did annoy her. In 
the days that followed she kept thinking 
about it, and it annoyed her more and more 
That impudent, cocky Jeff Levitt, acting as 
though he were somebody important, when 
he was just a—a wastrel, that was it—a 
wastrel who spent his life doing what nobody 
else wanted to do, instead of making some- 
thing of himself 

She thought angrily of the way he had 
come back from his skunk hunt while she and 
Hal were waiting for the car—the way every- 
body had gathered around him as though he 
were a hero, and his grin, his big, homely, 
maddening grin when he told them: 

“That was the tamest skunk I ever saw. I 
just laid out a saucer of milk and it came 
from under the porch all by itself and said 
meow.” 

They all laughed so hard you would have 
thought he had said something brilliantly 
funny. 

*“How much did you get, Jeff?” 
asked. 

““My minimum charge,”’ Jeff said. “Three 
bucks.” 

The old man without teeth guffawed. 
Three bucks,’’ he screeched delightedly, 
“for trappin’ a pussycat!”’ 

A boy standing near Libbie turned around, 
his face flushed and his eyes bright with ad- 
miration. ‘* He got a hundred bucks once,” he 


someone 


“er 


September, 1949 


told her, ‘for drivin’ a rich feller’s car up 
north while the feller took the train. There 
was a terrible blizzard up there and peopk 
was gettin’ kilt and cars snowed in and all, but 
Jeff got through all right.” 

“Yeah,” another boy said, ‘‘and how about 
the time o 

But Libbie had moved away then, not 
wanting to hear any more of Jeff's absurd ex 
ploits, and in another few minutes the car 
had been ready. As Hal helped her in, she 
had turned without meaning to and caught 
Jeff's eye, and he had winked at her and 
smiled that smile of his, only more so. And 
she had hoped that she would never see him 
again in her life 

Things with Hal were progressing very 
well indeed. He spent all his time with her, 
except when he was playing golf, and he be- 
came a little more attentive, a little more ad- 
muiring every day. She was certain that it was 
no mere vacation romance, that she would 
see him after she left here and that eventu- 
ally he would ask her to marry him. 

It was wonderful, Libbie thought, a dream 
come true. There was nothing wrong with 
Hal, not a flaw that she could find. Every- 
thing was perfect. Even the weather was the 
same every day, bland and cloudless. She 
was, she told herself, the happiest girl in the 
world, 

But one night she and Hal drove down to 
the village to the movies, and as they were 
coming out they met Jeff Levitt coming in to 
the late show with a girl. The girl was very 
pretty and Jeff was talking to her in his low, 
deep voice, popping candy into her mouth 
from a paper bag he held, and the girl was 
laughing and laughing. Jeff was grinning at 
her, but when he turned and saw Libbie the 
grin changed and he stared in some way that 
Libbie could not name, some way that made 
her heart thump as though something were 
about to happen. Then almost instantly it 
was only his amused, mocking look again, 
and she thought she must have imagined 
anything else. 

He just said, *‘ Hello,’’ and passed by, put- 
ting his arm casually around the girl’s shoul- 
ders, and Libbie could feel the annoyance, 
the fury rising into her throat. She scarcely 
knew him—this was only the second time she 
had ever seen him—yet the sight of him, the 
thought of him could rile her so that it spoiled 
everything she was doing. She wondered how 
that girl could let him put his arm around 
her. She can’t. be much, Libbie thought. 

She slept poorly that night, and when she 
awoke the next morning it was cloudy for the 
first time since her arrival. Hal played golf 
and Libbie sat at the lake, talking to Mrs 
Chatsworth, a stout woman in a pink linen 
dress and an armful of diamond bracelets. 
Mrs. Chatsworth was very tiresome, and 
Libbie was bored and restless. She wished 
something exciting would happen, some- 
thing . . . well, different. 


** *“My vacation.’ Woke up at 9:15 on June 17th. Ate breakfast 
of corn flakes, juice, and milk. At 9:45 went to store for 
mother and bought eggs, bread and boloney. At 10:17.... 





33 





— 


"Wis! 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 183 


last! 


Long afterward she would try to recon- 
struct the whole thing in her mind, try to re- 
member whether she had actually jostled 
Mrs. Chatsworth or whether she had only 
imagined it. It all happened so quickly that 
she was never sure, but she couldn’t get over 
the feeling that she had done so. What was 
worse, she couldn’t dispel the horrid suspicion 
that it had been deliberate—that in a flash 
she had seen exactly how everything would 
shape up and so had deliberately jostled Mrs. 
Chatsworth’s arm. Still, the other woman 
never mentioned being jostled, and she surely 
would have mentioned it—that is, if, in the 
excitement, she had been aware of it. It had 
all gone so quickly. ... 

Mrs. Chatsworth had just taken off one of 
her bracelets to show Libbie the workman- 
ship when the sky grew suddenly black and a 
strong wind came up. 

“Oh, my heavens,’’ Mrs. Chatsworth said, 
unwittingly brandishing the bracelet, “‘we’re 
going to have one of those local storms. 
They’re terrible—let’s hurry and get back to 
the Lodge.” 

Just as she spoke the wind swirled around 
them, whipped the bracelet out of her hand 
and rolled it into the lake. At any rate, that 
was the way they both told it afterward. 

“Oh!” Mrs. Chatsworth wailed. ‘Oh, 
dear! It’s gone. My beautiful bracelet, my 
favorite. It’s gone—gone.” 

Libbie led her gently away, toward the 
Lodge. The rain had started now in great 
drops and they were drenched in a moment, 
but Mrs. Chatsworth did not seem to notice. 

“T wouldn’t have cared so much if it had 
been any other one,” she said brokenly, “‘but 
that was my favorite, my beauty, and it can 
never be replaced.” She sniffled a little. “My 
third husband gave it to me. I’ve never hada 
husband who came up to my third. It’s heart- 

"MISS RAGS TO RICH ES” breaking to lose what he gave me—Just heart- 
breaking. My favorite husband and my fa- 
1949 vorite bracelet. Oh, dear!” 

They got back to the Lodge, and by the 
time Libbie had changed into dry clothes and 

“After 80 washings the left half | had gone downstairs again the storm was in CLOROX... AMERICA’S FAVORITE BLEACH AND HOUSEHOLD DISINFECTANT 
> bf this cotton dress was worn to its full fury. Halhad returned safely fromthe | == ne ee 
rs : golf course and was getting dry. There were 
shreds. But the right half which no casualties except Mrs. Chatsworth, who 
had been Perma Starched after was telling everyone mourntuily about the lost 
each eighth washing was still bracelet that had been the gift of the lost 

crisp and new looking.” favorite husband. 

iy “Tsn’t it dreadful?” the bereaved woman 
Doubles Life of Cotton Clothes said when she saw Libbie. ‘‘I’ll never get it 
Tests by the nation’s leading in- back. The storm will churn it all up or some- 
dependent laboratories conclu- thing. I’d have given anything, but it’s no 


sively prove Perma Starch dou- - | “* 

bles the life of cotton clothes be- Lisste called Mrs. Chatsworth aside. “How 
cause it does not wash out even much,” she asked in a low voice, “‘is any- 
after 8 to 15 washings. Perma thing?” 

Starch starches clothes in an en- “Anything,” Mrs. Chatsworth wailed. 
tirely new way. Unlike ordinary | “Anything at —— She stopped abruptly, 


: narrowing her eyes a little, and said in a nor- 
starch that coats cloth to stiffen ce ses ‘Why doryoulank?r 














Heres the first step in making linens 


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| (er Bractioual Clobue 

makes ironing 
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one motion from either end. fastens automatically. Ab- 





: - rates j ss : TT bhig ead 66 @ Perforated top carries Salutely secure. 
in Perma Starch penetrates a “I may have an idea,” Libbie said, “‘if the moisturé down from fabric © @ Strong tubular legs hold 
the individual fibres of eac price is right.” fi and pad for easier, faster it steady and firm’ Non- 
thread. Melted under the heat of ieee See dollars,” Mrs. Chatsworth ironing. skidirubberitect: 
: : > grasps and suggested briskly. @ Hangs from either end @ Beautiful, d bl 
a a eee ae Libbie turned away. : on wall or closet door. baked enamel ae. "Table Fr ae ioe 
ae eee Ce aes “A hundred,” Mrs. Chatsworth said. ® More ironing surface, top white, framework aeeniaie Ace by te 
them from being torn away by Libbie brushed the honey-blond hair back 15x54". black. self when table opens. 
y, i d iled lically. an’t work loose, Re- 
lal by washing. SO ee eee steak dca” Amazingly low-priced * On sale everywhere ° See it at your local dealer. leases with one finger, 


Saves Time and Money Both of Mrs. Chatsworth’s chins trembled 


No cooking is required, simply | a little as she consented. Libbie went into the 


mix withcool water. game room to wait for an answer to a phone 
i . inutes before, and 
thes = call she had made a few minu ; a 
ores cc + a half hour later she was running through the Cl Ul 






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* Guaranteed by @ 


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\ storm in her raincoat and hood, down to the Good Housekeeping 
er, Perma Starch , \ tice: Pas asians 
can save the aver- “Thanks for the tip-off,” the man beside 


her yelled above the wind. “I can use two 
hundred bucks.” 
TVs rT} “T’m not doing it for you, George,’’ Libbie 
yelled back. “I want to help Mrs. Chats- 
worth—it’s strictly business.” 
ies) makes *2 to 4 | rox ta He grinned at her, with the rain running 
’ gallon and does the ih vs : down his cocky face, but what did she care 
work of $2.50 worth “eupus about his grin, as long as she got the bracelet 
; ; % L/ back for Mrs. Chatsworth? 
peers. corn Fr - Lightning flashed and crackled ahead of 
starch. At your them, and thunder exploded right after it. 
Grocer. “ 7 “It’s close!” he shouted. “Are you afraid?” 
Goel Houssheertay “No. I love storms.” 
S45 sort ans10 (Continued on Page 185) 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL September, 1949 





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(Continued from Page 183) 
“Ha! That’s what I thought. I thought 
‘ou were a girl who loved storms.” 
They got to the lake and she showed him 
e spot where the bracelet had fallen in. He 
ook off his slicker and stood for a minute in 
‘es trunks while another flash of 
ing passed, and the muscles rippled 
cross his back as he flexed his arms for the 
ve. 
“Tf I don’t come up,” he said, “‘there’s 
lomething I want you to know.” 
| The rain had chilled her so that she shiv- 
bred. ‘‘Why shouldn’t you come up?” 
“Because a soaking-wet body in a lake is 
in awful temptation to a 
yolt of lightning,”’ he said. 
‘And what I want you to 
now is about that girl I 
lalled up to tell she’d been 
itched for the prom. You 
ee, I took her to the prom 
yself.”” 
| Then he dived in, and Libbie stood shiver- 
ing and watching the black water, and after 
what seemed a long time he came up and 
hook his head, took a few deep breaths and 
vent down again. He did this three times, 
while the lightning and thunder raged over 
e lake, and when he came up the fourth 
ime he had the bracelet. 
_ “Are you all right?” Libbie shouted to him 
as he climbed out of the water. 
| He put on his slicker and looked at her and 
jaughed. ‘I’m fine,” he said. ‘‘All I need is a 
ss.”” 
He was crazy, she thought. He was impu- 
Jent and conceited and crazy. She was going 
-o tell him so. She was going to tell him that 
it was only a question of time before she be- 
e engaged to Hal, and that Hal was ev- 


NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF A WOMAN) 


(Continued from Page 12) 


iwagjating a child service to look after neg- 
eed children, still living in bunkers and 
camps; organizing a women’s exchange, 
where outgrown shoes and clothing can be 
exchanged for cooking pots and chinaware; 
land starting a ‘‘ bachelors’ service’”—sending 
iold women, to whom no one will give a job— 
to look after men separated from their 
families, as millions of German men are. For 

ere is no room for “‘unnecessary ” people in 

e bombed cities; men must stay there to 
work, living wherever they can get a bed, 
while their families are away, and often far 
laway, in some village where there is more 

ousing. WOMAN sends old women to wash 

lothes, sew on buttons, mend socks, and 
take the place of a mother to a wifeless man, 
for a small fee. 

Among all Germans it is only women who 
have demonstratively expressed their grati- 
tude to the foreign world for the aid sent to 
Germany by the Marshall Plan, and the 
voluntary aid sent by thousands of individ- 
uals in many countries. Undoubtedly the 
most moving demonstration in Germany 
since the war occurred when German women 
in Hamburg—the worst destroyed city, with 
the exception of Dresden—called a great 
meeting to “thank all the people in the world 
who have helped the German people.” Poor 
women and relatively rich women, women 
with babies in their arms and children 
clinging to their skirts; refugees—the most 
pitiful of Germans, those thrown out of the 
eastern countries—all came. Two working 
women, two professional women, two artists 
and two girl students addressed the huge 
crowd, and when the first young girl student 
tried to speak she broke down in tears. A 
chorus of young chiidren then sang their 
thanks, repeating the words, “We give 
thanks to all the goodness in the world.” And 
thi}meeting was repeated in other cities 
throughout Germany. 

German women believe in the power of 
prayer. Heartbreaking to women is the 
plight of tens of thousands of prisoners of 
war who have not returned. On Mother's 
Day, which this year corresponded to the 
ending of the war, women gathered in every 
town in Germany to send greetings to the 


I never think of the future. 
It comes soon enough. 


‘inquire concerning needs. “Be not overcome 
‘of evil, but overcome evil with good,” one 











LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


erything she wanted, everything she had al- 
ways dreamed of, and that she wouldn’t think 
of kissing anyone else. 
But she only shook her head and said, ‘‘ You 
can’t mix pleasure with business, George.” 
And then all at once it struck her that he 
really was a kind of genius. He did things no- 
body else could do, and that’s what geniuses 
did. Only most geniuses were probably sort 
of a nuisance to have around, where he’d 
really be very handy. 
“Was she pretty, Jeff?” she asked him. 
“Who?” 
“The prom girl.” 
He smiled at her. “‘All my girls are pretty,” 
he said. 
She started to hate 
all those girls he had. 
The hate and the anger 
started up in her with 
growing violence, but then 
she saw the way he was 
smiling at her and she un- 
derstood what he meant and she felt wonder- 
ful. What was the good of a man who was 
everything you’d ever dreamed of if he 
couldn’t make you feel like that? 
She had certainly never dreamed of any- 
one like Jeff. But then she hadn’t figured ona 
genius, and a genius couldn’t be judged by 
ordinary standards. He could do things which 
other people thought were crazy, and he 
didn’t have to make much money—in fact, 
she had an idea that it was a great deal more 
authentic for him to be poor—and still 
everybody would certainly consider it a 
privilege to know him. 
Of course she wasn’t altogether sure that 
Jeff could be classed as a genius. Not, that is, 
until a few days later, when she let him kiss 
her for the first time. Then she was sure. 


— ALBERT EINSTEIN. 


women of the whole world and to the distant 
prisoners of war. Every priest and pastor in 
Germany joined in prayers for the final end 
of the war, and for the return of the sol- 
diers. 

German women do not believe in aggres- 
siveness—not even aggressiveness against 
communists. The services they organize are 
open to all—Catholics and Protestants, non- 
believers, ex-Nazis, communists, socialists; 
they do not ask regarding credos; they only 


German woman quoted. 

And I doubt whether in the whole world 
there are any people who more deeply hate 
and understand war than German women, 
who have seen babes and little children buried 
screaming under falling bombs. 

Yet, despite the fact that women today 
are overwhelmingly in the majority of the 
population, of 598 deputies to seven pro- 
vincial governments, only 73 are women—a 
fraction over 10 per cent, though they out- 
number men voters by 39 per cent. This 
fact is partly due to an instinctive feeling on 
the part of many women that no government 





will be good until a renovation takes place “e com saale cakes, OF hot ea 

from the bottom up. But it is also the peren- say “Sue a waffles, gridal sweets ror ee 

nial disregard of German society for women. ws A ae the wholes ux Bee Honey P 

I was several times, in Germany, tendered ee ther favor? €, t's delicious: 

dinner parties by German officials at which S = aed pure hone mnpting honey 

not one other woman was present—not even bs ee for booklet of se RssOciAtiONs aT, 
the hostess! Nor are military governments ee Oe Bit ule 


notable for their interest inthe views and 
feelings of women. As they pass out of 
existence and civil authorities take their 
place, these could do much by supporting an 
increase in the influence of women. 

A German man gloomily said to me, “More 
than half of all German children today are 
being brought up without the influence of a 
father in the home. I can’t imagine what the 
results will be. Germany ought, if nature 
takes it course, to turn out to be a matri- 
archy.” 

I thought to myself, “Well, that is the 
only form of human society the Germans have 
not tried, or had thrust upon them, in the 
past thirty years. Perhaps that will be Ger- 
many’s salvation.” THE END 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL September, 


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Mushrooms au beurre noir as 

a first course, with orange-glazed 
ham and a huge salad 

of tomato-avocado aspic and 
greens to follow. 


PHOTO BY STUART 


Hot hors Pacivees, crab 
pastries—little two-bitdé-size 
concoctions of piecrust 

and deviled crab with 
cheese-puff tops. 





VAROMIIUN FIRE 


Let’s wind up the summer season with a gala dinner or Sunday luncheon party, 
a final indoor-outdoor affair. It needn’t be dressy as to clothes or service, in the 
informal spirit of the season, but when it comes to food it can be something 
pretty special. Of course, September is considered autumn, not summer—I 
know that much—but in most parts of the country many of the days and nights 
are still so dulcet you wouldn’t feel the difference unless you looked at the cal- 
endar. In California, where I first served this menu to a group of friends in a 
fantastically beautiful garden at Bel Aire, there just (Continued on Page 188) 


PHOTOS BY ENGSTEAD 





Honeydew melons 


dressed in paper frills 
and filled with fruit— 
a dessert to delight 
the taste and eye. 

If you serve this dessert 

out-of-doors, don’t bother with | 

plates. The melon halves 

fit neatly in the palm 

of the hand. 








188 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


isn’t any difference. It was there I real- 
ized how pleasant it is to let the guests pick 
up their dessert and wander off among the 
flowers. Weather permitting, I recommend 
the same procedure to you. 

The hors d’oeuvre of our gala menu will 
be delicious crab pastries. They are small, 
about two-bite-size affairs, of piecrust and 
deviled crab with a cheese-puff top, and they 
are served hot. 

For first course we'll have mushrooms au 
beurre noir on points of toast. Mushrooms 
are very fine as a garnish or an ingredient of 
a dish, but to have them all by themselves, 
loads and loads of them, and when appetites 
are still sharp and eager, is heaven. When I 
serve them this way I always have enough 
for seconds, and I’ve never been turned 
down on that deal yet. 

Next will come baked orange-glazed ham, 
for my preference sliced very thin, and with 
it, to be eaten on the same plate, a huge 
salad of avocado-tomato aspic and mixed 
greens. There must be plenty of ham and 
salad because these two dishes, with rolls, 
are the entire main course of the meal. The 
rolls will be coils of nut bread. Not sweet nut 
bread, but regular yeast dough with nuts in 
it. They aren’t difficult or time-consuming 
to make, but the bakeries are full of rolls of 
various sorts if you don’t want to bother. 
Some people who wouldn’t hesitate for a 
moment to tackle the most complicated cake 
recipe are apt to shy away from bread or 
rolls. Too bad, because compared with mak- 
ing a cake it’s a cinch to handle yeast dough 
successfully, and it’s fun too. The results are 
so gratifying and out-of-proportion impres- 
sive. Just maybe I’ve talked you into trying, 
in case you're one of those shier-away-froms. 
I hope so, because once you’ve tried you'll 
probably turn into a demon bread maker. 

Now we're ready for dessert, and no cook- 
ing is involved here. Halves of melon, honey- 
dew or large cantaloupe, hollowed out, scal- 
loped and filled with a variety of fruits and 
melon balls, will bring our menu to a success- 
ful conclusion. Coffee later, of course, but I 
needn't go into the making of that. 

I’ve planned the recipes to serve eight, 
and I think this meal, except for the dessert, 
should be eaten at a table. We’ll dress the 
melon halves in paper doilies, and they will 
be perfect for serving in the garden or on the 
lawn if you like. In this case no plates will be 
needed—this dessert comes in its own dish. 
You'll be surprised at how conveniently a 
melon rests in the hollow of your hand, and 
how readily your guests take to this com- 
fortable kind of service. 


CRAB PASTRIES 


Roll piecrust the same thickness as if you 
were making a pie and cut it into small 
rounds with a biscuit cutter. I use a cutter 
that measures 14% inches in diameter. Cut 
narrow strips of rolled pie dough and flute 
them with your fingers, as for rim of pie. 
Rub a little beaten egg on outside edge of 
pie-dough circles and fit on the fluting, 
pinching the rim and bottom together so 
they will be sure to stick. Or make a rim by 
twisting two very slender strands of pie 
dough into a rope—or maybe you can dream 
up a better idea than either of these. The 
point is that the rim should have some 
height. Make about 40 to 45 little shells, and 
if you should have any crab pastries left when 
the party is over, freeze them for another 
occasion. Transfer shells to cooky sheets 
and bake in a moderately hot oven—375° F.— 
until light brown. Don’t get them too dark, 
because they’ll have some more cooking after 
they are filled. 

A small, 61-ounce ean of crab meat will 
make enough deviled crab for the filling. 
Pick it over carefully to be sure to remove 
any hard particles. Lightly brown 2 table- 
spoons finely chopped onion and 1 very small 
clove garlic, minced, in 3 tablespoons butter 
or margarine and blend in 4 tablespoons 
flour. Add 1 cup cream, or 34 cup cream and 
Y4 cup sherry, if you like, 4 tablespoons chili 
sauce, 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce, Kw 
teaspoon Tabasco, 1 teaspoon mono sodium 
glutamate (this is the chief if not the entire 
ingredient of Chinese seasoning powders) and 
the crab, then cook, stirring constantly, until 








September, 1949 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


thick and bubbling. Continue cooking until 
you are sure the thickening process is com- 
plete. This is important in the making of all 
sauces, unless egg yolk is used as the thicken- 
ing agent, in which case you must be careful 
not to overcook. Add salt to taste. 

To make the cheese-puff top, cream to- 
gether 2 ounces grated mild-tasting Amer- 
ican cheese, 3 ounces cream cheese, 3 table- 
spoons butter or margarine, 14 teaspoon 
Worcestershire sauce, 1 tablespoon cream, 
14 teaspoon paprika, 14 teaspoon dry mus- 
tard, 14 teaspoon baking powder and 1 egg 
yolk. When thoroughly blended, fold in 1 
stiffly beaten egg white. Add salt to taste, 
and if egg yolk, butter and American cheese 
haven’t given the mixture a nice yellow tint, 
stir in a few drops of yellow vegetable color- 
ing. 

The crab and cheese mixtures can be made 
the day before and the shells can be baked 
then. The shells should be filled at a con- 
venient time before the party. Fill shells to 
the rims with deviled crab, top generously 
with cheese mixture and put a small square 
of pimiento on each. Shortly before serving, 
broil until they are puffed and _ slightly 


brown. This takes about 4 minutes. 


MUSHROOMS AU BEURRE NOIR 


Better order your mushrooms ahead of time 
so that you will be sure to get firm white ones 
of fairly even size. Two pounds will be 
enough, and a few more won't hurt. We don’t 
want the mushroom caps to turn dark when 
they are cooked, but that’s exactly what 
they want, and after a lot of experimentation 
I’ve found what I think is the best method 
of thwarting them. Remove stems from caps 


% The first proof of a man’s inca- 
pacity for anything is his en- 
deavoring to fix the stigma of failure 
upon others. —B. R. HAYDON. 


and wipe caps first with cheesecloth dipped 
in lemon juice and water and then with dry 
cheesecloth. Melt some butter or margarine, 
let it cool to lukewarm, dip each cap in it 
until thoroughly coated and transfer to a 
platter. The butter or margarine will congeal 
quickly and form a coating to keep out the 
air. Wash stems quickly in water, dry them 
and slice into thin rounds. The stems can be 
cooked ahead of time, but the caps should 
be cooked as near the last minute as you can 
manage. 

Put 4% pound—l4 cup—butter or mar- 
garine in a skillet, add | clove garlic, finely 
minced, and cook over low heat until fat 
begins to brown. Add mushroom stems, 4 
tablespoons finely chopped parsley, 2 table- 
spoons finely chopped chives, 1 teaspoon 
finely chopped sweet basil or 14 teaspoon 
dried sweet basil, and salt and freshly ground 
black pepper to taste. Cook, stirring often, 
until mushroom stems are tender—about 2 
minutes. Add 1 cup bouillon, canned or made 
with powder or cubes; let this bubble up and 
set it aside. 

To cook the caps, put them, top side down, 
in a preheated skillet over moderate heat. 
The fat they are coated with will be sufh- 
cient for cooking. As soon as they are deli- 
cately browned, turn them over and con- 
tinue cooking until they are barely tender— 
about 4 minutes in all. If you overcook 
mushrooms—and that’s painfully easy to 
do—they become rubbery and dehydrated. 

To serve, have a hot platter completely 
covered with toast triangles, with a rim of 
the toast points reaching to the edge of the 
platter. Spoon the mushroom stems and 
sauce over the toast and top with the sautéed 
caps. Sprinkle caps with salt, freshly ground 
black pepper and paprika. 


BAKED ORANGE-GLAZED HAM 


I suggest using a processed ham because I 
SU55 5 

find them uniformly tender and never too 
salty—and a boned ham would be nice for 
this oceasion because it’s so easy to slice. 
The boned processed hams have all the skin 
removed, and the ones that are not boned 

(Continued on Page 191) 





~ Ever worry about 
how much coffee you drink ? 


Ca. ARE, if you're like most of us, 
you do worry occasionally about 
drinking too much coffee. 


You worry because you know from 
your own experiences—or perhaps those 
of your friends—how the caffein in cof- 
fee can make you tense and jittery—and 
even wakeful at night. 


So it is natural—whenever you feel 
irritable or nervous, or if you’ve spent a 
sleepless night—that you mentally begin 
ticking off the number of cups of coffee 
you drank. 


You wonder if you’ve been overdoing 
it lately. If you should begin to limit 
yourself to a certain number of cups. 
Or maybe ‘cut out drinking coffee al- 
together, 


Luckily for you, there is a much pleas- 
anter answer to your problem. 


DRINK SANKA COFFEE 


It’s Sanka Coffee. For when you drink 
Sanka, you can enjoy real coffee—grand- 
tasting coffee—yet stop worrying about 
how much you drink. 


Sanka is a rich and full-bodied coffee. 


It has all the aroma, the bracing cheer, 
the flavor that only real coffee gives you. 


REAL COFFEE- 97% CAFFEIN- FREE 


And, best of all, Sanka is caffein-free. 
And that means worry-free! 


Because 97% of the caffein has been 
removed, Sanka can’t make you feel nery- 
ous or “put out.” Can’t keep you awake. 


So why notstart drinking Sanka Coffee 
tomorrow. You have nothing to lose and 
possibly a great deal to gain. 


Sanka Coffee 


Real coffee with the worry taken out: 
Drink it and sleep! 





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\F all the quick, low-cost desserts you can think 
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Hunt's Heavenly Peaches. Mmmm -— what flavor! 


Hunt’s peaches are hand-picked in sunny California 
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They’re put up in delicious heavy syrup at Hunt’s 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


canning kitchens, right near the orchards. 


And — with all these quality features—do Hunt’s 
Heavenly Peaches cost more? 


Heavens, NO! They actually cost you LESS! 


So,-ask your grocer for the peaches with the Hunt 
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ever tasted. At down-to-earth prices! 





September, 1949 


(ah ce 
co. aout 


wh wal 


(a wr 
ww t 
is ath 
tome og 
that a 


‘ 


Bail, un 
toma 
ted iw 








Hunt Foods Inc., Los Angeles, Calif. vlad ; 





(Continued from Page 189) 
have only a small amount of skin around the 
shank. Cooking time per pound is usually 
given on the wrapper, but if not, allow 25 
minutes per pound. 
Remove wrapper, wipe ham with a damp 
e:.. and place, fat side up, in’ a roasting 


‘pan. Mix | teaspoon dry mustard with 1 


tablespoon grated orange rind and rub this 
over the ham. If you can get frozen orange 
juice—it’s pretty generally available these 
days—open a can and spoon it, still frozen, 
over the top of the ham. This highly concen- 
trated orange juice is perfect, but if you 
can’t get it, squeeze 3 cups orange juice, add 
1 tablespoon sugar, boil briskly until the 
juice is reduced to about 34 cup and pour 
this over the ham. Put in a slow oven— 
300° F.—and bake to within 14 hour of re- 
quired time. Baste frequently during baking, 
and if the bottom of the pan should show a 
tendency to brown, add a little water. If the 
ham isn’t boned, take it from oven after 
the first hour’s cooking and remove skin from 
areund shank. 

If you're using a ham that hasn’t been 
processed, let it stand in cold water over- 
night, cover with boiling water and simmer 
1 hour. Let it cool in 
water in which it was 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


NUT-BREAD COILS 


Seald 1 cup milk, add 1 tablespoon sugar, 4 
tablespoons butter or margarine and 2 tea- 
spoons salt. Cool to lukewarm and add 2 
well-beaten egg yolks and 1 package quick 
dry yeast dissolved according to directions 
on package, or | cake yeast dissolved in 14 
cup lukewarm water. Stir this liquid into 
344 cups flour, add 2 stiffly beaten egg whites 
and beat until smooth. Now add 34 cup 
broken nut meats and beat until nuts are 
well mixed into dough. Work dough into a 
ball, grease sides of bowl, cover with a towel 
and set to rise in a warm place until double 
in bulk—about 134 hours. 

Turn dough out on a well-floured board, 
pat into a more or less oblong shape, sprinkle 
with flour and roll to the thickness of 14 inch 
into a rectangle approximately 24 inches by 
12 inches. Brush with melted butter or mar- 
garine. Cut the dough into 3 slabs of equal 
size and put them one on top of another to 
make 3 layers. I say “equal,” but don’t 
worry if your slabs aren’t exactly the same 
shape. The middle one will have nice square 
corners and you can yank and stretch the 
other two into approximately the same 

shape. Cut this three- 
decker slab into strips 


cooked, remove skin Kw KK KKK KChUK about 34 inch wide. 


and proceed as with 
processed ham. 


Now take one end of 
a strip in your right 


For the last 4% hour (PE bil oy My Md Age hand and the other in 


of cooking, baste ham 
well with juice in bot- 
tom of pan and spoon 
on another can of fro- 
zen orange juice. If 
you aren't using fro- 
zen juice, cover ham 
with slices of peeled 
orange. Sprinkle with 
2 tablespoons grated 
orange peel and then 
put 14 cup confec- 
tioners’sugarinasieve 
and shake this over 
ham. Turn oven heat 


to 425° F. and bake 


out. 


grace, 


By Yetza Gilbespie 


Indeed, I'll not grow old with 


If that implies a wistful smile 
Above a bit of fine old lace. 


I plan to wear a curled red wig, 
To say the things I never should, 
And if I stoop beside the hearth, 
I will be putting on more wood. 


your left, twist in op- 
posite directions sev- 
eral times and wind it 


Oh, save your breath and hear me into a coil. Pinch the 


outside end of the 
coil into the dough so 
that it will stick tight. 

Transfer coils to 
greased baking pans 
or cooky sheets, leav- 
ing plenty of distance 
between them so that 
in rising the second 
time they won’t run 
together. Set to rise 
in a warm place for 


ham 1% hour without kkekekeKeke KK * about 114 hours. 


basting. (For this 

meal we aren’t going 

to use the sauce that is left in the pan, but 
it’s simply wonderful as the seasoning for 
home-baked beans. You might want to give 
that a try.) 


AVOCADO-TOMATO ASPIC 


Boil, uncovered, for 15 minutes, 519 cups 
tomato juice, 14 cup vinegar—preferably 
red-wine vinegar—2 cloves garlic cut into 
fairly small chunks, 1 teaspoon mixed pick- 
ling spices, 5 whole cloves, 1 tablespoon 
sugar, 14 teaspoon cayenne pepper and salt 
to taste. The amount of salt needed de- 
pends on how salty the tomato juice was to 
start with, but use plenty and remember 
that food always tastes more highly sea- 
soned when hot than when cold. Strain, add 
4 envelopes—tablespoons—unflavored gela- 
tin which has been soaked in 19 cup water 
and stir until gelatin is dissolved. Allow mix- 
ture to cool, and when it begins to have a 
slightly thick consistency stir in 3 avocados, 
peeled, pitted and cut into small pieces. 
Taste for seasoning. 

Rub individual molds or 1 large one with 
salad oil, and when the mixture is thick 
enough that the little pieces of avocado 
won't rise to the top and stay there, fill 
molds and store in refrigerator. 


Making the aspic is a day-before job, of 
course, but the tossed green salad that ac- 
companies it is as last-minutey as you can 
manage. However, with salad greens cleaned 
and cold and French dressing already mixed 
in a jar, this shouldn’t present much of a 
problem. The tossed green salad can be 
served in a wooden bow! and the aspic on a 
platter, or they can both occupy the same 
platter. It depends on your serving dishes 
and your fancy, but however you manage, 
the salad is sure to look pretty and taste 
good. The combination of this particular 
salad with ham is something I care for in a 
big way. 


Brush lightly with 

egg beaten with a 
little cream and bake in a hot oven—425° F.— 
until delicately browned—about 20 minutes. 
This recipe will make 20 to 22 good-size rolls, 
which is more than you'll need for this party, 
but the rest can be eaten next day or frozen 
and eaten months later. 


FILLED MELONS 


Cut even-sized honeydew melons or large 
cantaloupes in half and remove seeds. With 
a medium-size ball cutter cut as many per- 
fect balls as you can and scrape out the rest 
of the good fruit into a separate bowl. Chop 
the scrappy pieces thoroughly to make a 
pulp. With a sharp knife cut rather deep 
scallops around the rim of each half melon. 

To make the paper dresses, turn a melon 
half upside down on a tall glass, put a plate- 
size very lacy paper doily on it and cup it 
over the melon, pleating it here and there 
with your fingers so that it assumes the con- 
tours of the melon. When you get one little 
group of pleats arranged to your satisfac- 
tion, fasten them in place fairly near the top 
of the melon with cellulose tape. Repeat this 
process at intervals all around until the 
paper “dress” really fits. It’s a good idea to 
have an extra pair of hands to apply the 
tape while you hold the pleats in place, but 
I have done it alone. If you’re going to serve 
the dessert out of doors and let people hold 
the melons in their hands, put a couple of 
folded cleansing tissues in the bottom of 
each paper dress to absorb the moisture. 
Set cups aside until ready to serve. 

Now to the filling, which can be a combi- 
nation of any fresh or frozen fruits you like, 
plus the melon balls and pulp. Persimmons, 
strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, 
peaches—some or all of these would be deli- 
cious, or you can buy the frozen fruit salad 
many frozen-food companies are putting out. 
Season the fruit with a little sugar and finely 
chopped ginger, and if you like, pour some 
cognac, apricot brandy or kirsch over it. 


AT GROCERS 


“YELLOWSTONE FALLS 


Yellowstone National 
Park. Mecca of thousands 
of tourists every year. 


© 1949 Perkins} 
Products Co, 








MMA 


many ways! 





good so 









So rich and pure, you can thin it, 
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sauce. It’s so good, so many ways. 
Unlike “‘salad dressing,”’ Best Foods 
or Hellmann’s contains no starchy 
filler .. . doesn’t turn watery when 
thinned or varied. It’s rich as only 
real mayonnaise can be. 


HELLMANNS {= 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Fill the melon halves with the fruit mixture, 
being careful not to include too much juice. 
If you have some juice left over—and prob- 
ably you will—use it for the base of a gelatin 
dessert in a day or two. The melon halves 
ean be filled ahead of time and fitted into 


their paper dresses just before serving. 


Service. If you’re doing this meal without 
any help at all, the mushrooms will be your 
one problem. The mushroom caps really 
should not be saut¢ed ahead of time—that 
is, ahead of the arrival of guests. But the 
stems can be precooked and the toast made, 
and when people begin to slow down on the 
crab pastries you can slip away to the kitchen 
and give the mushrooms a few minutes 
of your valuable attention. After all, no 
one expects you to wave a wand in the gen- 
eral direction of kitchen and dining room 
and announce that dinner is served. 

The rest of the meal can be ready to serve, 
so I'll spend these /ast words on the heating 
gadgets that are flooding the market these 
days. I know I’m forever bringing up this 
subject, but maybe you haven't investigated 
lately, and if not, you really should. Perhaps 
the fact that most of us are without help has 
sharpened the wits of designers and manu- 
facturers in this direction. Whatever the 
cause, we welcome the results. 

There are both elaborate and simple sery- 
ing carts with electrically heated top decks. 


September, 1949 


These are thermostatically controlled and 
hold a temperature of 200° F. with little 
effect on the electricity bill. Then there are 
trays incorporating the same mechanism to 
keep food warm, and you will find these are 
much cheaper. 

There are a number of devices with deep 
wells holding pottery or oven-glass dishes, 
and these are heated either electrically or 
by alcohol burners. Some very wonderful 
chafing dishes are on the market, with a 
whole assortment of copper pots and pans 
to fit them. 

One of the most useful types—and cer- 
tainly the cheapest—consists of pottery or 
oven-glass containers, rather like casseroles, 
in which you place short, thick candles under 
a metal top. They are made for one or more 
candles, which burn for a very long time 
and supply an astonishing amount of heat. 
They are perfect for outdoor use, where 
you may not be able to plug in an electrical 
gadget. 

This doesn’t cover the field, of course, but 
I advise you to explore it yourself. Just con- 
sult your pocketbook, and make your selec- 
tion accordingly. I stress the point because 
these gadgets are godsends in simplifying 
the problem of entertaining smoothly with- 
out help. 

But with no assistance from anything but 
your own ingenuity, I’m sure you can make 
this party a huge success. 


WE'RE LIVING WITH OUR CHILDREN 


(Continued from Page 170) 


The old people are early risers, up at six. 
But this need not disturb the family up- 
stairs, for Grandma fixes her coffee and 
Grandpa’s eggs on the hot plate in their room. 
By the time the Middletons are getting up 
for their seven-thirty breakfast, the bath- 
room is free for them. Carl Middleton is up 
first. The salesman on a profitable Jewel Tea 
Company route, who calls on forty-five 
families a day, must check his supplies before 
he starts out, and reload his wares. Celesta 
Middleton is up next, fixing a substantial 
breakfast of bacon and eggs, cereal, toast 
and coffee on the electric stove in the kitchen. 
Then comes Mary Ellen, who will tidy her 
room before she 
leaves at half past 
eight for her job in 
the office of the local 


What’s the answer... 


two years. Some evenings, by the time he is 
home, Mary Ellen and Bryan will be out at 
the movies or at some church activity —both 
are active in the Christian Endeavor So- 
ciety—or will have gone roller skating, which 
Mary Ellen says she enjoys quite as much 
as she would the dancing which her strict 
Baptist upbringing has forbidden her. But 
more often the whole family, including 
Bryan, who is almost a member of the 
household, and the Austins, will spend the 
evening together. 

Some evenings, of course, Grandma Austin 
will be out baby-sitting. Usually she sits 
with her great-grandchildren, Janice Ann 
and Barbara Jean 
Abernathy, though 
sometimes she 
obliges a neighbor 


Woolworth store, like Mrs. Tooke 
and David Lee, when you have to choose between around the corner. 
whose school 1s just music lessons for your children and Bill Abernathy, the 
around the corner. a full-time maid? Between the out- son of Grandma 

Seven days out of ward symbols of prosperity and Austin’s daughte: 


ten Carl Middle- 
ton’s sales route 
allows him to get 
home for lunch, a 
simple one of sand- 
wiches and salad. 
(Downstairs, 
though, the Austins 
like their big hot 
meal in the middle 
of the day.) Then 
Carl is off again. 
When he is too far 
out of town to get 
home, he lunches on 
sandwiches Mrs. 
Middleton has pre- 
pared for him, or 
stops in a neighboring town for a hot meal. 
David Lee is home for lunch, too, and ap- 
pears again after school—but not for long; 
baseball or football, depending on the sea- 
son, calls him away to the fine public park 
at the foot of the street. By six o'clock 
Mary Ellen is home, and at least half the 
time Bryan, her fiancé, is with her. Down- 
stairs the Austins have a light supper; but 
Mrs. Middleton is cooking a good dinner 
for the children, and Carl, too, if he can only 
get home in time! Too often, though, his 
sales route keeps him out till eight o’clock, 
and a plate of meat and vegetables has to 
be heated up for him. Not that Carl com- 
plains—it is he, and he alone, who has built 
up his route, doubling its value in the past 


tanburg, 


success and the mental, spiritual 
growth of your children? 

The Holeombes—lawyer Neville 
and busy teacher Fannie Lou— 
have an answer. They believe that 
answer works, for them. 

Meet the Holcombes, of Spar- 
South Carolina, in 


Getting the Most 
Out of Life 
oy Ruth Shapley Matthews 


in How America Lives, in the 
October LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





Anna, who died sev- 
eral years ago, and 
his wife June live six 
or seven blocks from 
the Austins. Mon- 
day night the Aber- 
nathys like to spend 
at the movies, and 
then Grandma Aus- 
tin comes in to take 
over Janice Ann, 
who is three and a 
half, and year-old 
Barbara Jean. After 
the children have 
had their supper in 
the kitchen of the 
four-room frame 
house, after the baby is tucked away, comes 
the time to read to Janice Ann until, by 
seven-thirty or eight, she is ready to say her 
prayers and be snuggled into bed, too, the 
third generation that Grandma Austin has 
cared for. 

Quite often there will be a second evening 
at the Abernathys’ during the week, when 
Bill and June go visiting, or Grandma will 
come over during the day to let June do her 
shopping without benefit of babies. At 35 
cents an hour, Grandma contributes about 
$8 a month to the Austin budget by her 
baby-sitting. 

Social Security payments give the Austins 
$15 a month. But, though Grandpa Austin’s 

(Continued on Page 194) 


€ 





ee 


a Se Yes, even a gala platter like this, A 
J] when you plan the “trimmings” care- 


fully and buy your Swift’s Premium Ham 
ready to serve. Ready-to-Eat Swift’s Premium— 
in the red and white wrapper—is really fully 
cooked. You can serve it cold just ‘‘as is” and 
enjoy the true, delightful flavor of America’s 
best-liked ham. Or you can quickly heat it 
according to Martha Logan’s instructions on the 
tag that comes with the whole ham or butt half. 
Quick-Time trimmings: Fill half lemon or orange 
shells with apple sauce (hot or cold) flavored 
with red cinnamon candies. Shells may be accu- 
mulated ahead of time and kept covered in the 
refrigerator. When you buy a slice of ham, look 
for the words “Swift’s Premium, Ready to Eat, 
Fully Cooked” down the center. Then you’re sure 
of matchless flavor from Swift’s Brown Sugar 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 192) 
“earning capacity’ (as Missouri’s old-age- 
assistance law puts it) is not only small but 
extremely variable, they receive no state 
help at the moment. They did receive old- 
age-assistance payments in 1943 and until 
July of 1945. At this time the cash reserves in 
their insurance policies exceeded $500 (the 
cash value of these policies is about $600, and 
$7.94 is dueon them every three months), and 
payment, under then-existing regulations, 
had to be stopped. In February of 1947 the 
ruling under which this action was taken was 
changed so that each member of an aged 
couple may now have $500 in available re- 
sources of this type. Thus, the insurance 
policies in themselves would not disqualify 
the Austins for state aid. Until a few weeks 
ago they were unaware of this change; they 
are now reapplying for assistance and their 
eligibility is being reviewed by the state. 
Missouri is proud of its welfare laws, and 
Grandma Austin is hopeful of the outcome. 

“Tt was mighty hard on Rufus, having to 
work all through the hot summer weather 
at his age,”’ she says worriedly. 

If the Austins had cashed their insurance 
policies and spent the money, it was their 
understanding that they would have been eli- 
gible for state aid all along. But they would 
not dothis, for the policies, which will pay $500 
on the death of each, are to ensure that, at 
their passing, they are no expense or trouble 
to their children. Even at the end, they 
want to hold on to their independence. 

Grandpa Austin was one of the first auto 
mechanics in Missouri, and a good one. 
Now, with Carl Middleton’s help, he has 
built himself a workshop out in th> back 
yard, and here he sharpens lawn mov. _rs for 
$1.50 apiece. He does some wood turning, 
too, like making a leg to repair a broken 
chair, and the yard around the house on 
Whitener Street is decorated with painted 
animals and figures that he has cut out. The 
income from his lawn-mower repair is sea- 
sonal, of course, but since last fall he has 
been lucky enough to get work sometimes 
as often as two or three days a week from 
a Mr. Scherer, whose small machine shop 
turns out lawn-mower handles and similar 
products. This means $5 a day. Last year 
Grandpa made only $249 during the whole 
year. But for the first five months of 1949, he 
averaged nearly $75 a month. On paper, the 
Austins’ income from Social Security, from 
Mr. Scherer, and lawn-mower sharpening 
and baby-sitting may run almost to $100 in 
a particularly good month. But two months 
may go by without money from Mr. Scherer, 
and the work itself is none too regular. 

Still, out of Grandpa’s earnings the 
Austins buy their own food (lots of milk but 
not much meat), and contribute to the light 
and telephone bills, but not to the $35-a- 


month rent which the Middletons pay. Al- 
ways nicely turned out, Grandma receives 
much of her wardrobe as gifts—some new 
from the Middletons, some from her two 
sisters back in Indiana. “‘They’re both 
bigger than me,” she twinkles—of course 
they are, for Grandma herself isn’t much 
bigger than a minute—“‘and I can cut their 
things down so they look right good on me.” 
Neat as a new pin she is, in hat and white 
gloves, when she goes to church on Sunday, 
and Grandpa beside her is elegant in his 
light coat and straw hat. Side by side they 
sit, listening to the preaching that tells them 
that the answers to all their questions will 
not be given here, but are waiting for them 
ahead, over yonder. Fifty years ago they met 
in church, back in Indiana, and after service 
Rufus asked Ella if he could “keep step” 
with her. They have known fifty years of 
keeping step, and now they sit and listen 
together to the voices of their children and 
grandchildren singing of “Glory land... 
beyond the river . . . where the saints will 
gather home.” They find reassurance and 
cheer in the comforting words of the old 
story of Jesus that they have loved all their 
lives. For does it not promise them a Place 
of Their Own that no one and nothing can 
take from them? 

Three years ago when the Austins moved 
in, the Middletons were in none too secure 
a position themselves. For nineteen years 
Carl had worked in the shoe factory in 
Cape Girardeau. Plants of the International 
Shoe Company areé scattered about all over 
Southeast Missouri. The one in Cape Girar- 
deau employs over 1200 workers. In 1946, 
working as a pegger, Carl was making around 
$50 a week—the amount varied with his 
hours. Out of this had to come almost $20 
a week for food. Rent on the Middleton 
house is $35 a month, and insurance pay- 
ments amount to $8 a month. Electricity 
(including the stove and refrigerator) and 
telephone add $7 or $8 more. Clothes, even 
now that Mary Ellen is working and buying 
her own, still take over $300 a year of the 
Middletons’ budget, and in 1946 Mary 
Ellen was in school, looking forward to 
college. No matter how they added things 
up, Carl’s wages in 1946 just didn’t cover 
their expenses. He was $700 in debt, and 
could see ahead only the prospect of getting 
in deeper. 

There is a CIO union in the International 
Shoe Plant, and Carl was a member in good 
standing. But the union has been able to 
work out no pension plan and very little 
protection for the older men in the plants. 
Carl was haunted by questions which, the 
arrival of the Austins made only too per- 
tinent. Rufus Austin had been a skilled 
mechanic. Now, with no backlog of savings, 

(Continued on Page 196) 





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a 
September, 1949 — 





cocktail 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 











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BUFFET 
SUGGESTION 


WITH THAT FRENCH’S FLAVOR 


2 tablespoons French’s Mustard 


legg 
V4 teaspoon pepper 


| 

’ 

! 11 Ibs. ground chuck beef 

| 1% teaspoons salt 

2 tablespoons minced onion 

Knead ingre .dients together thoroughly, pat into cakes and broil. 

| Spre: ad halved tomatoes W ith a mixture of equal parts of may- 
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196 








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(Continued from Page 194) 
with no sure income beyond $15 a month of 
Social Security, he was looking for lawn 
mowers to sharpen at $1.50 apiece. “‘It 
looked to me,” says Carl, ‘‘as if I was head- 
ing for the scrap heap. I had to get out.” 

He got out and, after a couple of false 
starts, he made good. Having no technical 
training, but a great gift for people, Carl 
saw selling as a natural job to try. When the 
Jewel Tea Company, a large Midwestern 
chain, advertised for help, he wrote in reply. 
“They got fifty-odd letters,” he says 
proudly, ‘‘but they looked into mine first.”’ 
He was hired at once. 

Jewel Tea salesmen are modern versions 
of last century’s peddlers. They tour the 
towns and rural areas with loads of groceries, 
staples and installment items, bringing the 
advantages of chain-store merchandising 
right to the customer’s door. In his neat 
panel truck—a brand-new one which he got 
only last spring as a reward for having the 
best sales record in the district—Carl covers 
twenty miles a day, calling on forty to fifty 
customers. Each Saturday afternoon he 
loads his staples for the week ahead, ar- 
ranging them with the skill of an efficiency 
expert. He must check his prices and values 
with an eye both to Jewel Tea’s profit mar- 
gins and to prices at the supermarkets in 
town. It is up to him to decide what bargain 
lines to push, and what merchandise to offer 
as premiums. This done, Carl changes from 
merchandise man to salesman as he sets out 
on the route whose sales have risen from 
$200 to $500 a week since he took it over. It 
will take him as much as twelve miles out of 
town over Missouri's straight, good, dirt 
roads, to the newly painted farmhouses 
where rich corn crops have paid for new 
farm equipment and shiny galvanized-iron 
roofs on the barns. It takes him to the homes 
of Negro families as well as white, to those of 
Catholics as well as his fellow Baptists. Car] 
is at home and a friend in all of them. Every 
customer is visited at least once every two 
weeks. And then, on Saturdays, before 
loading the truck for the next week, he must 
turn accountant and balance his books. 

It is not an easy job, but for energetic, 
devoted Carl Middleton it is a satisfying 
one. First of all, he is making better money 
than he did at International Shoe. His com- 
mission is paid on a sliding scale over a basic 
minimum; sales of $500 a week bring him 
about $70. His debts are just about paid off. 
Then, Jewel Tea offers its employees a 
pension plan for which Carl is now eligible. 


Burt best of all is the feeling Carl has that 
he is standing on his own feet. He has 
responsibility for many details of his work; 
he must use his judgment, and his judgment 
has been right—witness the rise in the sales 
on his route in the two years he has had it. 
“And this isn’t all there’ll be,” says Carl 
Middleton. ‘Why, there’s no limit to where 
I can take those sales!’’ At 44 he has started 
a new career and is going places with it. 
Yet, busy as it keeps him, this six-day-a- 
week job is not all that Carl Middleton does. 
Three times a month when he has finished 
his accounts and loaded his truck on Satur- 
day, Carl sits down at the round table in the 
dining room to another task. He is preparing 
a sermon. Licensed to preach by the General 
Baptist Church in 1935, in 1936 he was or- 
dained as a minister (no theological-school 
training is required). Now on three Sundays 
of the month he travels deep into the rural 
back country to preach. The first and third 
Sundays are spent at Kinder, Missouri, forty- 
five miles from Cape Girardeau—and “spent” 
is literally true. Sunday school (including a 
Bible class for the adults) begins at ten. The 
church service is at eleven. On one Sunday 
afternoon there is a “‘singing”’ at one of the 
churches round about, and in the evening 
Carl Middleton conducts services again. 
“When I began coming,” Carl says, “‘I 
told them weather wasn’t going to make any 
difference. I wasn’t going to miss any serv- 
ices, no matter what.” He hasn’t either. 
And attendance at the square, bare, white- 
washed, steepleless little church has grown 
and grown—particularly among the young 


people, as church members will tell you | 


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197 


gratefully. Now a congregation of over sixty 
gathers to hear Brother Middleton preach. 
The Middleton family, the Austins, too, go in 
a body. Mary Ellen and her Bryan add their 
voices to the “singers”; and David Lee sits 
with the other 14-year-olds who are remark- 
ably vociferous during the singing and quiet 
during the preaching and the Sunday-school 
lessons. There is an air of informal com- 
munity in the church, of comfort and at- 
home-ness. The poor young girl from down 
the road who will never be quite right in the 
head joins the choir and sings away in the 
front row, and no one bothers her or is both- 
ered if her songbook is upside down. There is 
no ceremonial about the simple services. But 
their very simplicity and naturalness make it 
clear that Sunday’s beliefs are part of week- 
day living. 

After service the Middletons are quite 
likely to picnic under the trees beside the 
church if there is an afternoon singing to go 
to. One church after another plays host to the 
singers, and the audience which gathers fills 
the little building and overflows outside. 
Anyone sings who wants to, but the general 
chorus is varied by trios and quartets who 





How the Middletons 
Spend Their Money 


(yearly average) | 
Rent?:...caheee poe $420.00 
Hood: asaya chat eis 1040.00 
@lothings sy sneer 300.00 
Electricity... 41... + 66.00 
Goals >t cecaene ota 100.00 
Insurances.e eee 96.00 
Phones sic: as a eee 30.00 
Newspaper........... 13.00 
Periodicals... 52)... 3.00 
Car upkeep........... 250.00 
Church contributions. . 320.00 
Amusement.......... 20.00 

_ Mise.—savings, 
| medical, dental...... 542.00 
$3,200.00 


How the Austins 
Spend Their Money 


By OOM): per etn wrenen: <y Asher $364.00 





}. Insurance, -a secre - ar 31.76 
Bes Chiuareli an orsut fusca hence 52.50 
| Mise.—medical, dental. T7114 

$525.40 


(= ee Le eA 


have rehearsed special arrangements. The 
only accompaniment is the piano, which 
jumps along merrily through the music, pur- 
suing a cheerful, almost syncopated rhythm. 
The songs are revivalist in spirit, with such 
titles as Let Us Walk the Gospei \V 2y, Going 
Home to Die No More, and I Want My 
Life to be Like a Light; and the gaiety of the 
tunes is more in accord with the cheerful so- 
cial atmosphere of the gathering than is the 
solemnity of the words. Not only Mary Ellen 
and her Bryan join in the singing, but David 
Lee, too, and Carl Middleton often takes 
over as leader. 

The end of the day does not come until ten 
o’clock or so, when the family returns to 
“Cape,” as it is affectionately called. Only 
once a month is Carl Middleton at home for 
his day of rest, for between his two trips to 
Kinder is a hundred-mile Sunday journey to 
Bradford, Tennessee, to repeat there what 
he has done for the church at Kinder. He re- 
ceives about $7 a trip as a free-will offering 
from the congregation at Kinder, and $25 for 
two trips to Tennessee. 

“T ysed to belong to the Missionary So- 
ciety here in Cape,”’ Celesta Middleton sighs, 
“but I had to give it up. You might say my 
church work right now is looking after Carl!” 

Would he like to devote himself to his 
church? Yes, Carl Middleton would. But his 
concern for his family will not allow him to 
accept a call where his future would be less 
secure than it is now. Carl Middleton has 
seen too near at hand what it is to be old 
without security. He is not going to risk that 
for Celesta and himself. THE END 


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BEAUTY AT HOME 
WITH THE STARS 


(Continued from Page 65) 


Complexion Tipa 
Froma Girt Who Knows 


DIANA LYNN gives these tips to girls with 
excessively oily skin: 

Use a complexion brush dampened with 
soap and water in quick, circular motions over 
your face and neck to stir up circulation. 

Try an iced skin astringent or one of 
the new lotions designed to combat an oily 
shine. Saturate a little cotton ball or pad with 
the astringent or lotion and dab it (don’t 
rub) over your face and neck. It will help 
close pores, give you a daisy-fresh feeling. 

Ask your doctor about the medicated lo- 
tions which can be tinted according to your 
coloring and be used in place of a regular 
make-up when your skin is irritated. 

Avoid the oil- and cream-base make- 
ups which are perfect for normal or dry skins 
but not for you. Use, instead, the dry cake- 
type make-up applied with a sponge. 

Freshen your face occasionally during 
the day. Diana discovered that by wringing 
out her make-up sponge in clear water and 
applying it over oily areas she can remove 
the shine without adding extra layers of 
make-up. 

Turn your face to the sun when you 
can... it’s Nature’s remedy for an oily skin. 

If you really want a pretty skin, then 
start right now to cut down on all sweets, 
fried and fatty foods, and include the green 
vegetables, fruit and milk which will help 
you toward your goal! 

Diana Lynn's next picture, “‘My Friend 
Irma.” 


li isn’t What You Do 


BETSY DRAKE gives a list of ‘“‘DON’TS”’ 
and “‘po’s”’ of young motion-picture stars: 


We Don't 


Wear rouge during the 
day. 


Paint on a new mouth 
with a lipstick brush, 


Wear false eyelashes! 


Use eye shadow so that 
the color shows 
harshly on the eyelids. 


Pluck an artificially 
thin eyebrow line. 


Wear theatrical-look- 
ing make-up for our 
personal lives. 


Like hair-do’s that 
need constant profes- 
sional attention. 


Dare let our figures 
get out of proportion! 


We Do 


Use rouge faintly in 
the evening if we look 
pale in artificial light. 


Use a lipstick brush to 
correct an irregular lip 
line. 


Use mascara lightly to 
add color and the illu- 
sion of length. 


Try mixing eye shadow 
with cold cream to 
help spread it thinly 
on the outer part of 
the upper lids—for 
evening. 


“Clean up” a natural 
eyebrow line by pluck- 
ing out the stray hairs. 


Choose a regular day- 
time make-up one 
shade darker than the 
natural skin tone, and 
spread it lightly and 
evenly over face and 
neck. 


Like a simple and be- 
coming style we can 
shampoo, set and 
comb out at home. 


Make a point of de- 
veloping a taste for 
the kinds of foods that 
don’t put on fat! 


Betsy Drake’s next picture, “ Dancing in the 


Dark.” 








September, 1949 | 


llerina’ 


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h : iat BiScuit 
C (@isey COmpany 


Fast Figuring 


JANET LEIGH, a nutrition major in college, 
knew that a protein diet, low in calories and 
high in energy-giving foods, could take off 
pounds and still enable her to begin work 
every morning at 6:30, feeling well and look- 
ing pretty. 

Here are some of Janet’s reducing tips, a 
typical day’s menu from her diet, and her 
best exercises: ; 

DIET at a time when you are sure to be 
especially busy. You won’t have as much 
time to think about the food you can’t have! 

DANCE a lot. It’s the nicest way to firm and 
tone up lazy muscles. 








Z 2 how 
She’s a Chiffon Pie ten 
Champion! cast year - 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


INDULGE once every two weeks in your fa- 
vorite dessert, and then go back to fresh or 
stewed fruits. It will give you something to 
look forward to and keep you from feelin 
sorry for yourself. 

WEIGH yourself the same time every morn- 
ing to keep an accurate check on how much 
you are losing. 

EXERCISE while you diet for faster results. 

CONSULT with your doctor about the diet 
most suitable for you. 


A Typical Day’s Diet for Janet Leigh 


Breakfast: 
Orange juice (8-oz. glass) 
Poached egg 
Thinly buttered toast (1 slice) 
Black coffee 


Lunch: 


Cottage cheese with 
grated carrots and raisins 
(34 cup cheese) 
3 whole-grain crackers 
Skim milk (8-oz. glass) 


Dinner: 
Broiled lamb chop (trimmed of fat) 
Spinach (medium serving) 
Sliced tomatoes on lettuce (no drtssing) 
Baked grapefruit 
Coffee or tea (plain) 


Janet’s Exercises 


WAIST CINCHER, FLATTER HIPS: Sit on floor 
and bring knees up to chest as close as possi- 
ble. Keep shoulders erect and extend arms 


: A young lady of nine was almost 
overcome with joy. For her birth- 
day she received the two gifts she’d 
most ardently desired, a wrist watch 
and a bottle of perfume. She talked 
constantly about her new posses- 
sions all day long. As guests were 
coming for dinner, her mother asked 
her to try not to mention her pres- 
ents. 

The girl held her peace at the table 
throughout the greater part of the 
meal, but finally was unable to re- 
strain herself any longer, and burst 
out, “If anyone hears anything or 
smells anything, it’s me!”’ 


out in front of you. Now swing knees from 
chest to slap floor on left, at the same time 
swinging arms as far back to right as possi- 
ble. Return knees and arms to original posi- 
tion; repeat on other side. Do to the count 
of 1—2-3—4. Do four times; work up to eight. 

Two exercises for FLATTER, FIRMER ABDO- 
MEN: (1) Lie flat on stomach, extending arms 
forward beyond face. Now, arch your back 
and raise your arms and legs at the same 
time, as in a swan dive. Return slowly to 
first position. Do four times, work up to eight. 

(2) Sit upright on floor with hands ex- 
tended backward to support body. Point 
toes so you can feel your leg muscles stretch. 
Keeping toes pointed, raise feet very slowly 
to count of five. Let the toes come upright, 
then quickly spread legs wide, and in this 
position slowly lower to two inches from the 
floor. Bring legs together slowly, point toes 
again, hold for a moment and lower legs to 
floor. Rest a moment and repeat exercise. 
This is more difficult than the other exer- 
cises and should be dene only twice in the be- 
ginning. Gradually work up to four. 

Two exercises for SLIMMER, FIRMER THIGHS: 
(1) Stand upright, abdomen in, shoulders 
back, legs spread apart in comfortable stance. 
SLOWLY raise up on the balls of your feet and 
lower to original position to the count of four. 
Repeat slowly five times; work up to ten. 
(2) Kneel, with body upright, arms extended 
from the sides at shoulder level. Now lean 
backward very slowly to count of four and 
then return, slowly, to original position. Since 
this is a tiring exercise, repeat only three 
times in the beginning, gradually work up to 
Six. 
Janet Leigh’s next picture, “The Forsyte 
ne THE END 


199 





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200 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL September, 1949 


DIARY OF DOMESTICITY 


(Continued from Page 99) 


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as summer ends, and lovely for suppertime 
use. The air is dreamy and peaceful and even 
Little Sister’s rabbit hunting is muted to a 
few desultory sorties. 

Sometimes the days are hot, with a par- 
ticular kind of heat that I associate with 
churchgoing in summer in my childhood. I 
always reluctantly got into my starched frilly 
dress and trotted along beside father, who 
loped along at a terrible clip. Church was a 
long way off, and was always crowded. The 
pews were upholstered in heavy red stuff that 
grew hotter as the long prayer went on. The 
ladies waved their palm-leaf fans languidly, 
making the air stir sluggishly. The fans made 
a faint whispering sound. They had one side 
printed with advertising from the undertak- 
ing establishment, which was most appropri- 
ate for church as it reminded everyone that 
the end of life was nearer than they thought. 
I used to nibble the edges of my fan, tasting 
the dried palm leaf and sniffing that musty 
smell, and wondering what palm trees looked 
like when they were alive. 

Modern churchgoing is much more com- 
fortabJe and pleasant, and most ministers be- 
lieve they do not need to preach half a day to 
be impressive. The music is better too. In 
that earlier day the choir sang the same songs 
year in and year out, and although every- 
body tried to keep up, some of the singers 
always just caught up as the last chord 
sounded. 

I came on the minister of our village one 
day sawing a big tree trunk 
in half at the edge of 
the town dump. It had 
been felled and dragged 
there and left. He was saw- 
ing aslustily asany lumber- 
jack and he had a neat pile 
of trimmed branches be- 


stomach, 


It’s agreat pity that things 
weren't so arranged that 
an empty head, like an empty 
wouldn't 
owner rest until he put some- 


over the vegetables. Next we mix 2 cups 
sugar, | cup flour, 4% cup salt, 1 teaspoon 
mustard, 14 teaspoon cayenne, *4 teaspoon 
turmeric and 1 quart vinegar. The mixtures 
are combined and brought to boiling point 
and simmered about 40 minutes. This makes 
around 5 quarts. 

Another favorite corn dish of mine is corn 
oysters, They are a good quickie for supper, 
and fine for Sunday-morning breakfast. To 
make them, I use 1 cup fresh chopped or 
grated corn, 44 cup flour, 1 egg and plenty of 
salt and paprika. I beat the egg well (or beat 
yolk and white separately if I feel fancy). I 
sift the flour, salt and paprika and mix with 
corn, add the egg and cook by spoonfuls on 
a hot griddle. Bacon fat is the best thing to 
fry the corn oysters in, and strips of crisp 
bacon go well with them. They are good 
plain, with butter, with pure maple sirup or 
with homemade brown-sugar sirup. In fact, 
they are good! 


Arounp the twenty-second or twenty-third 
of September we usually get the first black 
frost. The day before, the air grows cold, and 
at dusk it is very still. The sunset has a chilly 
light about it. Suddenly the garden seems full 
of vegetables and the border full of flowers. 
George comes over to say, “ Better get ready, 
this is the night.” 

We rush out with baskets and pick fever- 
ishly as the light fades. It is always as if 
every single cucumber and tomato is out- 
doing itself. The sum- 
mer squash is thick as her- 
ring ina net. And there is 
more sweet corn too. 

I struggle with buckets 
of zinnias, with delphin- 
ium, roses. By the time the 


let its 


f tru thing in it. —OouN mitten ™Oon is up the back 
side him. There, I thought, kitchen looks like a mar- 
isamanofGod frhe;:; ———_—_—__mmmmms =6oket. Jill is still carrying 


.| aman! He looked cheerful 


and relaxed and he was no doubt meditat- 
ing on his next sermon as he laid in the fire- 
wood for the autumn nights. 

We are busy freezing corn, which is one of 
the best of all frozen vegetables. We never 
can have enough, and it is fun to do. I like to 
take the long sharp knife and rip down the 
ears, getting all the sweet kernels out on the 
cutting board. Then with the back of the 
blade I scrape the milk from the cob. Jill has 
the water boiling and plunges the fresh milky 
corn in and blanches it. We use a fine-mesh 
strainer, blanch the corn and dip it out and 
plunge it in water cooled with ice, and so to 
the box and on with the seal, and then in Jan- 
uary we have fresh sweet corn for supper. We 
do a few whole ears, too, just for fancy meals, 
although I think the flavor of the cut-off corn 
is better. The cobs tend to seem a bit rubbery. 

For timing our freezing, we use the Gov- 
ernment bulletins, and whatever unnecessary 
expense the Government goes to for many 
things, the farm bulletins are certainly worth 
their weight in dollars. The list alone of the 
subjects they cover is encyclopedic. And our 
Connecticut Farm Bureau is a wonderful aid 
too. Their bulletins cover most household ac- 
tivities as well as giving general hints to the 
farmer. ; 


WE like corn pudding for supper. To make 
it, I beat 2 eggs slightly, beat in 2 cups top 
milk, and add 14 cup sugar, 44 cup fine bread 
or cracker crumbs, salt, pepper and 3 cups 
freshly cooked corn (left over from freezing, 
usually). I mix and pour this in a buttered 
baking dish, set in a pan of water and bake in 
a moderate oven—350° F.—until the tip of a 
knife inserted in it comes out clean. Broiled 
Canadian bacon goes with this to make a 
whole supper. For dessert we may have 
fresh applesauce and cream with the coffee. 

One of the best relishes is due to corn too. 
To make this we use a dozen and a half ears 
of corn; 1 small head of cabbage, chopped; 1 
bunch of celery, chopped; 2 green peppers, 
chopped; 4 onions sliced thin. We cut the 
corn from the coband put all the vegetables 
in a kettle. Then we pour 1 quart vinegar 


burlap and wrapping 
paper out and pegging them down on rows 
of this and that. 

When we are all through we sit down and 
light the fire and feel a kind of triumph mixed 
with a deep sadness that another end has 
come into life. Ends are never pleasant. Sud- 
denly Jill bounds up again and cries despair- 
ingly, ‘‘ The window boxes!” 

Out we go again, and now the air bites as 
we stagger around with all those window 
boxes filled with white and coral geraniums 
and soft periwinkle ageratum and polished 
pink begonias. Why do we have so many win- 
dow boxes, and what, oh, what shall we do 
with them now? 

The next morning the world is as pure and 
warm again as if it were forever to be sum- 
mer. And for two or three weeks we have the 
most benign weather. If we could only by- 
pass that first frost, our New England season 
would be a third longer. 

The cool and sparkling days of late Sep- 
tember flow like golden wine into the bow! of 
autumn. I cannot have enough of each day; 
I try to measure the minutes sparingly, for 
this is the time of enchantment. The leaves 
are turning, and I wonder whether I ever saw 
them before, for the colors are a new miracle 
of blended tones. Surely this year it 1s a 
lovelier autumn; the maples have a clearer 
fire, the oaks are a richer burgundy. And the 
goldenrod—was it Thoreau who called it 
spilled sunshine? The wild asters break their 
purple waves over the old stone fences. The 
upland meadows are beautiful, a brown suf- 
fused with gold. 

When we eat by the trout stream, the rip- 
pling surface of the water is dappled with 
drifting leaves, pale gold and soft red. The 
smoke of our supper fire rises in a dreamy blue 
spiral. The woods are deep with haze, but th 
sky is almost the color of a fringed gentian. 

If anyone now asked me what happiness is, 
I should say it is a September day in New 
England. Plus a red setter the color of the 
brightest leaves, and a bevy of cocker span- 
iels in assorted shades. And especially with 
Honey reflecting all the gold there is in her 
fur and all the dark inhereyes. THE END 





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By Cynthia McAdoo 





These clothes, and others like them, 
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PHOTOGRAPHS BY McADOO-LINDSAY 





Wool jersey dress with black vel- Black wool jersey, new side fullness, 
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Beige tones in tweed, tunic-length 
coat lined with fleecy alpaca, $45. 


he aes, 


Black-and-brown tweed for town. Slim- 
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Gray flannel suit, pleated skirt, calfskin 
belt, around $35; Stanley Wyllins. 


Rayon suit looks like wool, for early 
wear, $25; Alvin Handmacher. 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


204 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL ® 


September, 1949 


EVERY SPRING 


(Continued from Page 38) 


She just kept looking at me. Then she said, 
“Don’t do it, Sally. Don’t take that date. 
Tim Carran’s not for you. Call him back and 
break it, Sally.” 

‘What goes here?” I asked. 

But she meant it. ‘‘Call him,” she insisted. 
“Tell him you broke your leg. But break 
that date, Sally!” 

Milly’s a good gal. I put my arm around 
her and started her up the stairs with me. 
“You’ve warned me,” I said, “and what 
happens from now on is my headache. But 
thanks.” 

There was a bridge game going on in the 
hall, and Milly stepped inside my door. 
““You’re so young!” she cried. “‘You don’t 
know anything!” 

“T can handle it,” I said. 


The thing that gets me now is that I really 
thought I could. I was just that dumb. 


Then she went on down the hall to her 
room. I sat down by the window. I put my 
legs over the arm of the chair and sat for a 
long time looking out the window. The sun 
was hot through the glass, and it glinted on 
the river at the foot of the long slope of the 
yard. The grass was turning green in the 
open places, and I saw a robin under the 
forsythia pulling hard on one end of a long 
worm. 

There was a kid over past the Beta house 
with a kite. He was lying flat on his belly 
looking up at the sky where the kite was 
sailing free in the March wind. 


You must believe me, Ann, for maybe this 
was all a part of what happened later. Sud- 
denly it was all blotted out. It vanished. It was 
gone. And I saw Tim Carran as I had seen 
him that morning. Not a memory, Ann, but he 
was there, looking at me, living and breathing 
and warm. I saw his flung-back head, and his 
curling lips, and the steady, gray insincerity of 
his eyes. I don’t want that to happen to me again, 
Ann. 


When I came downstairs that night, he 
was standing off to himself, solitary and 
aloof. The Dekes don’t date much at the 
Alpha house, and he was standing alone with 
his back to the living room, staring at the 
scholarship cup over the mantel. His crew 
cut couldn’t stop his hair from curling over 
the back of his head. I wondered how it 





JENNIFER 


would feel to your hand, rubbing it backward 
the wrong way. 

I came up behind him and he spoke with- 
out turning around. “I know so few intelli- 
gent women,” he said. Then he turned and 
grinned at me. ‘‘ What a treat,’”’ he added. 

I felt myself getting red as I had in Soc 
class that morning. “As you well know,” I 
said, nodding toward the scholarship cup, 
“T was no help,” 

He kept on looking at me. “Stop me if 
you've heard this one before,” heobserved ob- 
jectively, “but I love you when you blush.” 

“I’m awfully easy to tease,” I said. 
“You're taking a mean advantage of me. I 
don’t know any of the answers.” 

“Gee, I’m going to have fun.” 

We went out to his car. The top was down, 
and after he helped me in he adjusted the 
side glass. Then he got in on his side, put the 
key in the ignition, and turned and put his 
arm around me. 

“My first spring date,” he said. He held me 
up against him for a minute, and then started 
the car and we slid out into the driveway and 
the traffic of Fraternity Row. 

The night air spun by as we went across 
the levee, and the smell of the river came 
up strong, fresh from the water. We turned 
out the river road toward the dance place, 
and the dark met over our heads in the 
branches of the trees and whistled in the 
chilly wind. 

When I think of that night now, that noise 
comes back into my ears, and I smell the 
smell of the river again, half sickish, half 
sweet. The wind creeps up the back of my 
neck into my hair and sends a tingling over 
my head. I don’t know anything we talked 
about. I only know how it felt to dance with 
him, how it felt to ride in the dark with his 
arm around me. 

Before he left, and while we sat in front of 
the house and watched the kids come in from 
their dates, he reached over with his big, 
long-fingered hand, and turned my face to- 
ward him, cupping my chin in his palm. 

“Do you like my Soc course, Sally?” he 
asked, just looking at me, not smiling, not 
kidding. 

“T like your Soc course, Tim,”’ I said. 

“Two o’clock tomorrow, then.” 

“Oh, no,” I said, “I can’t. I have lab all 
afternoon.” 

“You'll cut it for me.” 

(Continued on Pase 207) 


“Cute, cute, cute—who wants to look cute at 
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September, 1949 


s 





— 


—— 





' ue 


‘Mrs. Cooper and the 
“Jiris got mad, and 


(Continued from Page 204) 

“Tcan’t. I’m just barely passing the course. 
I can’t cut it for you, Tim.” 

“T’m asking you.” 

I shook my head, and I was trembling in- 
side, for this could be the end. ‘‘I’m one of 
tH terrible gals with a conscience, Tim.” 
‘For a moment I thought he was going to 
open the door and push me out. I didn’t know 
he had such anger in him. But I kept on 
looking at him, not brave, but frightened 
and stubborn in my resolve. Then he laughed. 
He grabbed me and rocked me back and 
forth in a sort of bear hug. 

“Okay,” he cried, “you win, Sally! I’ll 
take you, conscience and all!” 


You'll think I’m crazy, but I thought I was 
smart, then, when he said that. I thought I 
knew the way to handle him. I thought I under- 
stood. There isn’t a single girl in the house that 
could be that dumb but me. 


After that I saw him almost every day. 
Sometimes for only a minute, and sometimes 
we spent the whole day and half the night 
together. It never seemed to matter to him 
whether he went to classes at all. If I didn’t 
have classes and he did, he just didn’t go. 
He’d meet me, sometimes, unexpectedly on 
corners when I wasn’t 
looking for him, and 
then my heart would 
pound and the color 
would come up into 
my face, and he’d 
tease me about it. 
Sometimes it would 
be a formal date, and 
I’d dress up in hose 
and heels and wear a 
hat and gloves, and 
we'd go out and do 
the town in style. He 
called me at all sorts 
of crazy hours, until 


bend— 


they bawled me out 
in sorority meeting. 
He’d go off on drink- 
ing parties with the 
men from his house, 
and send me tele- 
grams that didn’t 
make sense. He sent 
me flowers, every- 
thing from a bunch of dandelions in a shoe 
box, delivered by a freshman, to a lei of 
orchids he ordered from Hawaii. 

Sometimes we’d rent bicycles and ride out 
the river road, and sit on a bank we knew by 
a huge sycamore tree, and watch the muddy 
river slipping by, and talk. Just talk, about 
anything and nothing. Dreams, and what we 
did when we were kids, and the Kinsey re- 
port, and whether Hitler were still alive, and 
what we liked to eat, and whether people 
were naturally good or bad. 

It wasn’t significant, and it wasn’t intel- 
lectual, and a lot of it didn’t even make sense. 
But I keep going over it in the night, and 
wondering if I can find the answer in any- 
thing we said. 

Tim never drank when he was with me. 
Nothing but a glass of beer. Once we went out 
to Cap Moran’s, late. Tim was restless and 
moody, and we sat a long time and didn’t 
talk. When the waitress came he ordered 
bourbon and water for us, and then sat and 
drummed on the table till the drinks came. 
He poured the whisky over the ice and picked 
up the glass, quick. Then, suddenly, he set 
it down. 


sorrow! 


I was pouring my whisky in, and he said, 
“Put that down, Sally.” I looked up, aston- 
ished, and he was frowning that ugly frown 
ain. I met his eyes, half frightened, half 
Die sed. “That’s not right for us, Sally. 
Maybe for some, but not for you and me.” 
He motioned for the waitress to bring the bill, 
said to her, “Drink it yourself, sister,” and 
we left. 
We got in the car, and after we had driven 
around for a while he began to sing. It was 
some crazy song they ound the campus 
and you hum most of the words. I sang, too, 


sing ar 


a, a T- 
Ads ice to TFwenty--Fwo 
By May Carleton Lord 


Past the marsh and around the 


Oh, yonder slope’s the steep one! 
Never say you've lost a friend; 
A broken heart is quick to mend, 
And the quiet lad’s a deep one. 


Up the hill and down the hill— 
Oh, the young are prone to 


Of locust honey take your fill; 
Love’s a cup brimmed up to spill, 
And joy comes with the morrow. 


207 


and it was fun to sing together. We sang all 
the way to the Alpha house. 
He took me up to the door, and stood look- 
ing at me soberly for a minute. ‘Good night, 
Sally,” he said; “stay good.” 


The night of the Alpha spring) formal he 
didn’t come. It was the one big dance of the 
year that our sorority gives, and we’d worked 
hard to make it a success. It meant a lot to 
us. I got dressed—I had a pale green taffeta 
job that the gals had swooned over—and sat 
around till ten. Then I called the Deke house 
and he wasn’t there. So I went upstairs and 
undressed and went to bed. I guess I must 
have been crazy, but it never occurred to me 
to be mad. If Tim didn’t want to go it was 
all right with me. I didn’t want to go either. 
He’d explain to me when I saw him. It doesn’t 
make sense, I know, but that’s the way I felt 
then. 

I didn’t see him till Monday after Soc class. 
He picked me up in his car and drove out 
along the river, and we got out and sat on 
the grass by the big sycamore. Tim was silent, 
moody and far away, watching the muddy 
river lift and fall with the current, lighting 
one cigarette from the stub of another. 

After a while he said, “‘ You mad, Sally?” 

“No,” I said, ‘‘no, Tim. I’m not mad.” 

“You ought to be. 
Val—most girls would 
be.” 

“That’s all right,” 
I said. “Let’s not talk 
about it, Tim. It’s 
over and done.” 

He put his arms 
around me, and kissed 
me, quick and light. 
“You’re not going to 
ask me one single 
question, Sally?” 

“Not a single one, 
airase 

“T ought to feel like 
a dog,” he said, “‘but 
I don’t, Sally. You’re 
so sweet you make 
even me feel good and 
worth while. I wish 
I’d never met you!” 

And all this time 
spring was coming. 
After the tight green 
buds a misty curtain 
came down over the 
shrubs by the river. The forsythia bloomed, 
and the air was sweet with wild plum. At 
night the peepers sang in the puddles along 
the shore of the river, and there was a night 
bird that called, in one of the trees outside 
my window. I’d wake in the pale hours be- 
fore dawn and listen while the notes went 
on and on, until the prickles came up along 
the edges of my hair and the tears smarted 
in my eyes. 


Maybe I should have known that things like 
that aren’t real. Maybe I should have guessed by 
that how it would end. It was time then, Ann, 
to start thinking how I could take it. 


One evening just before dinner, three or 
four of us were sitting on the sun deck wait- 
ing for the gong. There weren’t any dates in 
the house, and it was still except for a radio 
going on second. The sun was setting and the 
April air was warm on our shoulders. Joyce 
Carr was filing her nails, and suddenly she 
put the file down. 

“T’ye been meaning to tell you, Sally,” 
she said, ‘“‘but I keep forgetting. You know 
what one of the Omegas told me today? She 
said Tim Carran had a date with Val Mercer 
the night of our formal. She said that Val 
has had his pin since before Christmas. He 
was dating her before he started dating you, 
and he’s never asked for it back.” 

I didn’t say anything for a minute. The 
wind picked up from the river, and I shiv- 
ered a little. I felt sort of sick. It came to me 
that Tim had never mentioned a pin. But be- 
fore I had to answer Milly was speaking. 

“So what, Joyce?” she asked. “Every- 
body knows about Val Mercer.” 

“That’s what I mean,” Joyce returned. 
“That’s the competition you’ve got to meet. 





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Maybe you’d better get on the ball, Shaff- 
ner. 

When Tim came I didn’t want to talk. We 
drove out to Cap Moran’s and sat in a booth. 
Tim sat up close and pretty soon he put his 
arm around me and held me up against him. 
The tight knot inside me began to go away. 
Tim reached over and put a nickel in the slot 
and the juke box began. 

“Want to dance?” he asked. 

“Not now,” I said. “Tim, I hear you're 
pinned to Val Mercer.” 

“Is that where my pin is!” he exclaimed. 
“T’ve been wondering. You want it, Sally? 
I’ll get it for you if you do.” 

“TI wouldn’t want it that way, Tim.” 

He laughed. ‘‘ Take it or leave it,” he said 
lightly. He took my hand and we got up and 
danced. But theoldright feeling wasn’t there. 
There was something holding us apart that 
wouldn’t go away. 

“Hold me tight, Tim,”’ I said. 

He pulled me close for a minute, and then 
pushed me back and held me there, looking 
into my face. ‘‘I wish you’d tell me to get 
completely away.” 

After a while we stopped dancing and went 
out and got into the car. We drove along the 
river road and parked and turned off the 
lights of the car. Tim started to put his arms 
around me, but I pushed him away. 

“What are you really like, Tim? Inside, 
I mean.” 

He took out a pack of cigarettes, lighted 
one. The match spurted up, and I saw his 
face grave, his eyes low- 
ered to the red tip of his 
cigarette. “* Are yousure 
you want me to answer 
that question, Sally?” The 

“Probably not. But fs 
maybe I 
know.” 

“T heard of a gal 
named Pandora once,” 
Tim said lightly. 
““Why don’t you take 
it as it comes? Spring, 
and the female and 
the male. Isn’t that 
enough for you?’’ 

I didn’t answer him. I wondered what I 
ought to say. 

““Maybe I don’t know much about nice 
girls,” he said at last. 

**Do you like them, Tim?” 

He flipped his cigarette out and I watched 
it arch into the bushes. “‘Sometimes,’’ he said 
harshly. 

He started the motor and sent the car 
screaming down the road. All the way to 
town he held the accelerator flat to the floor. 
We were late, and I saw Mrs. Cooper stand- 
ing at the door, hurrying the girls in. Tim 
walked up to the porch with me silently, but 
he stopped at the steps. 

“Good night, Tim,” I said. 

‘Good night, Pandora.’’ He walked away. 
He didn’t kiss me good night. 

I didn’t hear from him all week. He didn’t 
come to Soc class and I never saw him in the 
Sweet Shop. Friday was the Junior Prom. 
I wondered if my date with him was going 
to mean anything. Milly came in one night. 
I was studying for a quiz, but she sat down. 

‘“‘There’s a guy over at the Beta house 
been wanting a date with you all spring, 
Sally,’’ she said. “‘ What about fixing you up 
for tomorrow night?” 


ought to 


“Loox,” I said, “I’m busy this week, and 
I’m going to the prom with Tim, as you 
know. Everything’s all right, Milly.” 

“He hasn’t called this week.” 

For a minute I saw red. But you can’t be 
mad at Milly. “‘Everything is under con- 
trol,” I said. “‘He’ll call.” 

He finally called Thursday. 

“T’ve been busy, Sally,’’ he said. 

“T’ve been busy too, Tim.” 

“Nine o’clock tomorrow night all right 
with you?” 

“T’ll be ready.” 

“T’ll see you then.” 

That was all. He hung up, and I went back 
upstairs and lay flat on my back on my bed, 
staring blankly at the ceiling, uneasy and un- 
happy, but not knowing why. 


OU CRETE Sa 
1271 A.D. 


world is passing through 

troublous times. The young 
people of today think of nothing but 
themselves. They have no reverence 
for parents or old age. They are 
impatient of all restraints. They talk 
as if they alone knew everything. . . . 
As for girls, they are forward, im- 
modest and unwomanly in speech, 
behavior and dress. 


September, 1949 


He was late Friday night, but I wasn’t 
ready. Somehow I didn’t feel like dressing up. 
Everybody else was gone, and when I got 
downstairs he was standing alone out on the 
terrace with his back to the house. The door 
slammed behind me, and he whirled around. 

‘Where have you been?” heasked sharply. 

“Where have you been all week?” 

“T like you better when you don’t ask 
questions, Sally.”’ 

He took hold of my arm roughly, and we 
went through the house and out to the car. 
We drove to the Union, found a parking 
place, and went in with the crowd. We 
danced awhile, stiffly, like strangers, and 
then as the music went on and on, he held 
me closer and closer, and we moved with our 
steps and our bodies together, 


“Im sorry, Sally,”’ he said after a while. 

“That’s all right, Tim.” 

“You're pretty beautiful, you know.” 

“It’s a new dress.” 

After a while he said, “‘I didn’t mean 
that.” 

About midnight the crowd thickened up 
and you couldn’t do anything but get into 
the push and move with it. It wasn’t much 
fun dancing then, but we kept at it, not talk- 
ing, just moving acquiescently with the 
crowd. 

We were dancing close to the bandstand 
and the music was blaring loud in my ears, 
Suddenly I felt Tim stiffen. I glanced back 
over my shoulder and I saw Val Mercer 
was there, dancing with 
that Phi Psi who is 
president of Student 
Union. She was looking 
at Tim and laughing, 
her green eyes nar- 
rowed, her nose wrin- 
kled up. The crowd 
hemmed us in against 
the bandstand and for 
a moment we couldn't 
move. Then Tim turn- 
ed me around. He drop- 


ped his hand from my . 


shoulder and pulled my 
arm through his. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. 

We got our coats and pushed our way 
through the crowd and found the car. 
We made a circle through the campus 
drive, and then Tim turned out the river 
road. 

After the noise and the crowd, the wind 
made a thin humming in my ears. My hair 
blew back, and I lifted my face and let the 
wind wash over it. Tim slowed the car, and 
we went down the rough lane and stopped 
at the edge of the water. 

He opened the door of the car and helped 
me out, and we went over to the sloping grass 
by the side of the sycamore tree. He took off 
his topcoat and spread it out and we sat 
down on it. We sat there for a long time and 
the silence closed in around us. My ears felt 
empty, and I could feel my heart beating, 
slow and heavy inside. ; 

Tim lighted a cigarette. I watched the tip 
dim and glow in the dark. Then he flipped it 
away, and it arched up and down, glowing 
red in the dark. He put his arms around me 
and we lay back on the grass together. He 
kissed me gently like a child, and moved my 
head onto his shoulder, and we lay there in 
the dark a long time in silence. A bird stirred 
on a branch and the river lapped softly along 
the shore. There was soft movement and 
rustling in the bushes, and once a dog barked, 
sharp and far away. 


If there had been more than that, I would tell 
you, Ann. But that was all. 


Presently Tim turned. He put his mouth 
against mine and spoke against my lips. “I’m 
tired, Sally,” he said simply, and suddenly he 
was asleep, breathing softly and evenly asa 
child against my cheek. 

I heard the dog bark once, plaintive and 
shrill. A peeper began to sing, and it blended 
into the lapping of the river and the move- 
ment of the wind in the branches. When I 
opened my eyes it was gray daylight. A heavy 
mist lay along the river. For a moment I 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 209 


didn’t know where I was. Then I felt Tim 
stirring, and he sat up suddenly. - 

He got to his feet and he pulled me up after ( P 
him. He looked at his wrist watch. Q) Slab th l S 

“Four-thirty,” he said. ‘Can you get in?”’ 

“The door on the porch will be unlocked.”’ 
4 He helped me into the car, and we drove Vour d ream 

ack to town through the heavy mist, with aa aes 
the roosters crowing in every farmyard. I 
fixed my face and combed my hair and shook 2 O 
out the wrinkles in my wrap as best I could. Oo f a tow el 4 
I was shaking with cold, and I felt as‘if I 
should never be warm again. 

It was almost daylight when we got to the 
house. We left the car out in the street and ; 5 ; 
slipped up the drive and around to the back of the new Martex decorator colors inspired 
of the house. There was a French door un- by horizon tints). That heavenly design— 
locked, and there was no sound in the house. A , F 

Tim bent over and kissed me quickly on : : : 
the lips. ““Good-by, Sally.” He turned and you've hoped for, dreamed about. So 
started away, but suddenly I couldn’t bear to luxurious. Yet, so practical, for the 
eet go. I ran after him and caught his Martex label always means extra 

“You'll call me, won’t you, Tim?” I cried. absorbency, extra long wear 

He didn’t look at me. “‘I’ll call you.” 

I slipped into the house and up the stairs. 
Nobody heard me, and I got into my room Paes 
and shut the door. I got undressed and put beautiful for years. 
on a robe. It was daylight now, and there 
was a rim of yellow light behind the trees 
along the shore. I pulled a chair around to 
face the window and sat a long time watching Tris”? in Cardinal. Just 
the daylight spread. After a while the bird one of the many new 
began to sing. I jumped up and got into bed Martex designs and 
and pulled the covers over my ears. colors at better 


Tuat wonderful, wonderful new red (just one 


and deep, soft texture. It’s the towel 





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F ; stores every- 
He didn’t call me all day. I tried to study where. Bath size— 
and I tried to play a little bridge, but it about $2. 


wasn’t any good. About eight in the evening 
| I decided to call his house. It was a long time 
before I could get a call through, and when 
I did I recognized the voice of Tim’s room- 
mate on the phone. 

“ Joe,” I said, “this is Sally. Where’s Tim?” 

There was silence on the line for a minute, 
| and then Joe said, in a muffled sort of voice, 
“‘He’s not here, Sally.” 

“Where is he, Joe?”’ 

“T don’t know, Sally.”” He waited a min- 
ute. “‘He never came in after the dance.” 

“Ts he tight?’’ I insisted. 

“Could be,’’ he said. 

I got up just before dinner on Sunday and 
dressed and went down into the hall. Some 
of the girls were coming back from church, 
and there were a few dates in the parlor. 
Milly and some of the girls from third were | 
standing by the dining-room door, gathered 
in a knot, talking fast. When I came over 
they stopped, but they all turned and kept 
looking at me. Suddenly my heart came up 
into my throat and I turned cold all over. 
Somehow I knew that something was com- 
ing. But I managed to look at them and 
laugh. 

““What’s all the excitement?” I asked, and 
I hoped my voice sounded the way I wanted 
it to. 

Joyce Carr looked at me straight. “I guess 
you’d better hear it, Shaffner.” 

“All right,” I took hold of the back of the 
chair and held it tight and waited. 

“Tim Carran and Val Mercer went down 
to Kentucky and got married yesterday.” 

The chair Milly was sitting on suddenly 
went over. The girls jumped and picked her 
up and dusted her off, and I got hold of my- 
self and got the choke out of my throat. 


“Who told you that, Joyce?” I asked | 
finally. ae 


“The Omegas. Val called them from Cin- a As *4er po WEAR LONGER 
New | cinnati. And Tim called Joe. They aren't . 
fash- | coming back to school, and will that play|**"""""""** 

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SW as soeeanete OE ee de nice COMES B11 CLETY night. “‘Take a date, Sally, e ee , 5 
ae Hie oe et pit with | she says. But I don’t want a date. I don’t want » - => \ 

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high! Black, grey, brown oF | gj71 who makes a fool of herself. Well, I don’t 

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210 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL September, 1949 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL ; 211 





This child has never had syphilis. With proper prenatal care, even the 
child who inherits syphilis could have been born healthy and strong. 


» — Facts You Should know 
About Syphilis 


By DR. HERMAN N. BUNDESEN 


President, Chicago Board of Health 


HE fact that I can write frankly’to I say this because I have known of doctors 
American women about syphilis is an who contracted the disease accidentally 
encouraging sign that our nation is_ when caring for patients with syphilis. I 
growing up. When I first became Com- believe there may even be cases on record 
missioner of Health, only twenty-five years in which the infection has been traced to a 
ago, magazines couldn’t print information — public drinking cup, or toilet; or it may be 
about venereal disease, because far too passed from person to person by kissing, 
many readers would be offended. Our abil- when there are sores on the lips or in the 
ity to discuss these subjects publicly today mouth. But authenticated instances of this : meets 
represents in itself a great victory inthe war kind are few and far between. Copyright 1949, Kenwood Mills 





against disease; so long as discussion was In the great majority of cases, infec- 

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The facts about syphilis, deadliest of the 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Jeepers Creepers, Shirts and Sleepers! 
What a Sight for Little Peepers! 
Leaves a-rustle! Fall's on hand! 
Hustle! Join our Happy ‘‘Band"'! 


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moral and social implications that make it 
so difficult to handle as a public-health pro- 
gram. To eliminate any communicable dis- 
ease, we must establish a practical case- 
finding and case-holding system. In the con- 
trol of venereal diseases, this means we must 
have a system for following up each new case 
to identify the person or “contact” responsi- 
ble for the infection; then we must find the 
person and make certain treatment is under- 
taken. Obviously this case finding is made 
difficult when fear of social consequences or 
moral condemnation causes patients to con- 
ceal rather than tell the names of their con- 
tacts. Doctors who emphasize the necessity 
of treating venereal disease as a medical 
rather than a moral problem are not trying 
to break down the moral barriers society 
has built against sexual promiscuity; they 
are simply concentrating on the elimina- 
tion of disease—a goal that can be accom- 
plished only by treating the venereal diseases 
exactly like any other communicable infection. 

The first symptom of syphilis is a sore at 
the site of infection—usually in the genital 
area—followed by swelling of lymph glands 
in this region. These symptoms may be quite 
mild; in fact, they often go entirely un- 
noticed, In any event, the sores eventually 
heal whether they are treated or not. Then 
syphilis goes “‘underground.’’ Unseen and 
unfelt, the spirochetes begin their damaging 
attack on distant parts of the body. In this 
latent period the disease can be detected 
only by serologic tests of the blood. 


It’s this way with children. It’s 
cumulative. The more you love 
them, the more you sacrifice: and 
the more you sacrifice, the more you 
— WILLIAM GRAHAM SUMNER; 
Reminiscences of William Graham 
Sumner, by A. G. Keller 

(Yale University Press) 


love. 


Weeks or months later, a new set of symp- 
toms develops. A red eruption appears on the 
body; occasionally, serious sores emerge. 
Patches of hair may fall out; fever, general 
malaise and jaundice are common; and there 
may also be inflammation of the eyes, mouth 
and joints. Even at this secondary stage, how- 
ever, there is usually little actual destruction 
of the body tissues, and early treatment is 
likely to result in complete recovery. Even- 
tually the secondary symptoms, like the early 
sores, disappear without treatment, and the 
disease goes underground again. 

In the later phases that follow now, the 
spirochetes attack on all fronts. The heart 
and other organs may become involved; the 
nervous system and brain are frequently im- 
paired. Until a short time ago, patients with 
late syphilis of the brain or nervous system 
were doomed to hopeless invalidism and early 
death, sometimes after losing all resemblance 
to human beings. 

One of the most pitiful and tragic effects of 
syphilis, from the feminine standpoint, is that 
afflicted mothers used to pass it on to their 
unborn babies. Quite often such mothers 
miscarried, or their babies were born dead if 
they arrived at full term. In years past phy- 
sicians saw many such cases, where an inno- 
cent wife was doomed to lose a greatly de- 
sired baby because of some early misstep on 
the part of her husband. 

If the baby lived, the consequences used 
to be even more tragic, for syphilitic infants 
often were born blind or crippled or with 
minds or nervous systems affected by the 
disease. 

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babies are high among the beneficiaries of the 
recently developed treatment for syphilis, 
which combines artificially induced fever, 
the drug penicillin and other medications. 
Using these techniques, doctors have arrested 
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and, while full recovery is not achieved when 
the disease has progressed this far, many 
patients have shown improvement. 

The discovery of penicillin, as a matter of 
fact, has now greatly simplified the treat- 
ment of syphilis at all stages. Previous meth- 
ods of treatment required weekly injections 


September, 1949 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


over periods ranging up to a year and more. 
This routine was so drawn out and tedious 
that most patients stopped going to the doc- 
tor or clinic long before the treatment was 
finished, thus becoming sure victims of later 
disease and, worse yet, possibly infecting 
others as well. It was one of the most dis- 
couraging situations in the whole field of 
public health. 

With the advent of penicillin, this problem 
has practically disappeared. Early syphilis in 
most cases can be treated successfully in a 
period of about ten days. Only those who 
neglect the disease until too late, or the com- 
paratively small number whose disease does 
not respond to penicillin, have to continue 
treatment over a long period. The percent- 
age of completed cures is naturally very 
much higher than it was before. 

Thanks to the new methods, the pitiful 
slaughter of unborn babes, and the maiming 
and suffering of those with syphilis who man- 
age to come into the world alive, can now be 
stopped altogether. At our prenatal syphilis 
clinics in Chicago, where expectant mothers 
with the disease are treated free of charge, 
we have seen this miracle happen time and 
time again. In ninety-nine cases out of one 
hundred, the mothers are cured and the 
babies are born strong and healthy. This has 
happened when treatment was started as 
late as the sixth month of pregnancy, though 
naturally the sooner it is begun the better. 

Nevertheless, we follow the infants for 
several years, checking them frequently so 
that if any latent signs of the disease should 
appear, they can be dealt with at once. 

Plainly, the means of eliminating syphilis 
as a public-health problem is at hand, if we 
could only make certain that every person 
with syphilis is found and treated. In this 
great educational effort women can play an 
important part, by encouraging discussion 
of the subject and by supporting the move- 
ment to make blood tests for syphilis a part 
of all employment, marriage, prenatal and 
other routine physical examinations. 


I GO TO TRADE SCHOOL 


(Continued from Page 48) 


history when it’s about the labor unions or 
the landings in the Pacific or something that 
means something in his life—but if he hadn’t 
come to trade school, he’d have been bored 
stiff with a lot of classical literature and lan- 


.| guages and flunked out. Who’s to say what 
‘| book learning counts in terms of over-all in- 


telligence in our world today? Who would 
you rather have handling your car—the man 
who knows seventeen reasons for the indus- 
trial revolution, or the man who can fix it if 
something goes wrong? Who would you 
rather have fighting a war for you?”’ 

There is an old story about a man who ap- 
plied to a school for a job as janitor. His ref- 
erences were excellent and his talents were 
many, but, when it came time for him to fill 
in a formal application, it was discovered 
that he signed his name with only an X. He 
could neither read nor write. After some de- 
liberation the school officials decided that it 
would nét do to have an illiterate working 
for them, and they regretfully turned him 
away. 

Some years later, the same school board 
was in the market for a new building. After 
reviewing several estimates, they picked a 
contractor well known for the soundness of 
his work. However, when they met to draw 
up the final papers, they discovered that he 
had an assistant to read and write all his pa- 
pers for him. 

““Tmagine,” said the president of the board 
of education musingly, “imagine where you 
would be today if you yourself learned to 
read and write.” 

“T don’t have to imagine,” said the con- 
tractor dryly. ‘“‘I’d be the janitor of your 
school instead of the builder. Don’t you re- 
member me?” ‘ 

It has long been our custom to measure in- 
telligence in terms of reading and writing. 
Although we have developed many psycho- 
logical tests for ability, interest, manual 
dexterity and maturity, the large bulk of our 


213 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


schools and our teachers use the Intelligence 
Quotient test as the primary key to a stu- 
dent’s intelligence —and the I.Q. test is based 
on word knowledge. Even the social stand- 
ing of adults is today reckoned in large part 
on the amount of culture they pluck from 
books. 

There are, however, thousands upon thou- 
sands of children who are not interested in 
words. Some of them think with their hands 
Others are more interested in machines than 
in books. Some prefer the strange symbols of 
the physicist and the scientist to the sym- 
bols of the man of letters. Many of these pre- 
fer their stories to come from the life they see 
about them—not from the lives of the dead 
and gone. Yet, in most states, our children 
are compelled by law to go to school until 
they are seventeen—-in some states eighteen 
is the age limit—and in the great majority of 
schools book learning is still the measure of 
education. 

But there are about six times as many 
mechanical jobs to be filled as there are pro- 


— 


. 


September, 1949 | 
: « 


should too. Sometimes his lack of interest in 
books and theoretical knowledge and vicari- 


ous experience is the chief pressure on him to ~ 


get out and live life—not just read about it. 
But whatever the cause, the trade-school boy 


is preparing for early self-sufficiency, often is i 
partially self-supporting already, and is, as © 


a result, a different psychological unit 

the youngster who has at least a i 
being taken care of, taught and given a rea- 
sonable amount of shelter and protection for 
another two, three or four years after high 
school, 


Ir the trade-school boy were equally ma- 
ture intellectually, the school’s problem 
would be considerably simpler. As it is, his 
mind, while conversant with knowledge in 
advance of his years in terms of his life, re- 
mains that of a child’s when it comes to book 
knowledge. And books are the backbone of 
our schools—even our trade schools. In all 
schools, the teacher acts as a connecting link 
between the book and the student. The more 


fessional jobs—jobs in 
which being able to do 
something about a situ- 
ation is far more im- 


| portant than knowing 


theoretically about it. 
Without the mechanic, 
the repairman, the man 
who runs the printing 
press, who fixes the 
electrical apparatus 
when it goes wrong, our 
society, be it ever so 
intelligent verbally, 
would be in a pretty 
pickle indeed, 

Thus it was, in 1917, 
that the Federal Gov- 
ernment declared vo- 
cational education to 
be ‘‘in the national wel- 
fare’’ and began the 
subsidies which today 
give vocational classes 
a part of their financial 
support. Starting with 
one or two trade schools 
in the early nineteen 


hundreds, therearenow 


an estimated 225 trade 
schools, and almost 3,- 
000,000 students tak- 
ing vocational courses. 
Academic high schools 
are designed as college- 
preparatory courses 

despite the fact that 
only two out of each 
ten‘seniors will go on 


At an unknown time previous to 


4 1762. Samuel and his brother 
Elisha appeared in Canaan. In 1770 
Samuel built a house on the Black- 
berry River near the modern Samuel 
Forbes Bridge on the Lower Road to 
Fast Canaan. At an unknown time, 
possibly before he built his house, he 
became smitten of Luey, daughter 
of Amos Pierce, a young lady who is 
said to have been his equal in physi- 
ognomy, physique and strength of 
will. On one point they seem to have 
agreed from the start: the desirabil- 
ity of getting married. Since Papa 
Pierce held a different view, an clope- 
ment was arranged, and the two coy 
titans rode off on the same unhappy 
horse into New York State, where 
they were duly hitched. On return- 
ing to the homestead, Samuel 
pitched a rope over his new barn. 
“Now. my sweet.’ said he. “do you 
draw on your end and I will draw 
on mine, and whichever draws the 
other over the roof is to rule this 
roost.”” They both pulled with no 
effect 
Samuel, 


“Now my sweet.” proposed 
“do you come around on 
this side, and let us draw together.” 
The sweet Lucy complied, and to- 
gether they pulled the rope over the 
barn. “Let that be the way this 
house will be run.” quoth Samuel. 
—CHARD POWERS SMITH: 
The Housatonic, Puritan River. 


Copyright, 1946, by Chard Powers Smith 
(Rinehart & Compony, Inc.), 


literate the pupil, the 
less need there is for 
the teacher. In some 
colleges, for instance, 
advanced subjects are 
learned by studying 
and reading alone— 
and the teacher acts 
only as an examiner. 
In trade schools, how- 
ever, the pupil is 
quite dependent on his 
teacher; in the main, 
his books mean rela- 
tively little to him, ex- 
cept as references he 
can use. In an academic 
high school, the teacher 
is largely concerned 
with bringing a whole 
class to a certain point 
of knowledge outlined 
for him by scholastic 
standards. In a trade 
school, the teach@}s 
purpose is somewhat 
different, for he is not 
turning out potential 
college freshmen—he is 
putting the finishing 
touches on boys and 
girls whose only edu- 
cation thereafter is 
likely to be in the hard 
but haphazard school 
of experience. His aim 
must be to meet the in- 
dividual needs of each 
student. In the shop 


to college. The trade schools are not. They 


| are designed as terminal schools—finishing 


schools—where knowledge of the three R’s is 
important, but where the chief emphasis is in 
learning a marketable skill. 

In a typical trade school, there is a six- 
hour study day (one hour more of classes 
than the usual high school). Half the day is 
devoted to shopwork in the chosen trade, 
the other half to English, science, social 
studies, history and mathematics. No foreign 
languages are taught—unless you count the 
various lingoes of each trade. It is the aim of 
such a school to turn out a teen-ager who can 
land on his own feet economically, who is 
equipped to handle his world and understand 
that of others, and who has a healthy interest 
in doing a job well. 


To see what makes a trade school success- 
ful and satisfying, the JOURNAL went to the 
schools themselves, and talked to the teach- 
ers, the administrators, and most of all, to 
the pupils themselves. 

As the principal of one trade school noted, 
the average trade-school student is of a 
somewhat different breed in the main than 
his academic brother, especially when the 
latter is planning to go on to college. The 
chief difference between them is that the 
trade-school boy is likely to be more mature 
socially. Maybe his family pushes him from 
the nest to try his own wings because it can’t 
afford to take care of him. Perhaps his par- 
ents started to work young and think he 


courses in trade schools, the teacher usu- 
ally achieves this aim—and the stuaent 
proceeds on individual performance. But 
in a great many of the three-R courses, 
there is an academic hang-over. Because 
most trade schools are governed by boards of 
education primarily interested in scholars, 
too many are handicapped by inappropriate 
rules, regulations and red tape. Under such 
conditions, the school then goes by fits and 
starts, treating its students half the day like 
young adults—and the other half like chil- 
dren who must mimic the classical scholar in 
order to succeed. “It’s almost like they 
thought it helped a guy to be a plumber if he 
knows who Hamlet is,” one boy said. 

To see how this works out in terms of an 
actual school, let us take a look at two trade 
schools sharply different in atmosphere. 
Both are big-city schools, incorporated in 
large public-school systems. 

Trade School A, however, has two handi- 
caps—from a teaching point of view. The 
first is that it must take all eighth-grade 
graduates who apply for entrance. Many of 
these (though not all) are boys and girls who 
have not done well in their academic any 
But because of the rules of the city, 
were passed along from grade to grade 
whether they had learned anything of the 
subjects they were taught or not. When they 
arrived at the trade school, they were four- 
teen or fifteen, and compelled to go to school 
by law until they were sixteen and could get 
a job, or seventeen if they cotild not. The 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


boys, talking about this, were candid. “If I’d 
stuck where I was I’d ’a’ flunked out, sure.” 
“I came here because the subjects were eas- 
ier.’”’ “Aw, who cares about a lot of history? I 
want something I can grab onto.”’ The teach- 
ers were bitter. ‘‘People think trade schools 
are dumping grounds for dummies.” ‘‘ Don’t 
these kids understand that they need mental 
exercise just as they do physical exercise?”’ 
“Talents constellate—a boy who’s dumb in 
English will be dumb in mechanics too.” 

The academic teachers, however, had no 
choice in the fact that they were at trade 
school either. That was School A’s second 
big handicap. In the city system governing 
them, they went where they were appointed, 
and after they had served their two-year pro- 
bation they couldn’t be fired. Although they 
might have dreamed once of inspiring poets 
and writers, the English teachers were now 
occupied with teaching traditional literature 
to a group chiefly composed of students who 
said they only wanted to get through the 
course, and that if they found a little enter- 
tainment on the way—“ what a break.” “It’s 
not like the teaching you usually think 
about,’ the history teacher said. ‘‘I like these 
children. They’re lively and good-humored. 
But they just aren’t interested in poetry and 
drama and the classics. And when I try to 
make them pay attention they just grin at 
me and think about something else.”’ 


Tue shop teachers were, of course, better 
off. They were trained to teach shopwork 
and they considered themselves fortunate to 
be in shops where the boys took their work 
seriously—not in high schools where shops 
were for the making of Christmas presents. 

The academic teachers suffered. Some of 
them, the women particularly, acted as if 
they were afraid of their students. They 
shouted at them as if they thought that 
otherwise their classes might get out of hand. 
The kids sensed it. ““Oh, don’t mind her,” 
one boy said of a sharp-tongued teacher. 
“She just acts rude and mean because she’s 
trying to control us. I guess she thinks 
we're pretty wild, and that’s the only way 
she figures she can handle us.” 

Such teachers frequently used humiliation 
as a weapon. “‘Stand straight when you’re 
talking to me.” ““‘Wake up—you’re dream- 
ing.” “‘You’re stupid—that’s what you are. 
Aren’t you?’’ One home-room teacher refused 
to allow them to leave any of their books in 
the desks overnight—“ Take them home. Be 
proud to carry them under your arm. You 
might at least want to look educated.” Al- 
though many classrooms contained small, 
undersized desks, most of the teachers ex- 
pected the boys to unfold their tall bodies 
and stand at attention each time they were 
called upon. There was this incident: The 
teacher asked a question. A boy raised -his 
hand. She called his name. He stood up. 
‘‘Where’s your tie?” said the teacher. The 
boy mumbled something. ‘‘Speak up,’ she 
said. ‘“‘Cat got your tongue?” The class tit- 
tered. “‘I said I didn’t wear a tie because I 
didn’t want to get it caught in a machine,” 
the boy said. The teacher glared. “Take your 
hands out of your pockets. Now, answer the 
question, if you can.” The boy couldn’t. He 
had, in fact, forgotten the question. “What 
can you do with them?” the teacher said 
after class.‘‘ They simply don’t want tolearn.” 

The classes were large. There were not sup- 
posed to be over thirty per room; actually it 
didn’t work out that way. In one class, for 
instance, there were so many the boys sat 
on the window ledges—and the teacher 
didn’t know more than half of their names. 
‘Maybe if we got to know our teachers, they 
wouldn’t think we were so bad,’’ one boy 
said. ‘If we had time for a little more in- 
dividual attention,’ one teacher said, ‘I 
think it would be better all around. You 
take what happened last week. I was show- 
ing a film and I heard a pinging sound. Like 
type, I thought, being thrown at someone. 
After the class, I picked out five boys I 
knew were troublemakers and I told them to 
empty their pockets. They looked kind of 
sheepish. I said I wasn’t interested in their 
cigarettes or their money, just to empty out 
their pockets and put up their hands, open. 

(Continued on Page 217) 





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(Continued from Page 215) 
Well, I didn’t find any type, but it was very 
funny. I made five friends. Those kids speak 


to me in the hall now. They were glad of a 


little attention.” 

This school was technically a neighbor- 
; school—that is, it primarily took care 
wf the boys and girls in a certain area. But 
the neighborhood was the size of a small city 
unto itself. Only a rare few could walk to 
school; for some, the carfare cost forty-five 
cents a day and the trip took over an hour 
each way. The school offered some social 
life—bowling, golfing, rifle shooting, varsity 
sports, singing groups—but attendance was 
not high. When the bell rang for the end of 
school, the girls were let out first (‘‘so as not 
to get killed”), and then, while the teachers 
flattened themselves against the walls, the 
boys swept through the halls, racing for the 
buses, heading for jobs, the poolroom, the 
beer-and-juke joint, racing for the real world. 
“Who wants to hang around this place?” 
one boy said. “‘Aah, I’m no kid.” 

In School B, things were different. First, it 
did not suffer under School A’s two handi- 
caps. It selected its students and passed on 
its teachers. This did not mean necessarily a 
higher I. Q. (the school averages were about 
the same), but it did mean the school had 
prestige, and a lack of overcrowding in the 
most desired trades. (“‘ You shoulda seen the 
school I came from,” one boy said. “* You had 
one monkey wrench and twenty-six kids. 
You had to stand in line.’’) While the aca- 
demic teachers had to have the good scholas- 
tic credentials for teaching, they also had to 
have something else—a desire to teach the 
trade-school student. (“‘There’s a real lift in 
this work,” one teacher said. “‘Kids want to 
learn—and when their eyes light up and 
they’ve caught on to something they never 
understood before, it makes you feel good!”’) 

The teacher who was interested in teach- 
ing pupils, not subjects, was selected in pref- 
erence to the teacher with high scholastic 
standards and little love for kids—smart or 


dy 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


not smart, as the case might be. As a result, 
classes were friendlier, and a different atti- 
tude prevailed in the school. “‘These are not 
children,’’ one teacher said. ‘‘ You can’t boss 
these youngsters around as if they weren’t 
dry behind the ears. They are half in the 
adult world, and half out. It’s our job to 
teach them to be all the way adult—not push 
them back into the ‘do this, do that, be good’ 
stages of childhood.” 

There were credits given in this school for 
outside employment—and co-ordinators to 
check their business progress. There were 
special privileges for seniors—they were al- 
lowed to go out to lunch, like men, instead of 
being compelled to eat at school like children. 
There was a choice of dancing in the gym or a 
twenty-minute movie reel at lunchtime. 
(“Great helps in keeping the boys from 
smoking in the lavatories,” one teacher said.) 
Sports were intertrade instead of varsity— 
““so everybody gets a workout.” Uniforms 
suitable to each trade were demanded so that 
school clothes wouldn’t be ruined: ‘‘The kids 
wore the oldest thing they could find until 
we made uniforms mandatory—and who 
could blame them?”’ There was a director of 
student activities to keep things moving and 
“find a little something for everybody.” 
There were school dances every other Friday 
and a special, two- or three-day trip for the 
senior class as an exercise in meeting the 
outside world—and the chaperoning teachers 
took their wives along and enjoyed them- 
selves too. Music was piped into the shops at 
intervals over a public-address system to give 
everyone a lift and make shopwork like con- 
ditions on the outside. The teachers brought 
their cars into the auto shop to be repaired 
and thus knew how smart their not-so-bright 
reader was as a mechanic. 

Discipline here was straightforward and 
presented in understandable terms. “When 
you're late on a job, you get docked, see,” 
the boy explained. ‘‘So when you’re late to 
school, you get punished. You have to stay 
after school.” In the shops, signs posted on 


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218 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


the bulletin boards were headed ‘Shop 
Rules."’ Talking, laughing, joking and whis- 
tling were permitted—so long as they did not 
interfere with a job being done. 

In School B there was a greater interest, 
a deeper seriousness, in all fields, There was 
less “‘who cares?” because they did care. 
There were a few teachers (as there are in all 
schools) who cried, ‘‘Wake up, are you 
dreaming?" or ** Don’t be dumb,”’ or snapped 
out with ridicule and scorn, but not many. 
There were a lot more who took this kind of 
approach: ‘* Now maybe you don’t see much 
point to reading about George Washington, 
but, look, he was the Roosevelt of his day 
and the reason he looks so stiff and formal in 
his pictures is because false teeth weren't very 
good in those days, and his hurt him.”" There 
was sex education taught in the physical- 
hygiene courses, blood and TB tests avail- 
able. ‘‘ You can tell kids how to live right— 
but you have to help them live right too.” 

In School B, the individual was not com- 
pletely lost. Take the case of a young man 
we'll call Jack. Jack 
nearly flunked out of 
high school because he 
was bored stiff with 
what he called fancy (7 
stuff. But he wasn't (, 
dumb. He wanted to SOVN 
be a scientist and he 





| things that interested smell). 


teau—a no-learning 
well). 


September, 1949 


Interest in the classical subjects in School 
B, however, was about the same as in School 
A. In both schools, the boys in the upper 
third of their class read ahead of their years. 

‘I just finished The Story of Philosophy,” 
said one, planning to be a chemist. ‘There’s 
something I wish they taught in high school, 
It gives you something important.” Others, 
in both schools had read Roosevelt and Hop- 
kins; one said Human Destiny was the best 
book he'd ever read; another was doing inde- 
pendent research in the library on the Ein- 
stein theory. 


Boys in the middle of their classes in both 
schools liked biographies. The choice of sub- 
jects ranged from the story of Joe DiMaggio 
to Ludwig's life of Napoleon. “I gave up 
comics when they started putting out those 
small books in drugstores,”” one boy said. 
“Only fifteen cents more and you get a lot 
more out of them.”’ These boys also liked the 
stories of industrial leaders. “I like stories 
about big shots like Ford,” one boy said. 
“They make me feel 


kkeKek kk wk & Mbit” 


The boys making 
the weakest marks 


Uf scholastically said 
if th idn’ i 
YL ast ey didn’t like 


books much. “I read 
one of my little sis- 


was fedup with “ hors- By Lola Ingres Husse ter’s comics, maybe, 
ing around with Latin to go to sleep,” was ; 
and George Eliot.” It I've made me a dress of sweet-corn frequently heard re- 
took time to persuade yellow— mark. Few admitted 
his parents to let him There's nothing so gay as the buying comics, but 
go to trade school, but color of corn, most admitted read- 
when he played hooky Festive as candlelight, clear and ing them. They also 
once too often from mellow. liked the newspapers. 
the local high school, (The corn was ripe the month I Sa read the front 
they resigned them- was born.) page,’’ one boy said. 
selves to a change. “T like to know what’s 
He did well in trade We're roasting corn in the Witches’ coming off.” These 
school at first. He got Klollow boys said they wished 
a chance to study the (Air’s us sweet as the cofa-hask there was more em- 


phasis on spelling and 


more things we can 


him most. Then he : letter writing in Eng 
Nex = 'N. é l - came towhat teachers eadenctert oe the lish courses—** Whee 
sleepers have cab a earning pe (Men like roasting ears buttered —_ Gey give us 





period—and lost in- use instead of so much 
] (Q) fam ous Ss featur es eee enbanh na ard e I've brushed my hair in a flowing thew beketil a. 

—_— school + paling eo " tassel of ripe corn silk. scRENES, erage 7 

Now it’s buy Time for Nitey Nite. Now these popular sleepers, sturdily ee eae = (Didn't I mention a towheaded mae _ és i 
tailored of healthful, absorbent, feather-soft fabric, come in seven bright | a oe ns Sean Fa ansabtdaastilies ti oe eat 
song-bird colors. There’s Canary and Robin. There’s Flamingo and i alee ee the milk?) ase Pionan Sata fol 


Tanager and Bluebird. There’s Parrakeet and Humming-bird green. | torepresenttheschol y, 4 4  % & & & & been?” 


; in a science contest. 

Cradle your cherubs in these gay Arctic Nitey Nites because they | His eagerness came 
back; he began to work again; he went into 
are 10 wey better. the contest and, despite low marks all that 
| year, placed near the top. He decided he liked 


* healthful, absorbent, pure cotton fabric. r capanil held. enkgeient aiiiaied- Sau 


% every important seam is nine thread sewn. | he’s going to night school to get she ae 
%* every point of strain is reinforced. | guages he once scorned and is aiming at a 
* full-cut seat with self-help closings. college scholarship. 


x somfortable ete —— aces chest-protection. ; The story,like Wiss i bean te 
% sweater-cuff gives four inch adjustable sleeve-length; hugs wrists warmly. School A too. But, funnily enough, the school 
% exclusive ““bootee”’ foot with double sole for extra warmth, wear, comfort. plays only a small role in it. It’s about a 


% Gripper fasteners end button problems. boy we'll call Harry. Harry figured he’d be 
yx easy to wash—hold shape and fit. a Se Bede ne ete 
% generous sizes in seven sudfast song-bird colors. pottsseniene ees Sy he diersicd Uaioke 
an engineering course, so he could at least fix 
Nitey Nites are Weather-Conditioned...they come in three weights— | up the engines in his father’s candy shop. He 
Arctic—Medium—Tropic. Arctic Nitey Nite, one-piece style, sizes 4-8. Two- | learned to do that in one year, so he left 
piece style, sizes 0-4; also three-piece sets. Medium Nitey Nite, two-piece style, | School and went to work. Shortly afterward, 


izes 0-4; -pi j , a . Aa his brother came home from the war. He’d 
sizes 0-4; also three-piece sets. Pajama style, without feet, sizes, 4-8; 10-16. hada hcaened, bya uxicabae: 


Army, to a medical squad, although he’d 

never known anything, nor cared, about 

ME fe : fh ) medicine. And he’d found he had a talent for 

A Ler joory it. Now he was planning to become a doctor, 


using the G. I. education bill for money. He 


was all fired up about it. 
qured wi Det Te hepato srw ““He made me think maybe I could be 
5a somebody, too,” Harry said. “I never felt 
that way before.”” He went back to school, 
Or AL S determined to become an engineer. He’s in 
one of the school’s special courses now, pre- 


paring for engineering college—and his 
NITEY NITE SLEEPERS MADE BY GLENDALE KNITTING CORPORATION « PERRY, N.Y. | marks have skyrocketed. 


As for history, from 
top to bottom of the 
class, all of them asked for it, current and 
choice. “Gee whiz,” one boy said, “‘you 
go home and hear your brother tell all 
about World War Two and you feel like a 
dummy.” They liked assignments straight 
out of the daily papers. “* We got an interest 
in the Taft-Hartley Bill," one said. “Why 
don’t they tell us more about that—and 
not so much about something like the Mon- 
roe Doctrine?” 

They liked their mathematics best when 
it had some bearing on their work: the engi- 
neering boys liked blueprint help, the print- 
ers wanted to know how to figure on spacing, 
the mechanics liked help with paint measur- 
ing, the woodworkers liked basic algebra 
taught in terms of wood. “What you need i:. 
this world is something you can use, is the 
way I see it,”’ one boy said. “ You go to an or- 
dinary high school and what have you got? 
A diploma. You can’t eat it. You can’t hit a 
nail with it. It’s no good. But when you gota 
trade and you know how to use it, then you’ve 
got something.” 

While most of the complaints of the 
school students center around (1) 
teachers, and (2) “all that dead-and-gone 
stuff,”’ there are also many who are sensitive 
to the lowly social position often given me- 
chanics. ‘* You’d think it was awful to want 
to be a plumber,” one boy said. “My girl 
won't tell anyone what I’m studying—and 
most of the kids on my street who go to 
academic school laugh at me for going to 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


schocl to fix toilets, as they say. What 
do they want—everybody should be a 
professor?” 

Another complained that his family thought 
he was just a “‘bum” because he couldn’t get 
interested in history—even though he was 
doing fine as a student printer. ‘‘They say 
you got to know all about who Caesar was 
and why the French people revolted and 
things like that to be able to talk to people— 
but I don’t ever hear them talking about 
such things.” 

Another student, preparing to be an archi- 
tect, said that a lot of otherwise intelligent 
people got the idea that a trade school was 
someplace for problem children—‘‘ because 
some of them are called training schools, I 
guess.’”’ He was one of the handful of boys 
attending night school (as well as day school) 
in order to get into college. ‘‘I’ll never be 
sorry I came to trade school,’’ he added. 
“T’ve learned a lot about how to handle build- 
ing materials and things like that that many 
architects never get. I’d have been bored 
right out of school if I’d had to stick to an or- 
dinary high school—with the Best Stories of 
1938. But even though a trade-school diploma 
takes as much effort and thought as any high- 
school diploma, a lot of people don’t think it 
means a thing.” 


Tuere are usually from ten to twenty 
trades from which a boy entering vocational 
school can take his pick. If he enters as a 
freshman, he may be able to take an explora- 
tory course which includes several trades, so 
that he may test his interests against his 
abilities. If he comes in as a sophomore, 
however, he is expected in general to know 
what he wants to do. 

Most of the trades taught are skilled 
trades—but the amount of skill which a 
student acquires depends on the time he puts 
in on the course. In an auto-mechanics 
course, for instance, the students learn first 
to change tires, do grease jobs, wash cars 
and do small repair jobs. This knowledge 
equips them to become “grease monkeys’’— 
but if they complete the course they will 
learn not only how an engine works, but why, 
and achieve the industrial rating of a begin- 
ning mechanic. 

For those who don’t meet the scholastic 
standards requisite for a trade-school di- 
ploma, there are usually several alternatives. 
There is, for instance, in most trade schools 
what is known as a trade-school certificate. 
This certifies the hours of shop a student has 
completed in his particular field and des- 
ignates what position he is now ready for in 
the industrial world. Some schools also 
provide two-year certificates, which show 
that the student has enough training to 
qualify as a worker’s helper. 

Almost all trade schools have an employ- 
ment center and a guidance adviser, but, 
oddly enough, few boast any education 
in the fine art of getting a job, approaching 
an employer, presenting one’s credentials 
and the like. As a result, most graduates 
get their jobs through friends, or, if they 
are in the top third of the class, move into 
the jobs held for them by businessmen 
especially interested in good trade-school 
students. 

The trade-school students rarely complain 
about any missing links between school and 
the business world, however. Most of them 
seem to feel that job getting and holding 
should be up to them. ‘“‘I fixed that up a long 
time ago—I know better than anyone else 
what I feature in life.’’ ““My uncle’s been set 
to take care of me since I was born, I guess.” 
“My father and I will do all right. He 
says I know a lot of things he don’t know 
already.” 

What they do ask for, however, over and 
over, is more understanding—not only from 
their teachers and their parents, but also 
from the adults who deal with them. “‘So I 
have to be shown,”’ one boy said. ““Why not 
show me? If I was some mental giant or 
something I wouldn’t be a mechanic, would 
I? I don’t act like people are dumb because 
they can’t fix their own things—why do peo- 
ple act like I’m dumb because I don’t always 
know what they’re talking about?” 

THE END 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


YOU NEED SOMETHING 
THAT A BAKER MAKES 


to make each meal complete 





You are eating a delicious combination of these 
good foods when you eat bakery foods. That’s why 
you need something that a baker makes to make each 
meal completely satisfying; completely nourishing! 


THE BREAD that helps balance your diet helps 
balance your budget, too! 

Penny for penny, it gives you more of the things 
your body needs—more generously —than any 
other food you eat at every meal. 

And bread is no more fattening, according to 
nutritionists, than any other food that gives you 
equal energy. 

So—eat more bread! Eat it for energy. Eat it for 
economy. Eat it for enjoyment — the enjoyment that 
you get from all the good things that a baker bakes 
for you. 


THE BAKERS OF AMERICA 

. who do your baking for you with 
the same high quality ingredients you 
would use; bake fresh daily with the 
same care you would take. 


September, 1949 








Cup Cakes and Cookies are wholesome, nourishing 
treats that both children and adults like. Serve some 
soon—enjoy them often. And to double your enjoyment 
—to treat yourself to leisure time as well as wonder- 
ful good eating — buy them baked! 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


LOVE 


(Continued from Page 69) 


mother didn’t love me. And if you think 
your own mother doesn’t love you, you go 
hunting for something the rest of your life. 
¢gnd you don’t value yourself very much, 
éither. How can you, if your mother doesn’t? 
Pity yourself. Or be stoical. That is what I 
did. I used to tell myself every night before 
going to sleep, “You're Reverdy and you 
don’t need anyone in the whole world.’ -A 
bad beginning for love.” 

I thought, We know nothing, even about 
those with whom we have been closest. When 1 
was a girl I had supposed Reverdy to be gay, 
high-spirited, independent and not as some 
of us were, unhappy, uncertain and boy- 
struck. 

“Tt was all an act,’”’ Reverdy said when I 
told her this, ‘‘all an act. I covered up more 
than most because I thought that, unattrac- 
tive as I was, it would be terrible if anyone 
knew what I really felt.’’ 


It was not until a later afternoon that 
Reverdy spoke of her school days. Two of 
Reverdy’s fellow patients had come in to 
talk. Both were young and neither very sick. 
Jean, who was nineteen, was very pretty, and 
plump, as are most tuberculars who are im- 
proving. Henri was a twenty-one-year-old 


Belgian student. The small sanitarium was 
scarcely large enough to house either his 
growing energy or his energetic opinions. 
On this particular afternoon he was unusually 
quiet, shocked, as I later understood, by 
Jean’s and Reverdy’s talk of ‘‘sex education.” 

I remembered very well that class in sex 
education (“‘hygiene”’ it was called then) 
which Reverdy was describing to Jean. That 
particular class had been taught for years on 
end by a placid, monumental spinster. The 
school authorities’ reason for choosing her 
for the job of imparting the facts of life to us 
was obvious: they believed that none but 
the most delicate facts would be able to 
seep through so impervious a filter. It was as 
if they had hoped to take the curse off math- 
ematics, say, by having algebra taught by a 
person who had never learned to add. 

We knew Miss Twombly spoke of extraor- 
dinary matters, for now and again she would 
whisper. Reverdy and I attended to all her 
words, and particularly to those she whis- 
pered, in the constant, but forever unre- 
warded, hope of learning something. 

Once Miss Twombly did become so forth- 
right as to whisper, ‘‘Girls, boys are different 
from you.” This was not news even to the 
most sheltered of us. But Miss Twombly had 





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DRINGING UP PARENTS 


DR. BARBARA BIBER, Consultant 
Child Psychologist. Bank Street Schools, New York 


Tue first time a child goes to school is a big moment in the 
life of his parents. They are proud of their school-age 
youngster, yet they can’t help feeling regret at “losing” 
their baby. The child, too, has mixed feelings. Good first- 
grade teachers should, through personality and program, 
create a relationship with the child that makes the transi- 
tion from home to school as easy as possible. They should 
be flexible enough to adjust their program to varying re- 
actions—from the child who wants all teacher's attention 
to the one who needs mother in the classroom for the first 
few days. Parents’ attitudes, too, can help—for, under- 
standing, they will not be surprised at (or ashamed of) 
their child’s possible babyish behavior, like crying, thumb- 
sucking or clinging. Actually, school is a source of great 
pleasure to most children. Parents who help them over the 



















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not finished. “They are different from you, 
and, girls, if a boy attempts to embrace you, 
draw away from him gently but firmly and 
say, ‘Think of your future children.’” This 
was an entrancing suggestion to all of us. We 
did not wait for embraces, but for the rest of 
the year whenever a boy came within ear- 
shot we shouted Miss Twombly’s reminder 
to him. 

Reverdy laughed when I told her of this, 
but she was the only one. Henri and Jean 
were solemn. 

“Times have changed,” Jean said. ‘‘They 
really give us the works now. Spermatozoa 
meets ovum, complete with graphs and pic- 
tures in Technicolor. Everything but sound 
effects. I think it’s disgusting.” 

“Don’t you think young people should 
know these things?” I asked her, surprised. 

“Oh, sure,”’ she said, “‘but not in school.” 

“Well, where then? Who?” 

“At home. Your mother. Or father. How 
would it make you feel—” she began, then 
changed her tack. “Look,” she asked, “what 
if there were something else your folks would 
never mention, say eating. What if that 
couldn’t be mentioned at home, and books 
with ¢hat in them were hidden from you and 
you heard about ‘hat only from a certified 
expert, so-called anyway? Eating in six easy 
lessons with diagrams and slides. What kind 
of idea of eating would you have after that? 
A thing your own mother wouldn’t speak of. 
That it was pretty strange and awful, 
wouldn’t you? Look, every single person you 
meet was born because—oh, you’ve made me 
so self-conscious with all your secrecy on one 
hand and classes on the other—well, every- 
one was born because of that—and then 
your own mother, who produced you in the 
same way, shoves you off to a class. What’s 
the matter with marriage anyway? You 
grownups have sure picked the one method 
guaranteed to make us skeptical about it.” 

Henri said, “I agree. Such things shouldn’t 
be taught in school.” 


Jean, as if ashamed of her outburst, got 
up. “Good,” she said to Henri. “One sen- 
sible person anyway.” 

“That information,” said Henri, as he held 
the door open for Jean, “should be given by 
the husband to the wife.” 

Reverdy paid no attention to this, and as 
soon as the young people had left went back 
to her own remembering. 

““You’d have thought,” she said, “‘that at 
college we would’ve begun to be clearer about 
such things.” 

“‘Such things?” I asked, still thinking of 
Henri’s reply. 

““Love,” she answered. ““That’s what we’re 
talking about, isn’t it? But in college we got 
more and more confused.” 

Reverdy and I had gone to the same col- 
lege, a small denominational institution. No 
dancing, card playing or trips off the campus 
(if the sexes were mixed) without chaperons 
were permitted there. There were no -un- 
paired individuals at our school. The col- 
lege population was as symmetrically ar- 
ranged as the ark’s in this respect. A girl at 
our college was considered a failure if she 
was not engaged by her senior year and 
although the male enrollment was under 
two hundred, it never occurred to any of us 
that suitable mates existed off the campus. 

*‘Well,” I said, ““you succeeded. You and 
Howard were engaged at the end of your 
freshman year, weren’t you?” 

Reverdy smiled for the first time that after- 
noon. “‘Do you remember the yearly talks to 
engaged girls?” 

I did. I do. They were unforgettable. We 
were ushered into a dark room, as if mar- 
riage contained elements no one would care 
to consider in the full glare of a sixty-watt 
bulb. Next-we were seated in a circle on the 
floor and told to clasp hands, forming thus a 
symbolic wedding ring. So, in the dark, we 
listened to a local minister’s wife deliver an 
even more meaningless talk than any of those 
Reverdy and I had heard in Miss Twombly’s 
hygiene class. This was our collegiate prel- 
ude to marriage: darkness and whispering, 
the mumbo-jumbo of symbolic circles and 
clasped hands, and finally hot cocoa to re- 
store our frazzled nerves. 


September, 1949 


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Reverdy searched, during the hours I 
Iked with her, to discover meaning in her 
wn. life. 

“T should probably never have married 
Howard,” she said one afternoon. “But,” 
added, “I should certainly never have 
divorced him.” 
wet thought she understood, though, her 
ms for both actions. Reverdy saw her- 
self as being, when young, loving, open- 
hearted, trustful, happiest when making 
those she loved happy. It is the way, perhaps, 
most of us remember ourselves when young; 
it may even be the way we truly are when 
young. Reverdy believed, however, that her 
conviction that her mother didn’t love her 
had filled her with a distrust of her own loy- 
ableness and as a result she had been over- 
humble, overeager for love: anybody’s love. 

“To be made to doubt your own lovable- 
ness—that’s the worst thing that can hap- 
pen to you as a girl,’”’ Reverdy said. “I was 
always in love, always afraid to speak of 
what I felt: love was sex, wasn’t it, and sex 
was unspeakable, wasn’t it? I was aloof and 
disdainful if any of the boys I admired spoke 
to me. How could I be natural with them? 
My entire idea of the proper conversation 
between the sexes was based on my reading 
of Three Weeks and The Rosary, and 
mother’s warnings.” 

At sixteen Reverdy went away to college. 
There she met Howard Noble. Howard was 
eighteen, the product of an upbringing even 
stricter than her own. He fell in love with 
Reverdy. He was a good-looking boy and 
she was lulled and reassured by his regard. 

“Tt seemed wonderful to me,” Reverdy 
said, “‘that somebody found me lovable. And 
_I was very reasonable. I had been taught that 
marriage was necessary and sex unspeakable. 
I thought Howard just about filled the bill. 
He certainly didn’t arouse any passions I 
could call base, and he seemed to be exactly 
the good clean boy my mother was always 
speaking of. Mother, who had been dis- 
appointed with my lack of success with the 
hgys in high school, was proud of me now 
‘S I was happy because of her pride.”’ 
“Did you love him?’’ I asked. 


“T was sixteen years old,’ Reverdy re- 
minded me, “‘and at sixteen it wasn’t in me 
' not to love any male who loved me. Every- 
one approved when at the end of our fresh- 
man year our engagement was announced. 
And no one, in Howard’s home or mine, said 
one serious, intelligible word about marriage 
to either of us. You’d have thought from the 


way people acted either that no one on earth’ 


had ever before been married, and so couldn’t 
give us any advice, or that the wedding cere- 
mony in itself conferred wisdom. And that 
the wedded state automatically made every- 
one who entered it happy. That is really what 
I believed. Only when I also was married 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


and had experienced myself that mystery 
which only husband and wife can know of 
being one flesh would I understand matriage. 
And I believed that the wedding ceremony 
and the mystery which followed it would 
illuminate and transform Howard’s and my 
relationship, change the humdrum boredom 
of courtship into something vivacious and 
absorbing.”’ 
“And it didn’t?” 


No,” said Reverdy, ‘‘it didn’t. Howard 
and I were married two weeks after we grad- 
uated from college. The American ideal of a 
single standard in sex had really worked with 
Howard; he was just as ignorant as I. Within 
my understanding of the word, which I now 
realize was pretty limited, I was a good 
wife; though sometimes, for no known rea- 
son, a weeping one. Nothing either Howard 
or I had ever heard had led us to believe that 
tears were not, on occasion, a suitable expres- 
sion of a wife’s feeling. There were occasions, 
were there not, when a wife should feel some- 
thing? Howard and I never quarreled and we 
both looked forward to having children. 
When they didn’t come I went to a doctor. 
“There’s no apparent reason why you can’t 
have children,’ he said. ‘Better send your 
husband in for an examination.’ But Howard 
was shy about talking of so private a matter 
with a stranger, and didn’t go. A year later I 
ran off with Stephen Freitag and a year after 
that Howard remarried. He has three chil- 
dren now. They should’ve been ours.” 

“Then you really did love him?” 

“T don’t know—but I really did marry 
him. What is the power of the first marriage? 
I don’t know that either, but it binds and 
holds as nothing else. I was no more able to 
divorce Howard than I would be able to 
divorce my father and mother. He was a part 
of me. A part of my life. Perhaps I should 
never have married him, but certainly I 
should never have divorced him.” 

“What about Stephen?”’ 

“As things were, perhaps there had to be 
Stephen. As my marriage underestimated 
the flesh, so running away with Stephen over- 
estimated it. But as I had been brought up, 
and as my marriage with Howard had gone, 
I think there had to be a Stephen before I 
could act with any humanity and under- 
standing toward Howard, myself or anyone 
else. But it had better have been an affair, 
secret and. as it would certainly have been 
in any case, short.” . 

“Ts that what you want for Carol?’ I 
asked. Carol was Reverdy’s six-year-old 
daughter. 

“I think Carol is going to grow up ina 
better world than we did, a world where 
love and marriage are better understood.” 


What kind of world was this going to be? 
Reverdy and I talked of it through the 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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summer afternoons while outside the cicadas 
shrilled, and on into the afternoons of early 
fall when the window screens were bom- 
barded by seeds bursting explosively from 
the pods of Spanish broom which grew close 
about the sanitarium walls. 

“By the time Carol marries,” Reverdy 
said, “‘marriages are going to be a lot more 
stable. They’ll be more like what they were 
for our mothers. But not for the same rea- 
sons.” 

Marriage for our mothers was stable be- 
cause they accepted the rules of Christian 
marriage. Our mothers expected to have one 
husband only. That husband they promised 
to honor and obey. And they hoped, with 
luck, to be able to love him too, But love 
him or not, they would be married to him 
until death parted them. Our mothers had 
no burden of choice to support. They were 
not tormented by the question, ‘Would I 
be happier with Jim?” Jim, under the rules 
by which they were living, was impossible. 

Now we are free to choose. One may con- 
tinue forever one’s search for *‘ complete hap- 
piness”’ and the “perfect union ’ which will 
supposedly provide it. 

Reverdy scoffed at this. “ You’re talking 
about romantic love, I suppose,” she said, 
“you're going to say that romantic love is 
feverish and passionate, that it’s being ‘in 
love.’ That it flares up quickly and dies down 
quickly and that marriages based on it are 
doomed. That while it lasts you are trans- 
formed and the person you love is trans- 
formed. Then it fades, as it must, and you 
see that you are married to an ordinary 
young man and you divorce him. Nonsense! 
Oh, my marriage to Howard was romantic, 
all right. But it was romantic because it was 
antirealistic. It was romantic to believe that 
Howard's and my four years together at 
college, plus the fact that we belonged to 
the same church and I had a set of sterling, 
was enough to make a good marriage. Love 
is irrational, and it is irrational and stupid to 
think anything else. Love is of the flesh, and 
it isromantic and stupid to believe it isn’t. To 
pretend that marriage is no more than an ar- 
rangement by which the man can have warm 
meals and the wife the means of buying the 
materials for the warm.meals is a piece of 
romantic unrealism. To consider it an ar- 
rangement by which, after the warm meal is 
finished, husband and wife may have a little 
high-minded conversation, a kind of town 
meeting of the air by the hearthside—that 
is both stupid and nasty. Paul said, ‘It is 
better to marry than to burn,’ but he was 
speaking of his own sex, not of the millions 
of women who have done both. No, no. I’m 
not going to be so romantic as to teach Carol 
that all she needs for a successful marriage is 
a nice approximation of some boy’s reli- 
gious, educational and social backgrounds. 
I’m going to tell her that marriage involves 
the whole Carol, and that includes her body; 
and that she must pay some attention to its 
inclinations. And that falling in love is one 
of the signs of the direction that inclination 
takes.” 


‘'Tuat’s more or less what we told our- 
selves, isn’t it?” I asked. ‘“‘And the result 
hasn’t been either stable marriages or happy 
ones.” 

**We told ourselves,” Reverdy said, “‘after 
we were married. But no one told us before. 
There would be less promiscuity—and less 
hatred, which goes with it both as cause and 
effect—if young people weren’t forced to 
learn about the union of their bodies by way 
of pain and misunderstanding—as if they 
were the earth’s firstborn. We build up a 
world for them which makes it impossible for 
them to couple happily with the casualness of 
animals; but at the same time we make them 
uneasy about obtaining the knowledge which 
they need for the kind of unions we insist 
upon.” 

Reverdy was willing to excuse the women 
of our generation for a good many of their 
mistakes. Many were so brought up that 
they had less knowledge of sex at the age of 
twenty-five than an intelligent ten-year-old 
has today. They were married in the ’20’s, 
the decade when sex information which had 
been taboo for generations was suddenly 


September, 1949 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


WELCOME TO THE FAMILY 


made available. It went to the heads of 
many. 

“We were like adolescent boys,” Reverdy 
said. ‘“We suddenly knew the facts of life. 
But by the time we discovered them, our 
marriages had often come to include either so 
much indifference or so much hate that we 
couldn’t incorporate the new knowledgein the 
old marriage. And being too conventional— 
we called it moral—to experiment outside 
of marriage, we divorced and divorced. And 
remarried and remarried. And repented and 
repented. But Carol will start out with this 
knowledge and she’ll stick to her marriage; 
not for the reason our mothers did, because 
there was no other way, but because she’ll 
understand that only in a lasting marriage 
can she find the greatest satisfactions.” 

Jean, who had come in just in time to hear 
this final remark, said, ‘‘Why do people have 
to talk about marriage as if it were just a 
shrewd device to let you have your cake and 
eat it too?” 

Reverdy—she was much better, promoted 
to tub baths and deck chairs now—got up 
from her chair and went across to the north 
screen, which looked out onto the moun- 
tainside. With her back to Jean she said, 
“You might call it a ‘wise means’ instead of 
a ‘shrewd device,’ Jeannie. Or even a ‘sacra- 
ment.’ And anyway, what’s wrong with hav- 
ing your cake and eating it too?” 

“In the first place it’s impossible,” Jean 
said, “‘and in the second ——” 

“And in the second,” Reverdy concluded 
for her, ‘“who wants everlasting cake? No, 
marriage is a plan for making cake last as 
long as you have a taste for it. And I don’t 


We always admire the other 
fellow more after we have tried to 


do his job. — WILLIAM FEATHER: 


Haystacks and Smokestacks 
(William Feather Co.). 


know why everyone always takes for granted 
that there are only two things to do with 
cake: put it on a high shelf under a glass bell, 
or gobble it up. Or why everyone takes for 
granted that the cake’s been sliced very thin 
to begin with. Or that while living on cake 
you may not be learning to bake bread which 
is a thousand times better.” 

“We're talking about love?”’ Jean asked. 
“‘T suppose?” 

Jean, Reverdy had told me, had had con- 
siderable feeling for the departed Henri and 
the departed Henri had exercised much Con- 
tinental good sense about Jean. Reverdy had 
suggested that he borrow the family car one 
Sunday afternoon when Everett (Everett 
was Reverdy’s husband) was visiting her, 
and take Jean for a ride. “Certainly not,” 
Henri had replied. “‘ Jean is much too attrac- 
tive.” And objection of this kind did not 
make sense to Reverdy, and Henri had then 
explained, “I might very easily fall in love 
with Jean—and what good could come of 
that? She is not of my country or religion. 
I’ll soon be going home and I do not intend 
to walk the streets of Brussels for three 
months in a love dream, inefficient and un- 
able to concentrate.”” So Henri had sensibly 
avoided Jean and avoided, too, one supposed, 
the inefficiency of the love dream. Jean, from 
the look of her, had not fared so well. She 
had been told that she could leave the san- 
itarium in ten days, ‘‘an arrested case,”’ and 
this news should have made her much hap- 
pier than she appeared. 

Reverdy went back to her chair before an- 
swering Jean’s question. “Yes,” she said, 
‘“‘we’re talking about love.” 

“You talk as if marriage settles every- 
thing,’”’ Jean said, ‘‘but people are still going 
to fall in love, aren’t they? Married or un- 
married?’”’ She looked first at me, then 
turned to Reverdy. ‘‘Aren’t they?” 

Reverdy laughed a little ruefully. “You 
think because I’ve had three husbands and 
Jessamyn only one I’m the authority? Well, 
authority or not, the answer is yes. But we 
need to learn the grace of loving without pos- 
sessing and to remember that it’s not being 


' loved but loving that transforms. Unrequited 





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26 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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love is a state as ancient and honorable as 
love reciprocated.” 

“It may be honorable,”’ Jean said, *‘ but 
it’s terribly painful, and it makes you feel, 
somehow, ashamed.” 

“Oh, accept that pain,” Reverdy ex- 
claimed. ‘“‘ Accept it. It has taken thousands 
of years for us to reach the place where we can 
discriminate sexually, where we ‘fall in love’ 
instead of mating casually. You want the 
ecstasy and happiness that have come as the 
result of that advance; accept the pain that 
goes with it. And as for shame. That’s non- 
sense! It is only shameful to make a nuisance 
of yourself, to thrust your love upon some- 
one who doesn’t want it. And shameful and 
cruel and sexually capricious to turn away 
from those to whom we are married and who 
love us.” 

Both Reverdy and Jean were silent for a 
time, as if each felt that she had said more 
than she had intended. Then Jean said, “‘It 
makes the rest of life seem so . . . common- 
place.” 

It does. Loving, being in love, is an exper- 
lence so transcendent that beside it the rest 
of life appears anticlimactic. When we are in 
love we feel for the first time completely at 
home in the world and reconciled to ourselves. 
Nothing then is too difficult; the meanest 
objects are enhanced, the smallest actions 
imbued with significance. We breathe, walk, 
live, then, transformed, bright luminous 
creatures in a world of 
beauty. To be awak- 
ened from this dream 
is, perhaps, as much of 
death as we can know 
and still live. And be- 
cause it 7s so sweet, so 
intoxicating, one feels 
sometimes that life 
without it is value- 
less. Then love has be- 
come dangerous. One 
desires its hallucina- 
tions as those of a 
drug, and there may 
be said to be ‘“‘love 
fiends’’ as there are 
‘drug fiends,’’ for 
whom no circum- 
stances are so sordid 
or forbidding as to 
prevent the search for a love object capable 
of rebuilding this dear illusioned partial 


Sugar... 


| world. But that search not only spoils the 


rest of the life, it defeats its own object 
by making the searcher himself ultimately 
unlovable. 

“If someday,”’ Jean said, ‘someone would 
just admit that being in love is the power and 


| the glory, and marriage only the forever, I’d 
| be satisfied. Why do married people always 
| have to pretend that marriage is both?’’ 


‘‘ Because,” Reverdy answered her, “‘in a 


way it 7s both. As much of both, anyway, as 
most people are prepared to cope with. Mar- 
riage, after the first few years, becomes more 
than the two people involved in it. Some- 
thing emerges from their effort to live to- 
gether, even from their misunderstandings 
and bickerings and failures, something that 
transcends the particular husband and wife. 
For a while, when you’re first married. you 
have to protect your marriage, believe in it, 
even when it appears to wither, to shed all its 
first tender leaves. Then, if you care for it, it 
will take root, begin to grow and finally, and 
perhaps in spite of you, outstrip you, arch 
over your head, and become a protection. 
You two small ones will find refuge and 
solace in it.”’ 

“Mysticism,” said Jean, “mysticism.” 

““Yes,’”’ Reverdy said. ‘‘I suppose it is.”” 


’ 


That was the last time I saw Jean, and the 
last but one that I saw Reverdy. On my next 


| visit to the sanitarium I took Carol with me. 
| Children are not ordinarily permitted there, 
| but since it was Carol’s birthday and Rev- 
| erdy was so much improved I had wangled 


permission to bring her. The first rain of the 
season had fallen the night before and Carol 
picked some fresh-washed sprigs of sage and 
manzanita for her mother as we walked up 
the path. 


Sree iy ae 
Pngredients fr WH 
C 
By Mary Cooper felt for 


Sufficient glasses 

And a good-sized kettle, 
Fresh-hulled berries, 

Well shaped and crimson red. 
and to put you 

On your mettle 
A small boy waiting 

With a piece of bread. 


September, 1949 


Reverdy, because her room was chilly 
(there was no means of heating it), was in 
bed, and I broke all the sanitarium rules by 
lifting Carol up beside her mother. Reverdy 
didn’t kiss her daughter, of course, but she 
looked and looked and stroked and stroked. 
I read for the two hours of the visiting period 


while mother and daughter talked: school, £& 


clothes, the dog, the cats, the neighborhood, 
children, grandma (Everett's mother, who 
was running Reverdy’s house while she was 
away), a delicious new candy bar Carol had 
discovered, the measles which were going 
through the school and which Carol hoped to 
catch, for then, she said, she could come live 
at the sanitarium with mother. 


Waen it was time to leave and while I was 
helping Carol into her coat, Reverdy said, 
“Wait until that Jean has a child! Then 
she'll understand better how one eats one’s 
cake and has it too in marriage.” 


Three days after that visit, Reverdy 
learned that Everett was ill, and insisted on 
going to him. His flu was bad enough, but 
nothing for him; and there was nothing, of 
course, Reverdy could do for her husband 
except keep him constantly worried over her 
folly in leaving the sanitarium. But her com- 
ing to him was perhaps necessary for her, 
part of a pattern set up more than forty years 
before and from which she couldn’t break 

away. Perhapsshe was 
‘eae still trying to prove 
; to herself that she was 
lovable and needed, 
still trying to ease, by 
her devotion to Ever- 
ett, the remorse she 
leaving 
Howard, still trying to 
demonstrate that in 
spite of Stephen Frei- 
tag she was a re- 
sponsible, dependable 
wife; still tied, per- 
haps, despite her rec- 
ognition of it, to the 
old female masochism 
with its teaching that 
suffering is not only 
woman's lot, but her 
greatopportunityand 
power as well. These can only be conject- 
ures. The facts are simple. Everett’s flu, 
when Reverdy caught it, speedily became 
pleurisy; then empyema, after the pleural 
cavity was tapped, set in. Five days later 
Reverdy was dead. 

As tragedies go nowadays, I suppose 
Reverdy’s life was not tragic. After her 
funeral my husband and I lingered for a 
while on the green slope beside her grave. It 
was one of those bland, soft days we some- 
times get in early winter. Below us in the 
subdued light of afternoon the orange groves 
appeared greener and glossier than usual; 
the heavy city-bound traffic, more purpose- 
ful and exciting. Reverdy was missing all 
this. The quarter of a century in which she 
might have put her forty years’ knowledge 
to use was not to be. There was waste in her 
life and in her death. And how much waste 
in those lives hers had touched, impossible 
to say; love does not promise happiness, of 
course. “Even the truest love, a love,” as de la 
Mare says, ‘‘all loving kindness and long 
suffering may exhaust the heart and cause 
an intensity of suspense and desolation never 
experienced by the indifferent and cold.”’ 
But love is, nevertheless, life’s solace, and the 
conditions of society should be such as to en- 
courage its expression. Reverdy had not 
found them so. 

As we turned to leave, my husband said, 
“‘She was a very lovable woman.” 

I knew this would have pleased Reverdy. 
Though I knew, too, that she had moved 
away from her intense girlhood desire to be 
thought “lovable,” with its overemphasis on 
effect, toward a more mature concern for the 
loving kindness of the inner woman. On an 
afternoon not long before her death Reverdy 
had talked to me of the difference between 
the two. 

“All these pitiful women!” she said. “Still 
so concentrated on the effect they make. 


cer 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


a 
Ly 


Still wondering whether or not they’re lov- 
able. They’re like a fire which forgets to burn 
because it’s so busy trying to discover 
whether or not it is considered warm. The 
important thing is simply to be loving.” 

With what now seems like prophetic in- 
sight I had asked Reverdy, ‘When you die, 
would you want ‘She loved all’ engraved on 
your tombstone instead of ‘Loved by all’?” 

“Certainly,” Reverdy had promptly an- 
swered. ““Though my record is not nearly so 
one hundred per cent as that. I’ve hated 
quite a few people. But any part of me that 
survives will do so because I was loving, not 
because I was loved. Carve that on my tomb- 
stone with hearts and flowers and I’ll be 
content.” 

My husband and I passed through the 
oldest section of the graveyard in leaving, 
and I read the frequent inscription on the 
tombstones, “Faithful wife and loving 
mother.” Faithful, loving—and sometimes 
unhappy. Later we were often all three: un- 
faithful, unloving and unhappy. Can we, with 
our new knowledge, have more happiness 
with our faith and love? For without faith 
and love, it is apparent, we can have no hap- 
piness at all. 


LIVING WITH YOUR 
CHILDREN 


(Continued from Page 172) 


away from the children. It has been difficult 
to find a place, because rents are high and 
their income is very small. How the Social 
Security of $15 a month for two, plus $250 
a year that Mr. Austin earns sharpening 
tools, plus a few small gifts from relatives, 
supports these two 76-year-olds is a problem, 
but the fact remains that it does. I suspect 
that the Middletons augment the income in 
various ways. The Middletons do not charge 
them any rent or expect any payments for 
utilities. Nevertheless, the search for sepa- 
rate quarters continues and is by way of say- 
ing there is nothing in this present arrange- 
ment that cannot be changed. The Austins 
seem to say, “You don’t have to have us 
here. We can move to other rooms, or we 
might live with other children.” 

A daughter in New Mexico would like to 
have the Austins with her. Mrs. Austin is 
tempted to go, because this daughter has 
much work to do with several small children. 
Here is clearly another rule that the Austins 
follow which makes old people wanted: 


6. Continue to serve your children in- 
stead of demanding service. 


Mrs. Austin is a wonderful baby-sitter, 
sees it as a delightful pleasure. When Mrs. 
Middleton is sick, Mrs. Austin is ready to do 
the cooking or the ironing or clean the house. 
She continues to work and likes it. 

A seventh rule the Austins follow is: 


7. Assume that the family wants to be 
alone unless you are invited. 


That kind of dignified reserve could serve 
all families well. It does not really mean they 
expect an invitation and are resentful if not 
asked to join the family. It is, instead, a pro- 
found respect for the privacy of the younger 
family. The Austins do not permit them- 
selves to feel excluded; they are only pleased 
and happy when they are included. 

This family of three generations, living 
happily together, illustrates to my mind two 
important principles: 

1. The younger group gains in character 
and happiness by realizing that responsi- 
bility for the aged is possible and can suc- 
ceed when there is a will to make it succeed. 

2. The philosophy of giving generously 
back to parents a share of what they have 
given earlier can be implemented if the old- 
sters can help by practical good sense. 

Perhaps we would be a happier people if 
we turned to a new commandment: “‘ Honor 
thy father and thy mother that thy happi- 
ness be prolonged upon the face of the earth.”’ 

THE END 





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228 


Dear Sirs: 

I want to tell you how pleased I am with 
your new Swans Down Instant Cake Mix. I 
think it makes a super white cake or cup 
cakes or whatever variety you choose to 
make. 

The children can make this cake without 
my help and have a perfect cake every time. 
Thanks a million. 

I bought four more packages Saturday. I 
do not want to run out. 

Mrs. D. K. HUBER 
El Dorado, Kan. 


it’s a big surprise to most cakemakers—the 
number of variations they can make from this 
one mix. And like you, Mrs. Huber, women 
syerywhere are snapping it up from the gro- 

ers’ shelves so fast we have to step mighty 
lively to keep up with the demand! 


Dear Sirs: 

I have always used Swans Down Cake Flour 

and it was, of course, natural that I would 

try your new product—it is wonderful! 
Being employed during the day, I am get- 

. = a a . = a 
ting quite a thrill out of baking a cake in the 
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White cake, chocolate cake, yellow 
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And every one’s a Swans Down 
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new item will go over with a bang—house- 
wives know what is good. 
Mrs. H. S. OBERDORI 
Elkton, Md. 


Yes, it’s true, Mrs. Oberdorf, women do ap- 
preciate getting a superior home-baked cake 


in so little time. Just 4 minutes from box to | 


oven! 


Dear Sirs: 
I just want to let you know how much | have 
enjoyed using your new Swans Down Instant 
Cake Mix. I made three in a week and each 
one was perfect. a 
I have tried different kinds of mixes and I 

think this one beats them all. 

Sincerely, 

Miss MILDRED M. MASON 

Danvers, Mass. 


The reason you get such fine results with 
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» YS an) 
2 ONTO 


(AN) By LOUELLA 


G. SHOUER 


HIS is the busiest time of the year for most of us. The change- 
over from cottons to tweeds is on. You finally get your husband @ 
to part with his old straw hat. All your clubs are having their 
first meetings since June. If you are a working wife, the tempo 
picks up at the office too, Things are really humming, and it’s good 
to have it so. Meals that take little time in preparation and that 
won't strain the budget are the best for your way of living. Save 


the more complicated dishes for long winter evenings. 


stir into the a la king. A little grated 
onion adds just the right flavor at the 
last. Heat thoroughly. Taste to make 
sure it’s really hot. Serve with freshly 
boiled rice and chutney. (1 always 
keep a jar in the refrigerator, as it’s 
good with many more things than 
It's delicious with baked or 
broiled ham, for one thing.) 


Two or More 


Cold Asparagus Soup 
Chicken Estelle 
Rice — Chutney 


Fruit Salad or Melon SEO: 


*re having two guests for a simple 
Yoni De ee i Two-Burner Team 
dinner next week. It’s still county- 





fair weather—hot and muggy. You're 
going to have less than an hour to 
prepare dinner that night—you 
never have more unless you pur- 
posely plan to dine late. You'll have 
your rehearsal tonight—double the 
quantities next week for guests. 


COLD ASPARAGUS SOUP 


Here’s another soup trick. Thin | can 
chilled asparagus soup with | cup thin 
cream or top milk. In each soup bowl 
put 1 teaspoon chopped raw onion 
and 14 peeled tomato cut into small 
pieces. 


CHICKEN ESTELLE 


Heat 1 package frozen chicken a la 
king in top of double boiler. Buy a 
brand you know is good and have 
tried before. Mix | teaspoon curry 
powder with | tablespoon water and 


Chili Beef and Spaghetti 
Green’ Salad — Cheese 
Fresh Fruit 


There’s an old saying, “You never 
miss what you do not have.” But 
many of you who have just two burn- 
ers on which to prepare meals do 
plenty of wishing for an oven and/or 
broiler. Nevertheless, it’s really sur- 
prising how well you can manage. 
There are loads of recipes that can be 
turned out with no more equipment 
than just a two-burner unit. Here’s an 
easy one we like. 
CHILI BEEF AND SPAGHETTI 
(see photograph above) 

Sauté 14 pound ground beef with 4 
cup chopped onions in 2 tablespoons 








| 


shortening or salad oil until the beef is 
browned. Stir it frequently as it cooks. 
Add 1 eight-ounce can tomato sauce 
‘lus 1 three-ounce can sliced mush- 
rooms (liquid and all). Season with 4 
teaspoon chili powder, 14 teaspoon 
Worcestershire sauce, 14 teaspoon 
salt and a dash of pepper. Simmer 10 
minutes. Meanwhile, cook 4 ounces 
spaghetti in 2 quarts rapidly boiling 
water to which you've added 2 tea- 
spoons salt. Cook until tender. Drain. 
Dot with butter or margarine. Serve 
with chili beef. Sprinkle with grated 
Parmesan cheese. 


Sunday Supplement 


Hot-Sandwich Special 
Celery and Olives 
Peaches — Cinnamon Cream 


A hot sandwich satisfies most appe- 
tites suffering from an overdose of 
fresh air after a Sunday drive in the 
country. 

HOT-SANDWICH SPECIAL 


Cut canned chopped ham (or you can 
use any canned pork luncheon meat) 
into 4%-ineh-thick slices. Place a slice 
of the meat on each slice of buttered 
toast. Sprinkle with few drops Wor- 
cestershire sauce. Put 1 teaspoon 
chopped onion on top of the ham. 
Cover with a generous slice of cheese. 
Place in a hot oven or under broiler un- 
til the cheese melts. Men like this 
sandwich with coffee. Plan on 2 apiece. 


PEACHES — CINNAMON CREAM 


® ugar sliced peaches and serve with a 
Ypitcher of cream into which you've 
stirred several good dashes of pow- 


dered cinnamon. 


Chef d@’Ocuvre 


Fish Piquant 
Broiled Tomato Slices 
with Cheese 
Broccoli 
Blue Grapes 


Spend your time to cook on one dish 
that is really special in seasonings and 
favor. Fish Piquant is all of that. 
Serve the grapes very cold. 


FISH PIQUANT 


Melt 2 tablespoons shortening or salad 
oil in frying pan. Sauté 4 onions, finely 
sliced,in the fat until slightly browned. 
Add *4 to 1 pound fish fillets cut into 
sticks about | inch wide. Sprinkle 
with '4teaspoon salt, a dash of pepper, 
1 teaspoon minced parsley and 1 
teaspoon grated lemon rind. Add 2 
tablespoons chopped capers. Cover 
and simmer 15 minutes. 

Mix | tablespoon flour with 2 table- 
spoons water. Blend and add to the 
liquid in the bottom of the skillet. Stir 
over low heat. Add 14 cup sour cream 
and simmer 3 minutes just to heat the 
cream. High heat or any longer cook- 
ing usually curdles the cream. 


BROILED TOMATO SLICES 
WITH CHEESE 
Slice ripe home-grown tomatoes 4 


mech thick. Sprinkle with salt and pep- 
per, then with grated cheese. Lay in 


- 


shallow glass baking dish or piepan. 
Broil until cheese melts and tomato is 
well heated through. 


Open Planning 


Broiled Cube Steaks 
Country-Fried Potatoes 
Green Salad 
Cantaloupe 


As long as the good weather lasts, keep 
a dinner menu for one night a week 
flexible so that you can have dinner 
indoors or out. Have broiler very 
hot for cube steaks as they are quite 
thin. 


COUNTRY-FRIED POTATOES 
Dice 2 or 3 cooked potatoes, then chop 
medium fine. Add 1 onion, minced. 
Fry in 2-3 tablespoons meat drippings, 
butter or margarine. Season with salt 
and pepper. Turn with a spatula. Just 
before removing from the heat, add 
's cup light cream or top milk— 
let bubble up so all the good brown 
bits are loosened from the pan. 
Sprinkle with chopped parsley before 
serving. 


Fall Model 


Broiled Ham Slice 
Apple Sweet Potatoes 
Green Beans 
Red-Plum Compote 
Ginger Cookies 


Everyone has a favorite in-a-hurry 
meal. One of the members of the food 
staff calls this her fall model. Use 
canned red plums for the dessert. 
Heat with a piece of lemon peel. 


APPLE SWEET POTATOES 
Peel and mash 2 large sweet potatoes 
or yams. Add 1 tablespoon butter or 
margarine, salt and pepper to taste. 
Stir in 14 cup canned applesauce. Mix 
well. Pour into a single shallow cas- 
serole or 2 custard cups. Dot with but- 
ter or margarine and pul sweet pota- 
toes under broiler, after you have 
turned the ham, so they will heat up 
and brown a bit while ham finishes 
cooking. 


Short Cut 


Baked Bacon and Eggs 
Sliced Tomatoes 
Frozen Grapefruit Sections 
with Honey 


To fry an egg you must tend its cook- 
ing. It’s easier to bake eggs and you 
may serve them in the same dish—a 
point worth considering. Frozen grape- 
fruit sections—served at the just- 
thawed stage with a little strained 


honey for sweetening—are delicious.” 


BAKED BACON AND EGGS 
Butter individual shirred egg dishes or 
a glass piepan. Lay thin slices of 
American cheese on the bottom. Cover 
with strips of crisp cooked bacon. 
Break 2 eggs for each person over the 
bacon and cheese. Sprinkle with salt 
and pepper. Pour | tablespoon cream 
for each egg over all. Bake in moderate 
oven, 350°F., until eggs set to stage 
you like them. 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


CITY SLUMS 


(Continued from Page 23) 


This was in the summer of ’47. Then be- 
gan a desperate hand-to-mouth existence, 
moving from one cheap hotel room to an- 
other, aided by Department of Welfare 
funds. Once they had a few blissful weeks in 
two front rooms of a furnished house, but 
left when the landlady suddenly demanded 
$150 a month. 

Finally they settled in one furnished room 
on Ninth Avenue. This room had a narrow 
single bed, infested with bedbugs and pro- 
vided with one sheet, upon which both preg- 
nant Olga and her husband slept. The baby 
was next to them in a broken carriage they 
found in the basement. The indescribably 
dirty room had but one window, which faced 
on a brick wall. 

It was mid-July and Olga, now six months 
pregnant, said that she had the sensation 
of being slowly roasted in a brick oven. For 
every meal, she had to take her little boy 
out with her to buy provisions, since they 
had no way of keeping food. Even the baby’s 
milk soured in an hour on the window sill. 

Each morning the husband left for Mitchel 
Field on Long Island, leaving Olga with year- 
old Billy, without friends, almost penniless, 
in a strange city in a strange land. Each day 
she felt herself grow more physically ill with 
loneliness and despair. Yet never once did 
she let her family in England know of her 
predicament. *‘We moved away from Bill’s 
family, as it was too crowded, and now we 
have a-place of our own,”’ she wrote. 

If she had had the money, she would have 
taken the first boat home. Her husband was 
torn equally between indignation and a 
sense of complete helplessness. There were 
sharp, acrid quarrels. Her marriage seemed 
to be disintegrating along with her sanity. 

Olga’s story has a happy ending. One day 
someone pointed out to her a new housing 
project being erected on the lower West Side, 
and urged her to apply for an apartment. 
On sunny days Olga would push the baby 
over to the site and watch the completion of 
the John Lovejoy Elliott Houses. Soon she 
was going over two and three times a week 
to plead for an apartment. 


The manager’s office was so jammed with 
applicants that thirty-one were rejected for 
every one accepted. But Olga got an apart- 
ment after a housing inspector visited their 
furnished room. They moved in before the 
paint was entirely dry on the walls. Two 
months later Olga’s second child, a girl, was 
born. 

This writer found Olga on a ground-floor 
apartment of the twelve-story Elliott proj- 
ect, energetically washing windows while 
her two youngsters played in a large sunny 
yard with a bevy of small fry. Olga, slim and 
dark-haired, her face still showing some 
strain, had just celebrated her twenty-first 
birthday. 

“It’s heaven to be here, just heaven,” she 
said in her pleasantly clipped British way. 
She showed off the apartment with obvious 
pride—the bright, spacious living room with 
dinette at one end, gleaming, modern 
kitchen, bath and two good-sized bedrooms. 
For all this, the Thomases pay $36.50 a 
month, including utilities. This is just $4.50 
a month more than they paid for that one 
wretched furnished room. 

Olga’s husband, now discharged from the 
Army, has a job at a restaurant earning $40 
a week. If he should get a $5-a-week raise, 
his rent at Elliott would be raised about $4 
a month, as all rents there are based upon 
ability to pay. On the other hand, if he should 
lose his job and go on relief, or get another 
job at less pay, he would be allowed to stay 
on at Elliott at a rent he could afford. 

This system of scaling rent to income 
applies to all public low-cost housing projects 
in New York City. Top income for admit- 
tance to Elliott is $2520 a year for a family. 
Most of the tenants are in civil service, or 
have jobs as factory workers, taxi drivers or 
laborers. 

The first postwar housing project to be 
completed in New York City, when building 








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costs were sky-high, Elliott was built with- 
out state or Federal funds. The $5,000,000 
total cost was raised by selling bonds to 
private investors, guaranteed by the City of 
New York. Its steel-and-concrete fireproof 
buildings, twelve stories high with automatic 
elevators, cover five acres. Twice as many 
{Ruilies now live in its clean, airy apart- 
ments as lived in the ugly, unsanitary slums 
Elliott erased. 

Because rents are so low at Elliott (basic 
rent $6.46 a month per room), the project 
receives a yearly subsidy from the city of 
$109,595. This means that each of the 608 
families living at Elliott is subsidized to the 
extent of about $15 a month. Families ac- 
cepted are those whose living conditions are 
so bad and their incomes so low that without 
help they: never could afford anything but 
slum housing. 

Elliott tenants do not feel that they are 
living on charity. “There is a feeling of get- 
ting ahead here, and bettering oneself,”’ Olga 
Thomas says happily. ‘It is a good thing. I 
do not think that I could go back to live in 
England and be happy now.” 

Olga has finally discovered America. And 
Elliott tenants have discovered that a clean, 
decent home leads to other desires, such as 
better schools, better medical care, and a 
better life for themselves and their children. 
To obtain these goals they have joined forces 
with the entire neighborhood of Chelsea, 
where the Elliott project is located. 

It was not always so. When the first Elliott 
tenants moved in, they were faced with sus- 
picion, resentment, even hatred. Much credit 
for the present harmonious 
feelings between tenants 
and Chelsea neighbors 


asettlement house founded 
over fifty years ago by 
John Lovejoy Elliott. This 
settlement house is situ- 
ated right on the grounds 


must go to Hudson Guild, + Country Constable: 
don, miss, but swimming 

ain’t allowed in this lake. 
City Miss: Why didn’t you 
tell me before I got undressed? 
Country Constable: 
there ain’t any law agin un- 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


were invited to join a “welcoming commit- 
tee”’ for Elliott tenants. Every two weeks for 
six months prior to the opening date, they 
met together at the settlement house. They 
reported hearing such statements around 
Chelsea as “Those outsiders’ are going to 
get those beautiful apartments for nothing,” 
and “You can’t have radios or visitors at the 
project,” and “Inspectors go around and see 
if you make your beds every morning.” 


To squelch these insidious and untrue 
rumors, the welcoming committee was taken 
on tours of inspection of other completed 
housing projects. At Queensbridge Houses, a 
Chelsea man stopped a Negro tenant and 
asked her point-blank how she liked living 
there with the “white folks.” 

“When I was sick for a month, a white 
neighbor came in and took care of me,” she 
told him quietly. The man was so impressed 
that he repeated this story not once but a 
hundred times around Chelsea. 

By the time the project opened, there was 
no fear of violence toward the new Negro 
tenants, thanks to a vigorous educational 
program on the part of Hudson Guild. In 
fact, by the first Christmas, thirty Negro 
couples from Elliott enjoyed a dance with 
the whole neighborhood of Chelsea, for the 
first time in Hudson Guild’s history. 

As soon as the first apartments were avail- 
able, a committee of neighbors fixed up a 
model apartment to show to the tenants. 
The work of buying and repairing second- 
hand furniture, making curtains and slip 
covers and bookcases, was done by neighbors 
who knew they had very 
little chance of getting into 
the project. Neighborhood 
women acted as hostesses 
to eager applicants who 
came to see the model 
apartment, and became so 
interested in their hard- 
luck stories that they actu- 


Par- 


Well, 


of the housing project—in dressing. ally went to the manager 
t, the project was built at Elliott and pleaded with 
meht around it. es her to accept the “out- 


To understand the job 
Hudson Guild has accomplished, it is neces- 
sary to know a little about the lower West 
Side neighborhood it serves so magnificently. 

The people of Chelsea, as the area is called 
between 14th and 34th streets, from Sixth 
Avenue to the Hudson River, are a hodge- 
podge of conflicting nationalities—Italian, 
Irish, Puerto Rican, Greek. A survey of chil- 
dren attending the grade school across the 
street from Elliott shows that 20 per cent are 
suffering from skin diseases, 35 per cent from 
nutritional defects. Fully half the pupils 
come from broken homes. Chelsea has a high 
incidence of marital discord, paternal brutal- 
ity and emotionally unadjusted children. 
Gambling and drinking are widespread. In- 
fant mortality and deaths from tuberculosis 
are high—in fact, deaths from all causes 
place the lower West Side as second only to 
Central Harlem in New York City health 
figures. 

A typical tenement in Chelsea has dark, 
airless bedrooms, a toilet in the hall shared 
by several families, a bathtub in the kitchen, 
no hot water and only the kitchen stove for 
heat in wintertime. Rents are from $25 to $30 
a month, not including gas and electricity. 

Chelsea was jubilant when its long fight 
for better housing bore fruit. The site for 
Elliott was razed in 1941, and former tenants 
were promised top priority on the new apart- 
ments to be built. Then the war came. Six 
years later, when the war was over and the 
project finally completed, veterans’ families 
were given preference. 


Tuts led to acute resentment on the part 
of the former tenants, many of whom had 
moved into tenements nearby to await com- 
getion of the project. They referred to the 
veterans moving into Elliott as “‘outsiders”’ 
and ‘‘murderers.”” When they learned that 
Negroes would be admitted into the project, 
feelings reached a violent pitch. Few Negroes 
had ever found it healthy to stay in Chelsea 
for long. 

At this point, Hudson Guild swung into 
action. Forty leaders of the neighborhood 


siders’”’ applications. 

Hudson Guild shrewdly turned basement 
common rooms into a neighborhood center. 
Ceramic, sewing and carpentry classes were 
organized. As a result of these face-to-face 
and elbow-to-elbow relationships, half the 
Elliott tenants have joined Hudson Guild, 
and they are slowly but surely being fused 
into a working and harmonious group with 
the rest of Chelsea. 

Chelsea neighbors, under the guidance of 
Hudson Guild, have fought not only for a 
housing project, but for a new grade school, 
an outdoor swimming pool, play park and 
health station. All these objectives became 
part of the city planning for the area—in 
fact, all but the new school and swimming 
pool have been built. 

When Olga Thomas’ baby needs her first- 
year inoculations, she takes her across the 
street to the health station where it is all 
done free. Dental and eye care is also avail- 
able for her children there. On hot summer 
days her youngsters cool off in the city park 
next to the project; in the evenings, her fam- 
ily can watch free outdoor movies there. A 
milk station at Hudson Guild provides her 
family with milk at a substantial saving. 
Thus not only rent, but other budget ex- 
penses, such as health and recreation, are 
scaled to the Thomases’ pocketbook. 

New York City is concerned with better 
housing not only for veterans like Bill 
Thomas who are trying to raise families on 
$40 a week. There are thousands of veterans 
earning twice Bill’s salary and more who can- 
not afford the extreme rents demanded by 
private speculators. 

According to a recent city survey, rents 
for new apartments in Manhattan range from 
an average of $95 a month for two rooms, to 
$130 for three rooms and $170 for four rooms. 
To cite one example, a speculator who just 
built a six-story walk-up apartment house in 
Greenwich Village charges $250 a month for 
a two-bedroom apartment. 

To meet the housing problem of the white- 
collar veteran who earns too much money to 
qualify for a low-cost subsidized housing 














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HOME JOURNAL 


project like Elliott, New York State passed 
the Redevelopment Companies Law in 1943 
Under this law, New York City can condemn 
slum areas for private corporations which 
are interested in putting up new housing, 
then for twenty-five years charge them taxes 
which are based upon the old slum value of 
the land and buildings. In return, the com- 
pany promises to limit its profits to 6 per 
cent 

Stuyvesant Town was one result—a vast 
18-city-block area of new apartments on the 
lower East Side built by the Metropolitan 
Life Insurance Company (at a total cost of 
$90,000,000). The area was a wretched slum 
known as the Gas House District, stretching 
from First Avenue to 
the East River and 
bounded by 14th and 
20th streets. Now a 
striking sky line of 35 
fireproof buildings 
twelve and thirteen 
stories high presents 
itself there. Really a 
city within a city, it 
will contain 8755 
families. There are a 
three-acre park and 
lawns, gardens, trees, 
with ten large play 
sections for children. 

Stuyvesant Town 
offers truly luxurious 
apartments for an 
average of $18 a 
month per room, in- 
cluding utilities. 
Prices range from 
$50 a month for a 
one-bedroom, living 
room and kitchen 
apartment, to $91 for 


the road 
above 
showed 
of love 


burst 


the first, 


Living rooms are until 
large and airy, with 
parquet floors; kitch- 
ens have modern 
equipment and cab- 
inets. Bathrooms are 
cream tile, with bath 
and shower. Even the 
smallest apartments 
contain an amplecoat 
closet, large linen 
closet, and two big 
closets in every mas- 
ter bedroom. The lat- 
ter room, 10 by 18 
feet, is big enough to 
hold comfortably 
three bureaus, twin 
beds and chair. 

Apartmentssuchas 
these, built by private 
speculators, now rent 
for three times as 
much elsewhere inthe 
city. They are a strik- 
ing example of the 
fact that spacious, 
comfortable and at- 
tractive apartments 
can be rented reasonably and still show a 
good 6 per cent profit, provided the company 
which builds them is given a helping hand by 
the city in acquiring $8-a-foot slum proper- 
ties by condemnation proceedings and then 
paying only the taxes which the former slums 
yielded. 

In other words, the city subsidy amounts 
to no more than a remission on taxes which 
the city would not have had if the project 
had not been built. Thousands of middle- 
income families have excellent housing at a 
rent they can well afford without its costing 
the taxpayers a cent. 


back, 


would fill 


bones 


stones 

his pride, 
came again 
knees. 
pain, 


as trees. 


AppuicaTIons for apartments at Stuyvesant 
Town run ten times the number of housing 
units available. Prospective tenants are very 
carefully screened; they must have a veteran 
in the family and must provide character 
references. Metropolitan Life inspectors make 
unannounced visits to their homes to check 
on the wives’ housekeeping abilities, and in- 
comes must not exceed a certain amount 
(Metropolitan Life remains mum on figures). 


(f? 4, 
F andscape tH nolox 


My Frances Rodman 
The father watched him going up 
So small his golden hair was just 
The morning-glories on the wall. It 
A moment and was gone. The tide 
Swelled in the father’s heart until it 
The banks of reason, and flowed 
down and over. 


This was his son: the youngest, not 


But looking at the curving track 


That lictle figure would be coming 

The milk pail in brown hand. His joy 

His eyes with light, his blue shirt 
would hang slack 


On narrow shoulders where the tiny 


Like wings moved underneath. 


The farmer sighed. 
Sentiment was for women. Clearing 


Was man’s work. So he covered up 
Smiled briefly when the small boy 
Churning the uncut grass with sturdy 
But joy was in him, bladed sharp as 


And he was strong as mountains, tall 


September, 1949 


Negroes are not admitted, a policy which has 
been upheld by New York courts 

Because of its attractive, hand-picked 
population of young G. I. couples, Stuyve 
ant Town gives the impression of being a big 
university campus. The forest of prams clog- 
ging up the walks, the pretty wives in loafer 
and sports clothes, the chatter about bowling” 
parties for the men and other varied social 
activities—all further the illusion. Tenants 
are impressed with the excellent service they 
receive—the minute the plumbing goes 
wrong or a latch sticks, a phone call down- 
stairs brings instant attention. The hall- 
ways and grounds are looked after con- 
stantly by uniformed guards to see that 
everything is kept in 
order 

“They’re forever 
washing down the 
halls and removing 
fingerprints,’’saysone 
tenant. ‘It’s nice to 
live in such a beauti- 
fully kept place,” 


r ‘ 
hte tenants are, of 
course, tickled to 
death to be where they 
are. Some of them 
waited as long as two 
and a half years from 
the time of their first 
application; mean- 
while they lived in 
furnished rooms or 
doubled up with rela- 
tives 

Part of this time 
lag was consumed in 
relocating the 3000 
families who lived on 


through clover the original site of 
three bedrooms. He fele that he could hardly wait 


Stuyvesant Town. In 
the face of the desper- 
ate housing shortage 
of 1945, Metropolitan 
Life volunteered tog 
help find these per- 
sons other homes, al- 
though there was no 
such requirement by 
law. 

With the aid of a 
Tenant Relocation 
Bureau set up on the 
site, a staff of thirty 
people, a_ station 
wagon to drive the 
house hunters around 
the city, and an ap- 
parently inexhausti- 
ble supply of tact, 
sympathy andhumor, 
the job was com- 
pleted in eleven 
months, with the re- 
sult that most of the 
dispossessed are bet- 
ter off than they were 
before. 

Stuyvesant Town 
proves that in spite of 
postwar building costs, new good housing 
can be erected as a sound business invest- 
ment without charging exorbitant rents. It 
cannot be done in our great congested cities, 
however, without a helping hand in the form 
of reduced taxes. Other cities will find great 
profit in following New York’s lead. They 
will find that their slums can be demolished, 
and good, permanent housing built, all at no 
cost to the city, which forgoes only the taxes 
upon the improved value of the land, still 
collects as much in taxes as the slum proper- 
ties yielded. When slums go, cities save con- 
siderably in police costs, disease control. It 
has been estimated that slums yield only 
6 per cent of an average city’s revenu 
while absorbing 45 per cent of its ona 
costs. 

Let’s face it: our people, best-housed in the 
world, still live in so many miles of slums 
that all the billions of dollars the Govern- 
ment can spare are not enough to do the job. 
Only by putting both public and private dol- 
lars to work can we rid ourselves of this 
blight upon the land. THE END 


Printed in U.S. A. 


atti 


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Look for the Pacific label also on Pacific Supersorb Towels, Pacific Silver Cloth, and on men’s, women’s and children’s wear of cotton and rayon 









Where there’s Coca-Cola there’s hospitality 


Of course, most of the time you find Coca-Cola just around the corner from anywhere. 
But for out-of-the-way places where it’s fun to picnic, 
there’s the handy picnic cooler. Stack it with Coke, pack it with ice, 


and you can be sure you ll be a refreshing host. 





Ask for it either way 
. both trade-marks 





n the same thing. 
COPYRIGHT 1949, TYE COCA-COLA COMPANY 


/ <e 
OCTOBER, 1949 | WMS D WO? 


25 CENTS 


She Wuagagine Won LM Beli 


BURLINGARE 
UBLIC LIBRARY 









Undiscovered 


ieee) AMERICAN BEAUTIES 


Beginning a new serial — — by Margeret Kennedy 
— by Judge Paul W. Alexander 


— Novel complet in this issue — by Ahmad Kamal 





| — 5th in the series of 


Brooklyn, New York 


Out to junch— 


and sudden fame 





ee eS ee 


— : a 


= 





capper A os 





oars: < + 


















Think of the pain, expense and embarrassment it can 
cost you to lose just one tooth! 

Then think of this: dental authorities say more than 
half of all tooth losses today come from gum troubles. 
You’ve far more chance of tooth loss from ailing gums 


DENTISTS WARN YOUTH: GUARD YOUR GUMS 


America’s top dental authorities issue this timely 
warning: you can’t have healthy teeth without healthy 
gums. They urge you to start fighting gum troubles 


and guarding your teeth while you are still young! than all other causes combined. And gum troubles can 


hit anyone, even healthy teen-agers, with little warning! 
That’s why the most effective step you can take to 


Let your dentist be your guide. See him regularly. 
Follow his advice about the care of your gums and 
teeth both. And remember—Ipana is the tooth paste 


3 9 Fat 
more dentists recommend and use than any other! save your teeth is to euard your gums. That’s why tooth 


THIS MOTHER PROTECTS HER FAMILY’S SMILES THE IPANA WAY! 


Wy 


: 
See eS 





gums to sound teeth and a sparkling smile. So she sees that 
her whole family follows the Ipana way to healthier gums 
and brighter teeth both—because dentists say it works! Give 
your family these benefits. Get Ipana Tooth Paste today. 


Pretty Mrs. Jean Brovard, her daughter Evin and son 
Roger, of Noroton Heights, Conn., take no chances with 
halfway dental care. As a successful fashion model and 
mother, Mrs. Brouard knows the importance of firm, healthy 












HEALTHIER GUMS, CLEANER TEETH— 


© |PANA for Both! 


P.S. For correct brushing use the DOUBLE DUTY Tooth Brush with the twist in the handle. 1000 dentists helped design it! 








AND REFRESHING IPANA 
LEAVES MY BREATH CLEANER, 
MY MOUTH FRESHER, TOO! 


~ Jake this Most Important 
Step to Save Your Teeth! 


“Most tooth loss comes from gum troubles,” say dentists. So guard = 
your gums as well as your teeth—this dentist-approved Ipana way !* 


brushing alone — with any dentifrice — is not enough. 
To be complete, your daily dental routine must provide 
effective care for your teeth and gums both! 

[pana dental care* does just that. No other paste or 
powder can clean your teeth better and brighter than 
Ipana. And Ipana is the only leading tooth paste spe- 
cially designed to aid the health of your gums, too! 
For Ipana’s unique formula actually stimulates circu- 
lation—helps promote healthier gums. — 


NATIONWIDE REPORTS: DENTISTS SAY 
THE IPANA WAY WORKS! 


i, 






In thousands of recent reports from dentists all over the 
country, 8 out of 10 dentists say the Ipana way not only pro- 
motes brighter teeth, but healthier gums as well. What better 
evidence that Ipana dental care is doubly eflective? Try it—see 
what it can do for your teeth and gums! 


HERE'S ALL YOU DO—EASY AS 1, 2: 


The Ipana way is simple. 1. Between regular visits to your 
dentist, brush all tooth surfaces with Ipana at least twice a day. 
(This helps remove dulling, bacteria-trapping coating that in- 
vites decay. Leaves your teeth cleaner, brighter.) 2. Then mas- 
sage gums the way your dentist advises. (Ipana’s unique formula 
is specially designed to stimulate circulation—promote healthier 
gums. You can feel the invigorating tingle!) 


Product of Bristol-Myers 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAI 


October, 1949 









UTUNE FINTo 


a them their ook and foul off Luyiuny | 


CONGRESS a 
Caccds Re 
“*t- Cae ent?” te 


yw, still finer than ever before ... the famous, exclusive a 
U-TONE finish that gives Congress Cards their dura- 

-and matchless playing qualities! Youll know it the 1 
ent you handle them. No other cards have this } 


ther “slip”... this livelier “snap.” 
id there’s extra distinction in their jewel-like designs 
1 the silver and golden gleam of their edges! 

Cc c Cc 
ASTA, the exciting new rummy game, is soaring in popularity! 
ee instructions, just send a self-addressed stamped envelope to 


41, The United States Playing Card Co., Cincinnati 12, Ohio. 
anada: The International Playing Card Co., Windsor, Ontario.) 


cy CONGRESS CARDS HAVE THE INCOMPARABLE CEL-U-TONE eantsnm 


WO 











oats 


5 C) ontents. woe Dotober, 1949 


ROBERT PELOSO 





Sunday best 


Eileen Kennedy came to this 
month’s cover from the fabulous 
Flatbush section of Brooklyn, where 
she was born 19 years ago. “I’m a 
Dodger fan,” says she. “Where I 
live, you have to be.” 

Fileen did not, however, have to 
be valedictorian of her high-school 
class. But she was, and had to make 
a speech about the state of the 
world. “I was scared stiff,’> she re- 
calls. ; 

After graduation she answered 
a want ad and found herself working 
as a secretary at the Cornell Club, 
just off Park Avenue. 

She soon developed a habit of 
lunching at a drugstore on the 
corner. So did a young photog- 
rapher, Bob Peloso, who was eagerly 
searching for an Undiscovered Amer- 
ican Beauty whom he could enter in 
the JourNAL’s $2500 cover contest. 
Bob spotted Eileen at the lunch 
counter and persuaded the cashier 
to introduce them. He took fifty- 
eight pictures before the JouRNAL 
accepted the one which appears out 
front. 

Eileen is only 5’ 2”, 
heels I feel terribly tall.” 
she is referring to shoes, 


boys. 


but “with 
She says 


Street wear 





not to _ 


Tw Ger ES ee aa ee ad ey aaa 


Randolph. 


Fiction 


Never Look Back (First -_ of ne Oe 


Side Trip to Spring 
Rosemary’s Husband. 
A Gift From Evie . 
Father Takes Over. 


Special Features 
The Great Confrontation . 


Are College Women Getting Educated?. 
. Revolt in East St. Louis, Illinois 


School Boards . 
How Good is Yours? , 
Educating the Young 


ET ee 


VOL. LXVI, No. 10 


Novel Complete in This Issue 


Ahmad Kamal 


. Margaret Kennedy 
: . Gladys Taber 
Nancy Garbett Wilbur 
Florence Jane Soman 


. Val Teal 


Dorothy Thompson 


Margaret Hickey 
‘Sir Richard Livingstone 


Circe and Her Lovers in a Landscape Painting by Dosso Dossi 
Profile of Youth: Just One of the Boys . 


How Perfect Can You Get? 


Where Do Teen-Agers Get ‘Their Sex Education? 


There’s a Man in the House 
Our Legal Horror—Divorce . 
How America Lives: 


Getting the Most Out of Life . 


General Features 
Our Readers Write Us 
Under-Cover Stuff . 


Reference Library . . . 
Making Marriage Work 


_ Harlan Miller 
“Judge Paul W. Alexander 


Ruth Shapley Matthews 


. Bernardine Kielty 


- Clifford R. Adams 


Here Comes Halloween (The Sub- Deb) Edited by Maureen Daly 
Fifty Years Ago in the Journal e Journal About Town 


Ask Any Woman . . s 
Children Do Need Discipline! : 
This is a Comic-Book Tough 
Diary of Domesticity . 
Bringing Up Parents . 


Fashions and Beauty 


The Timeless Gray Flannel Suit . 
Lady ina Dilemma . 
The Remarkable Three. 


They Say “This Year ’'m he For. 
. New Designs . . 


Pretty Fabrics . . 
For the Making | 
American Beauty's 
Beginner’s Luck. . 
Hints for Simple Tailoring 


Food and Homemaking 


The Frost is on the Punkin . 
Line a Day . 

Conversation Piece. 

Never Too Young to Bake 
Quick and Easys ‘for Two 
Kitchens-in-Law . 


W inter: Long WwW ‘ardrabe : 


; Marcelene Cox 
' Dr. Herman N. Bundesen 


Munro Leaf 144. 


. . . Gladys Taber 
. Dr. Barbara Biber 


Wilhela Cushman 
eReeVi oR: 
. Wilhela Cushman 
*” Ruth Mary Packard 
. Yours 
. . Nora O’ Leary 
Cynthia McAdoo 
. Dawn Crowell Norman 
. Nora O’ Leary 


Ann Batchelder 
. . Ann Batchelder 
.Ruth Mills Teague 
. Louella G. Shouer 
. Louella G. Shouer 
. Gladys Taber 


Arehiteeture and Interior Decoration 


Ipswich, Mass. E 
Expandable Dining Room. 
Will it be a Dream House? . 


Bride’s Budget One-Room Apartment 


Poetry 


Struthers Burt 12 ¢ Jesse Stuart 31 « Myrna Bailey 86 e¢ Marjorie 
Lederer Lee 102 e Louise McNeill 114 e Ethel Barnett de Vito 122 
Joan Aucourt 131,e¢ Georgie Starbuck Galbraith 135 e Louis J. 
Sanker 143 e E. V. Griffith 164 e Sjanna Solum 170 e Eleanor Vinton 
e Elizabeth McFarland 210 e Eleanor Alletta Chaffee 214 
Elizabeth-Ellen Long 220 e Mary Cooper 230 ¢ Robert P. Tristram 


177 
Coffin 236 


. Richard Pratt 
Henrietta Murdock 
Margaret Davidson 

. H. T. Williams 


Cover: Photograph by Robert Peloso 


Ladies’ Home Journal, copyright 1949 by The Curtis Publishing Company in U 







. S. and Great Britain 


Ips protect 
ilys health 


suds ever could before! 


36 


34. 
38 
40 
66 
68 


11 
11 
23 
23 
48 
49 
50 
52 
54 
55 
65 


19] 


5 
14. 
24 
26 
28 
33 
99 

137 


180 
250 


56 
57 
58 
60 


62 
64. 


199 
202 


70 
72 
128 
204 
212 
238 


42 
201 
206 
232 


s and the kind of suds you use, 
between sickness and health 


drain dry. It’s easy and quick as that! 

So heed the warning of Health 
Authorities...help protect your fam- 
ily’s health. Wash your dishes health- 
fully clean—with DREFT. 


OB oe! 


All rights reserved. Title registered in U. S. Patent Office and foreign countries. Published on last Friday of 
month preceding date by The Curtis Publishing Company, Independence Square, Philadelphia 5, Pa. Entered 
as Second Class Matter May 6, 1911, at the Post Office at Philadelphia under the Act of March 3, 1879. En- 
tered as Second Class Matter at the Post Office Department, Ottawa, Canada, by Curtis Distributing Com- 


pany, Ltd., Toronto, Ont., Canada. 


Subscription Prices: U.S. and Possessions, Canada, Costa Rica, Cuba, Nicaragua, Dominican Republic, Gua- 
temala, Haiti, Mexico, Panama, Philippine Islands, Republic of Honduras, Salvador, Spain and South America 
except the Guianas: 1 yr., $3; 2 yrs., $5; 3 yrs., $7; 4 yrs., $9. Other countries, 1 yr., $6. Remit by money order or 
draft on a bank in the U_ S. payable in U.S. funds. All prices subject to change without notice. All subscriptions 


must be paid for in advance. 


Unconditional Guaranty. We agree, upon request direct from subscribers to the Philadelphia office, to 1 


refund the full amount paid for any copies of Curtis publications not previously mailed. 


The Curtis Publishing Company, Walter D. Fuller, President; Robert E. MacNeal, First Vice-President; 
Arthur W. Kohler, Vice-President and Advertising Director; Mary Curtis Zimbalist, Vice-President; Cary W. 
Bok, Vice-President; Lewis W. Trayser, Vice-President and Director of Manufacturing; Benjamin Allen, 
Vice-President and Director of Circulation; Brandon Barringer, Treasurer; Robert Gibbon, Secretary; Richard 
Home Journal. The Company also publishes The Saturday Evening Post, 


Ziesing, Jr., Manager of Ladies’ 
Country Gentleman, Jack and Jill, and Holiday. 


Change of Address: Send your Journal change of address to 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL, INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA 5, PA, 


at least 30 days before the date of the issue with which it is to take effect. Send old address with the new, en- 





is More Suds! 
t Mild-to-Hands 
Suds! 


. 


closing if possible your address label. The post office will not forward copies unless you provide extra postage. 


Duplicate copies cannot be sent. 


The names of characters in all stories are fictitious. Any resemblance to living persons is a coincidence, 










quipped 






10rough 
an, too 


And the 


o-get-at 






SECUTONE F 


d] thom twin Look and feel res 


ito the 


y, Still finer than ever before . .. the fair 







-TONE finish that gives Congress Ca 
and matchless playing qualities! You 
ot you handle them. No other car 
ver “slip”. . . this livelier “snap.” 
there’s extra distinction in their jewe 


he silver and golden gleam of their eg : 





TA, the exciting new rummy game, is soarin| 
instructions, just send a self-addressed stan 
'» The United States Playing Card Co., Cine 
ida: The International Playing Card Co., Wi 


vy CONGRESS CARD™ 


able! It 
handle. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Making luscious layer cake with the lightest. 
fluffiest batter and frosting this side of a cloud is 


just one of the joys of owning a Triple-Whip Mixer. 
Write in for booklet that gives dozens of delicious 


On tober, 1949 


recipes. You'll want to use them all! And remember 
—a fine, worksaving juicer, and a full gallon and half- 
gallon bowl come with each new Triple- Whip Mixer. 
Cenesal Electric Company. Bridgeport 2, Conn. 


You can put your confidence in— 


GENERAL ¢3 ELECTRIC 


aS 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Our Preaders 
Write us 


Almost Perfect Husband 


Camden, New Jersey. 

Dear Editors: I have just put my hus- 
band through Dr. C. R. Adams’ Is He a 
Good Husband test. Wonder of wonders, 
he hits a score of 19.5. Now I really appre- 
ciate him, since 20 is perfect! Seriously, I 
feel that Doctor Adams should be com- 
plimented for showing by so few questions 
the general picture of a husband’s worth. 

Sincerely, 
SYLVIA N. MOST. 


“Possessed”? Mother Rebels 


Madeira Islands. 

Dear Editors: Dorothy Black writes 
about the bankrupt mother, the woman 
who gives up everything for her children. 
What about the ‘‘possessed mother’’? 

I love my children, all three of them, but 
I certainly never tried to possess any of 
them. I’m just not made that way. 

Now they are all grown up, but am I 
enjoying life now that they are ‘out in the 
world’’? Tam not. You see, they won't go 
out. “‘Leave dear mother? What an idea!" 
My elder daughter is married, and lives 
just over the road ‘‘so that I can see you 
every day, darling.’’ My other daughter 
lives at home. So does my son. The latter 
turned down a good job abroad because 
he won't leave me. They all three look after 
me as if I were a semi-idiot, and they will 
never leave me to face a lonely old age. 

And I want to be left! I want to get up 
when I like and go to bed when I like. I 
want to eat all the things I know are bad 
for me. I want to be independent! 

Last year I had an urge to see Paris. 
Would the children let me go? They would 
not. ‘‘ Mother dear, you would never man- 
age the customs alone.”’ In vain I pointed 
out that I was managing customs long 
before I had any children. ‘‘ Darling, you 
would get lost and robbed, and the food 
would upset you.”’ So I didn’t go t6 Paris. 

I know they really do love me, and want 
to take care of me and make up for the 
hard years. They take me out, buy me 
candy and flowers and books. My son gets 
up early and brings me tea in bed, my 
daughter does the marketing. Last winter 
I had a bad bout of flu, and what trouble 
they took to see that I had my medicines 
at the proper time! I detest medicines! 

Sincerely yours, 
(Name withheld by request) 


Bride Wears Journal Gown 


Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada. 
Dear Editors: If you remember, you 
displayed an organdy dress for the June 





April Journal . . . June wedding. 


bride in the April JouRNAL. My dress- 
maker copied the dress and I wore it with 
pride on my wedding day—June 29. 
Yours very truly, 
JANICE GLENDINNING. 


Were You a 
Strict Parent This Month? 


Carroll Park 
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 
Dear Editors: My two teen-age boys 
habitually ‘‘washed”’ on their bath towels. 
I attached Munro Leaf's Dry-Washer 






BUS o/a0 A 
STRICT PARENT W 


THIS A 

WATCH BIRD 

WATCH INGA 
STRICT PAREAT 











WATCH BIRD 
WATCHING 






AS You CAW SEE, STRICT PARENTS 
BEAT THEIR RID To A PULP Fo 
THE SUGHTEST THING. HERE (* 


were yu? JIMNY HAS USEp THE My 
a YES WRONG FORK FOR SALAD p 

















drawing above their towel racks as a re- 

minder. A little later they put up the en- 

closed cartoon next to it for my benefit. 
Very truly yours, 

FLORENCE C. GUION. 


Jimmy John’s Ma 


Upper Montclair, New Jersey. 

My dear Mr. and Mrs. Gould: I am 
snowed under with letters about Jimmy 
John. What bothers me is that readers 
think I am good. I am very embarrassed if 
I gave the impression that I was as good 
and holy as these correspondents seem to 
think. I never meant to give that impres- 
sion of myself. You know very well I up- 
ended those kids and beat their bottoms 
many times. 

I sent the article to you because I felt 
that the JOURNAL reached the real core 
of the United States, and spoke to the 
people who would understand what I was 
talking about and what children were like. 
A man thanked me because he had not 
been able to keep his daughter from 
reading ‘‘cheap’”’ magazines until she read 
about my “garbage dessert’’ and now the 
poor child is busily reading library books. 
This father said, ‘‘The JOURNAL is a 
magazine that hits you right where you 
live and always gives you a boost with the 
real problems you have every day at home, 
and I think it’s the best in America to- 
day.” 

I really am at a loss to express ade- 
quately your kindness. No wonder the 
JOURNAL prospers with the treatment you 
give writers as well as readers! 

Sincerely, 
ANNA PERROTT ROSE. 


Through Rose-Colored Glasses 


Seattle, Washington. 

Dear Editors: Our staff has just read 
Jimmy John, by Anna Perrott Rose. We 
are recommending that all our foster par- 
ents read this article because it expresses 
the real warmth that some foster parents 
give to children. 

As a children’s agency, which is always 
struggling to locate people relaxed and 
willing enough to take the ever-increasing 
numbers of children who need care, we 
feel this article points the way. 

Very sincerely, 
VIRGINIA TRUMBLE, 
Administrative Assistant 
Catholic Children's Bureau. 


dreft hel 


HEALTH AUTHORITIES SAY 
the way you wash dishes and the kind of suds you use, 
can mean the difference between sickness and health 


@ Danger may lurk in your dishpan. 
Doctors have found that germs breed 
in dishwater film. Even dishes you’ve 
washed and polished carefully can 
carry this film—can carry sickness to 
the very ones you wish to protect. 


Dreft leaves no germ-breeding film 


That’s why Dreft actually helps pro- 
tect your family’s health. And this 
new way of dishwashing, made prac- 
tical by Dreft, not only helps protect 
health—it is actually an easier, quicker, 
happier way of doing dishes! 


New, Quick Dreft Way 


Wash your dishes in Dreft’s abundant, 
lasting suds. Give them a hot rinse 
(the hotter the better). Then let them 





Ps protect 
your familys health 


as no suds ever could before! 





drain dry. It’s easy and quick as that! 

So heed the warning of Health 
Authorities... help protect your fam- 
ily’s health. Wash your dishes health- 
fully clean—with DREFT. 







More Suds! 
Mild-to-Hands 
Suds | 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Your Money Back 


avings eee 





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IMustrated UAEAT-MASTER + °° ower in 
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in we ** presse! 

ice 7 [uminum. «+ house- 
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udget-wise homemakers know that PRESTO 
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© 1949, N.P.C.CO. 








Treats Women as Adulis 


Lihue, Kauai, T. H. 

Dear Editors: In my opinion, your mag- 

azine is the only magazine which treats 

women as adults and not children to be 

contented with shoddy fiction and stupid 
articles. 

Sincerely yours, 
MRS. BLAINE WISHART. 


Teen-Agers Need Parents’ Help 


Fresno, California. 

Dear Editors: The article titled Going 

Steady in Profile of Youth is tops! Your 

facts are most accurate. The same situa- 
tion exists in our high school. 

I don't go steady, but try to “play the 

field." This is very difficult since most of 


‘ 


the nice fellows either go steady or don’t 
go at all. Intelligent and understanding 
parents can do the most to solve this prob- 
lem. I have found your series, Profile of 
Youth, very true to life. Yours truly, 
JEANNE TAYLOR, 


Never Underestimate the Power 


The Duke's Cottage, 
Rudgwick, England. 

My dear Bruce and Beatrice; If you can 
spare a corner, will you thank for me the 
many people who have sent baby clothes 
and other things for my German prisoner? 
I am sending them on with instructions 
they are to be given to people who, like 
his wife Inge, have no rabbitskin to 
wrap their Baby Bunting in. 

The enclosed letter will show you how 
far your JOURNAL travels. It is only one of 
a large collection I get, which one day I 
shall compile in a book perhaps called 
Letters to a Grandmamma. 

With love to you all, 
DOROTHY BLACK. 


Northern Nigeria, British West Africa. 
Dear Miss Dorothy: Three days ago, I 
picked up Lapies’ HoMeE JouRNAL of 
February, 1949. I decided to introduce my- 
self for your pen friend. 

Here is a little autobiography of myself. 
Iama Nigerian, born August 3, 1924. lam 
5 feet 6 inches tall with secondary educa- 
tion. My hobby is photography and I like 
football as outdoor game. I am ebony- 
black in complexion. I shall tell you more 
of me, but till I receive from you. I shall 
also send my picture when I receive from 
you. 

May I know if you are married, or 
single. If married, have you offsprings and 
how many? If not married, I believe there 
are potential suitors? How old are you? 
What religion do you hold? 

I shall be in much expense till I hear 
from you. Greetings. 

Yours sincerely, 


W. A. EKINE. 


Using Up Leftovers 


New Britain, Connecticut. 

Dear Editors: I am am avid reader of 
the JOURNAL, although a look at my 
kitchen would make you think your efforts 
are wasted. My husband breezes in, lifts 
the lid of a cake tin, murmurs “ Beautiful” 
at the sight of a thick growth of black 
mold covering what was once a slice of 
bread. He peers into the oven where bare 
chicken bones are being charred. “‘Fine!”’ 
he exclaims. He looks into the refrigerator 
and sees a row of small bottles containing 
insects. ‘‘Good,”’ he says approvingly. Is 
he crazy? No, he just happens to be a 
biology teacher in a small school, which 
means that he must teach a large variety 
of courses, and be his own technician and 
animal caretaker. Iam his right-hand man. 

That is why my housekeeping will never 
come up to JOURNAL standards. But if 
you ever need tips on how to use leftovers, 
just ask me! There are a few: 

A good menu for feeding earthworms 
(which will in turn be fed to our frogs and 
snakes) is coffee grounds, spoiled fruits 
and vegetables, bean and pea pods, citrus 
skins, eggshells and parings from vege- 
tables and fruits. Bits of banana are good 
food for fruit flies during the winter 
months to nourish our small spiders which 
eat only live prey. Nothing is wasted at 
our house. 

Each day I look at my “‘engagement”’ 
calendar to see if there is anything noted 
in my husband’s handwriting. Sometimes 
it says ‘‘Please start bread mold today,” 
or ‘‘ Please save some beef for planaria.” 


(Continued on Page 8) 


October, 1949 





1. QUICKER 
NUTRITION 


2. MORE 
ENERGY 


3. EASIER | 
TO DIGEST 





3 advantages over any 
wheat, oat, or baby cereal* 


Gives more nutrition faster. New life be- 
gins to pour into the system in a few 
minutes! Gives more energy! And ...Vitamins 
B, B, and Niacin are 
added—plus iron—for 
rich, red blood and 
better growth! /s easier 
to digest! Many doctors 
recommend Cream of 
Rice as one of baby’s 
first cereals. 


* Test data available upon 
professional request. 





READY IN ONLY 5 MINUTESI 


meee tie 
BROWN DELICIOUS 


KITCHEN 
Bouquet 


It’s easy to make your gravy 
extra-rich, extra-brown, eztra- 
delicious every time. Just stir 
in Kitchen Bouquet! Ah! What 
rich, brown color and how it 
brings out that true meat taste! 
Adds no artificial flavor. Good 
cooks have used 

Kitchen Bouquet 

for over 70 years. 


COSTS SO LITTLE, | 











LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 








sy 





Light Deleaté Wesson Oil 


brings out fresh, fine flavors in 
CELERY SLAW 


The simplest salad becomes more tempting when you 
make the dressing with Wesson Oil, America’s favorite. 


2 tablespoons vinegar 
V4 cup sweet or sour cream 
2 cups thinly sliced celery 
2 tablespoons slivered pimiento 
salad greens 
green pepper rings 


1 teaspoon salt 
112 teaspoons sugar 
Vg teaspoon pepper 
dash paprika 
V3 cup Wesson Oil 


celery in center and top with green pep- 
per rings. Six servings. So crisp, so fresh, 
so downright good!—thanks to the deli- 
cacy of Wesson Oil, America’s favorite 
for salad dressings. 


Combine first six ingredients for dress- 
ing; beat with rotary beater. Gradually 
add cream, beating well. Marinate cel- 
ery in dressing a few minutes. Add pi- 
miento strips. Place greens in bow]; pile 











Bat Croker 


for exciting Pink Mint Chiffon Cake 





uses Wesson Oil 


You need Wesson Oil to help give Betty Crocker’s* Chiffon 
Cake the airy texture, luscious flavor, and keeping quality that 
make it so different and appealing. 


Heat oven (pan sizes and correct temperatures given below) and... 


1. In first bowl, mix together: 
1 cup sifted Gold Medal Flour 
(spoon lightly, don’t pack) 
34 cup sugar 
12 teaspoons baking powder 
V2 teaspoon salt 


Make a well and add these: 
V4 cup Wesson Oil 
3 unbeaten egg yolks (medium) 
¥8 cup (14 cup plus 2 tbsp.) cold water 
V2 teaspoon peppermint extract 
(not oil of peppermint) 
Beat with spoon until smooth. 
2. In large second bowl put: 
V2 cup egg whites (4) 
Y4 teaspoon cream of tartar 
Beat into very stiff peaks, stiffer than 
jor meringue. DO NOT UNDERBEAT. 


3. Pour egg yolk mixture gradually 
over beaten whites, gently folding 
with rubber scraper until just blended. 
DON’T STIR. Sprinkle over batter: 

Y% teaspoon red coloring 
Fold in with only 3 or 4 strokes to 


streak through batter, not to blend. 
Pour immediately into wngreased pan. 


SEND FOR NEW COOKBOOK “How to Win Compliments.” Over 200 
new recipes with color pictures and easy-to-follow photographs. Main 
dishes, salads, dressings, desserts, sauces, hot breads, fried foods. A treas- 
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25¢ in coin to Wesson Oil & Snowdrift People, Dept. A7, New Orleans 12, La. 


Wesson Oil 


Fried (nieken at its finest—fried in delicious Wesson Oil— 


Your choice of pans: 

9” x 344” tube pan—bake at 325°, 50-55 min. 
8” or 9” square pan—bake at 350°, 30-35 min. 
5”x10”x3” loaf pan—bake at 325°, 50-55 min. 
Your cake is properly baked if top 
springs back when lightly touched. 
Immediately turn pan upside down; 
place tube part ovcr a funnel or neck 
of a bottle...or rest edges of square or 
loaf pans on 2 other pans. Let hang, 
free of table. When cold, loosen from 
sides and tube with spatula. Turn pan 
over; hit edge sharply on table to 
loosen. 


If you use self-rising flour, omit 
baking powder and salt. 


PINK DRIFT ICING: Combine 1 egg white, % 
cup sugar, dash of salt, % tsp. cream 
of tartar, 21% tbsp. water in double 
boiler over boiling water. Beat with 
rotary beater 7 min. or until it peaks. 
Cool. Add 1% tsp. vanilla. Frost cake. 


PINK SUGAR: Mix 1 drop red coloring with 
14% tbsp. sugar...sprinkle over top. 
*Of General Mills, Inc. 


Lay 
inden oS y | ! 
2 


“ee, 


mmeeeet | 


—makes so many 


good things to eat Fo 


CHICKEN RANCHO 


1 frying chicken, cut in pieces 
3% cup Wesson Oil 


V4 cup finely chopped onion 


2 tablespoons chopped green pepper 


See how easy it is to fry without smoking or burning when you 
use pure, wholesome Wesson Oil. Your chicken, fritters, cro- 
2 2 , quettes—all your fried foods are tempting, golden, digestible. 


1 tablespoon flour 

12 teaspoons salt—dash pepper 
3 tablespoons chopped parsley 
1 No. 2 can tomatoes 


I Wessot) 









Af 






Oil 
a 


ly te 
Cooking 


cook 5 min. Stir in flour, salt, pepper. Add 
parsley and tomatoes; cook until thick- 
ened. Return chicken to skillet. Cover; 
cook over low heat 15 min. longer. 4 serv- 
ings. Wesson Oil is ideal for frying be- 
cause you can use it over and over again, 


Wipe chicken. Heat Wesson Oil in large 
skillet; brown chicken in oil, turning to 
brown all sides. Lower heat, cover, and 
cook 30 min., until nearly tender. Remove 
chicken. Pour off all except about 2 tbsp. 
Wesson Oil. Add green pepper, onion; 


aan 


ee 





AS ICP IEEE EOE RT A tow 


ahs I ha 


Vlake Evening in Paris a part of you... 


LADIES HOMIE 






FROM DAY’S BEGINNING until the last Good Night, from the tips 


of your ears to the tips of your toes, make Evening in Paris a 


part of you. Wear it as you would your most flattering 


make-up, your most beautiful dress . . . keep its 


enchanting fragrance about you, always. 


SCENT SECRET: Wear perfume on your skin... 
your hair. Touch it to the lowest point of your 
neckline, the curve of your knee,. your temples. 


GIFT SECRET FOR MEN: For your best beloved... 
the best beloved gift of all is Evening in Paris. 


. 15¢ to $12.50 
Hau de Cologne 65¢ to $1.50 
. $1.00 


Perfume . 


race Powder 
All Prices Plus Tax 














JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 6) 


You see, he is a very polite man, alwa 

a please sometin the note sa 
Please make some chocolate cand) One 

gue as to which creature that gos to 
ustain Very sincerely your 


KLIZABETH KASTON 


Never the Same Meal Twice 


Sellersville, Pennsylvania 
Dear Editors: The JOURNAL is next to 
the Bible in our house. I read it from 


tem to stern My son says mom never 
Ser VE the same meal twice Phat is duc 
to the Jour .L. | try out all the recip 
in the book ever month, I entertain 
friends with picture menus and table 
decoration In one of the ermons our 
ministe! ive he uid we just don't ‘ 
enough thank o here and no I 
thanks to a wondertul magazine 


Sincerely your 


MRS. C. E. EDE. 


Husband Tells All 


Sydney, N.S.W. 
{ustralia 
Dear Ieditor When, b monumental 


feats of pe! ision and sleight-of-hand, I'm 
ible t beguil ur m zine trom m 
ie | orl t irom a me h 
Our | I le n hor r two more 
feminist t tl most ardent of equal 

righter : I indar producti 
resel I I il one il rest cap 
te even tl male I lly lost 

i I ! btl the aver 
" | That ibout the 
hig t ) I can pa both to 
t I ho help se r 

t rod} taste 


I 


J. I. SAMSON 


P.S. Incider e cultivated that 
I itance iské he to 
dinner ul em ly reated her like 
i 1 sole purp 
ta I ‘ mane erin eC! 
elf into i tate of grace that she 
ld tee ) oO I lar | 1 ot 
L.. He yan I Dar it 


How Not to Choose a Wife 


Ouebec, Canada, 

Dear Editor I am a teen-ager with 
teen-age views, but certainly in terms with 
June Profile of 


Youth, I w d be called ** old-fashionec 
How ar ‘irl ca eck with everybody 
beats me. I’m sure that if you asked any 
boy he he | choose the girl he wants 
to marry, he would not reply, ** By neck- 
ing Yours sincerely 


B. TAYLOR. 


Should Parents 
Subsidize Marriage? 


Camas, Washington. 
Dear Editors: As American parents we 
ving our children “‘every 
ntage”’ that we are robbing them of 





one of their ndamental privileges, that 
of marrying and establishing families 


while youth and energy and optimism 





make it possible for them to do so happily, 
wholeheartedly and successfully. We have 
some foolish and falsely sentimental idea 
that love and the thought of money must 
never be mixed. 

If the parents who plan to spend any- 
thing from one to five or six thousand dol- 
lars sending a daughter to college would 
be equally willing to set aside a dowry of 
half that sum, or to continue to contribute 
to her support should she wish to marry 
while she and her young man are still going 
to school they would be giving her a much 
better chance at happiness. If the fathers 
of sons would accept the responsibility 
that was once taken for granted, and is 
still so taken in many other less ‘‘ progres- 
sive’ countries, of helping their son estab- 
lish a home of his own when he married, 
the ‘“‘race suicide’’ Dorothy Thompson 
warns about would not be a worry. 

We would do well, I think, to revive the 
old-fashioned feeling for family solidarity; 
the responsibility of parents toward chil- 
dren, of children toward parents; the will- 
ingness of the adults of the family group 
to protect and welcome each new addition 
as an asset, not just a responsibility. 

We need, in short, more ‘‘ We, Ours, Us” 
in our family life; less “‘I, Mine, Me.”’ 

G. MILLARD. 








October, 1949 


ETAL Price 


prompt you to wear 


What gives them that custom look 
you take pride in? Shimmering bolts 
of carefully selected fabrics give the 
slips an initial long-wearing advan- 
tage. Precision cutting assures each 
slip its own absolutely accurate size 
and proportioned length. Expert 
stitching turns every seam straight 
and true—double bar tacks all 
shoulder straps just to be sure they 
hold. Intricate embroidery and appli- 
que or airy laces add the final fillip 
—the mark of the modiste that spells 
custom-like perfection! All at such 
amazing value-prices, $2.98 to $7.98 


See them in fine stores, or write: 


CORETTE, INC. 


148 MADISON AVE., NEW YORK 16, N. Y. 








LADIES’? HOME JOURNAL 

































N 


uT he was doing it—and doing it 
B deliberately—breaking the biggest 
date of the year on very short notice! 
This was the party she had dreamed 
about . . . for which she had bought a 
lovely new evening dress and adorable 
new shoes. 


Now he was calling the whole thing 
off with excuses that, to say the least, 
sounded phony. 


Looking back at their last date she 
recalled that he had acted strangely in- 
different. What had she said to merit 
such treatment then? What had she 
done to deserve it now? The more she 
searched for an explanation the further 
she got from the truth*. 


Are You Sure? 


Unpleasant breath (halitosis*) is the 
offense unpardonable . . . a hurdle 
that is hard for romance to 
clear. The insidious thing 

about it is that you, your- 


self, may not realize when 


9 


OW 
cant do this- 
to wo’ 


you have it. Moreover, it may be pres- 
ent one day and absent the next. 


So why take your breath for granted 
—ever? Why risk putting yourself in a 
bad light when Listerine Antiseptic is 
such a delightful, extra-careful precau- 
tion against offending? 


Lasting Protection. 


You simply rinse the mouth with 
Listerine Antiseptic and, lo, your breath 
becomes fresher, sweeter, less likely to 
offend. Not for seconds. Not for min- 
utes. But for hours, usually. 


If you want to be at your best, don’t 
rely on makeshifts. Put your trust in 
Listerine Antiseptic—the extra-careful, 
lasting precaution. Use it night and 
morning and before every date where 
you want to beat your best. 


Most cases of simple bad breath 
yield readily to Listerine Antiseptic; 
cases of systemic origin are for your 
doctor to treat. 


LAMBERT PHARMACALCoO., St. Louis, Mo. 


Before any date 


LISTERINE ANTISEPTIC 


to help you be at your best 


P, S — IT’S NEW! Have you tried Listerine TOOTH PASTE, the MINTY 3-way prescription for your teeth? 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL October, 1949 


! So Sue 


The Camay Beauty Bath gives your arms and legs, your shoulders and back 












the finest kind of complexion care. Yes, you'll be lovelier from head to 














toes, if you bathe every day with the new Bath-Size Camay. And you'll 
rise from your bath clean and refreshed, with your skin just touched with the 
delicate flower-like fragrance of Camay, The Soap of Beautiful Women. 


YOUR GLAMOUR GROWS— 


MAY BATH’S 
A CAMA FROM HEAD TO TOES! 


A BEAUTY TREATMENT! 





SHOW THE WORLD 
A DAINTIER SKIN! 


iy 


BIG NEW CAKE—SAME 
GENTLE, MILD CAMAY! 





<l 
- 





ELL 


MAKES ME S i 
FLOWER! ‘i — 


LIKE A PRETT 


BATH-SIZE GIVES YOU 
LOTS MORE LATHER! 



















































Are College Women 
fetting Hducated? 


OMETHING new in birth rates has occurred in the 
United States. Between 1940 and 1947 the repro- 
duction rate of women college graduates increased 

81 per cent, compared with an increase of only 29 per 
cent for women who had completed only five years of 
grade school. 

According to the Population Bulletin, issued by the 
Population Reference Bureau in Washington, D.C., 
the replacement rate of women college graduates made 
the largest gain, and women with one to three years of 
college, and high-school graduates, made the second 
and third largest gains. The replacement rate of 
women who had less than five years of grade school 
was still 87 per cent higher in 1947 than that of the 
college graduates—but in 1940 it was 165 per cent 
higher. 

Women with grade-school education in 1947 had 
reproduction rates from 48 to 78 per cent higher than 
needed for replacement. 

Women with one to three years of college had a 
rate 7 per cent above replacement, and college grad- 
uates had a rate of only 5 per cent below that needed 
for replacement.  , 

If the same trend continued during the record baby 
crops of late 1947, 1948 and early 1949, the higher 
educated will have made substantial gains on their 
less educated sisters. 

When the rates for the bumper baby crop of 1948 
are calculated, they may be the highest recorded rates 
for college graduates in a hundred years. 

The 1940 census records showed that women col- 
lege graduates were having only half enough children 
to replace themselves and their husbands. High-school 
graduates were having only three quarters enough, 
while women with a grade-school education or less 
were having 16 to 38 per cent more children than 
needed for replacement. Between World Wars I and II 
the lowest economic third of our people were hay- 
ing twice as high birth rates as the highest third. As 
one qualified authority of the Social Security Ad- 
ministration put it in 1939: 

“Two thirds of the children of this nation—its 
future citizens—are growing up in the least fortunate 
third of our families.” 

College graduates do not hold a monopoly on native 
intelligence, nor the successful on character, but their 
offspring usually have a better chance to make use of 
what they have. The pattern of the least fortunate 
third of our people carrying more than their share of 
the expense, worry and physical burdens of reproduc- 
ing the race appears to be changing. THE END 








The Great 
Confrontation 


By DOROTHY THOMPSON 


F late there has been much controversy in the East European coun- 
tries, and in the United States, over the question of the Church 
versus the State. It seems relevant to ask a fundamental question: 

Whence, in this age, comes the greatest menace to human liberty? 

The answer is written on every page of the newspapers and in mil- 
lions of human experiences. Amongst millions of Christian men, the 
State has conquered—or is attempting to conquer—spiritual power. 
The “new democracies” are seeking total power, and attempting to 
make the churches, of whatever denomination, instruments of that 
total power. It is the churches, Catholic and Protestant alike, who, in 
resisting absorption into the mechanism of the total state, are standing 
for separation of powers; who, by so insisting, have become the last 
bulwark of human liberty against the greatest evil of this time: total 
state power over the bodies, minds and souls of men. 

In the “new democracies,” with which Hitler’s Reich must be 
classed, the State is in the final stages of reducing to a single control 
all political life, all education and intellectual activity, all technology 
and all economic effort. It is ridding its own total power of every check 
and balance, such as free criticism, independent judiciaries, the re- 
straint of popularly founded law, and the inhibitions of religion. Par- 
liamentary bodies, purged of all but lackeys, give the appearance of 
popular representation and legality. But the regimes are entirely un- 
checked; their arbitrary ukases are issued without public debate and 
enforced by terror—deportation, forced labor, economic ruin. 

All concepts of contract between individual persons, or between 
state and society, are voided. Society is consumed by the great canni- 
bal: the State. The individual is without the slightest protection against 
the state, which is his lawgiver, judge, educator, policeman and em- 
ployer. He is also without protection against any other individual who 
may injure him, for the state participates in every process between 
persons, not as an impartial judge, but as an interested party. 

Thus, the total state becomes synonymous with total slavery. In 
the past, slavery has oppressed only part of the population. Slaves in 
ancient states possessed the possibility of becoming freemen; to some 
extent they were protected by law; and at all times their condition was 
mitigated by the humane feelings or religious inhibitions of their mas- 
ters, or, at the lowest level, by the interest of their masters in caring 
for personal property. But in the total state, everyone, without excep- 
tion, is enslaved. 

Against this force of total terror, no secular party or ideology has 
ever, anywhere, stood its ground. Neither Representative Democracy, 





Executive Editor, Mary Bass ¢ Managing Editor, Laura Lou Brookman @ Associate Editors: Hugh MacNair Kahler, 
Bernardine Kielty, Ann Batchelder, Wilhela Cushman, William E. Fink, Alice Blinn, Richard Pratt, Henrietta 
Murdock, Louella G. Shouer, Mary Lea Page, Maureen Daly, Dawn Crowell Norman, John Godfrey Morris, Joan 
Younger, Lonnie Coleman, Margaret Davidson, Nora O’Leary ¢ Contributing Editors: Gladys Taber, Louise Paine 
Benjamin, Gladys Denny Shultz, Barbara Benson, Margaret Hickey ¢ Assistant Editors: John Werner, Charlotte 
Johnson, Donald Stuart, Ruth Mary Packard, Ruth Shapley Matthews, Alice Conkling, June Torrey, Lily 
Glendinning, Joseph Di Pietro, Anne Einselen, Glenn Matthew White, Betty Niles Gray, Jan Weyl, Jeanne Scribner, 
Elizabeth Goetsch ¢ Editorial Assistants: Alice Kastberg, Iris Wilken, Betty Coe, Jeanne Lenton Tracey, Cynthia 
McAdoo, Eleanor Pownall Simmons, Adrina Casparian, Virginia Price, Marion Plummer, Lois Witherspoon, Philippa 
Herman, Jeanne Stiles, Elizabeth McFarland, Polly Toland, Elizabeth Crawford, Marthedith F. Stauffer, 
Virginia Brown, Victoria Harris, Robert N. Taylor, Helen Schmidt Kennedy. 





iw 


From Cake QUEENS 


Dear Sir: 

J just had to write to inform you what 
a marvelous product your Swans Down 
Cake Mix is. Made the chocolate 
cake today and found it as good as my 
prize Devil’s Food which friends told 


e was like eating fudge. 
i ‘Mrs. A. KANE, 


Chicago, Ill. 


The ingredients in this mix, Mrs. Kane, 
are as fine as your own. Egg whites that 
taste farm-fresh (prepared by an eXx- 
clusive process); fresh, all-vegetable 
shortening; delicate, fragrant flavoring; 
soft, superfine Swans Down Cake Flour. 


Swans Down: 
Jam 12 years old tomorrow. I just made 
my own cake with your Swans Down 
Instant Cake Mix, it baked beautiful 


ks lovely. lam very proud over it. 
ae ; HELEN F. TRACY, 


Bangor, Maine 









A product of General Foods 


Swans Down 


Delicacy ! 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


AND BoBpY-SOXERS... 





We are proud, too, Helen, that we can 
help you to puta perfect cake batter into 
the oven in 4 minutes. 


Dear Sirs: 
I was considered the tow n’s best cake- 
maker by all my friends and neighbors, 
but not ‘any more. With Sw ans Dow n 
Cake Mix, they all can make just as 
good cakes as I do 
I never thought there could be a pre- 
pared cake mix that could equal home- 
made cakes. Well, I found out different. 
It’s economical, too, and together W ith 
all the cakes and cookies one can make 
with it, it certainly makes a house- 
keeper’s work easy 
Mrs. Wo. P. CAMPBELL, 
Caro, Mich. 


You are a good sport, Mrs. Campbell, 
to be happy when your neighbors catch 
up with you in cakemaking. But we’ll 
bet that some of the variations you dream 
up are still tops! 


Makes all your favorites 


White cake, chocolate cake, yellow cake, 
spice cake, orange cake, upside-down 
cake, cupcakes, brownies, cookies—no 
end of delicious variations. Each a 
Swans Down beauty! See recipes in box. 


The only cake mix made with 
Swans Down Cake Flour 














Democratic - Socialism, Trade -Unionism, 
Capitalism nor the Intellectuals have of- 
fered real resistance, although the total 
state is the enemy of all. 

Though the total state does gather vic- 
tims from all these groups, victimization is 
not resistance. The plain fact is that the 
civil disobedience comes exclusively from 
religious men. 

Now surely it must be asked why the 
secular institutions of freedom-loving men 
produce no resisters comparable to those 
of the churches. What, but religious con- 
viction, has produced a Mindszenty, an 
Ordass, a Dibelius, a Von Preysing, a 
Von Moltke, a Father Delp? And there are 
hundreds more. Why did these not 
testify, facing death, to belief in democracy 
or liberalism, but only to religious free- 
dom? 

The answer, of course, is that neither 
democracy nor liberalism will sustain a man 
in the face of martyrdom, deliberately 
risked, for neither holds the answer to the 
great and eternal questions: Why were you 
born, whither do you go, and what is the 
sense and meaning of your life? 

Probably secular beliefs collapse when 
faced with total power because the dom- 
inant secular beliefs of our times are in no 
basic and fundamental contradiction to the 
theses of the totalitarian states. They rep- 
resent differences of degree, not fundamen- 
tal differences of kind. 

The secular opponents of the total state 
share its materialism. They hold that there 
is nothing wrong with mankind which 
cannot be healed by external systems: by 
representative government, civil liberties, 
government planning. They assume that 
if everyone were well fed, well clothed, 
well housed and literate, society would 


thereby automatically become virtuous 
and happy. 
The intellectuals—with rare exceptions— 


denounce absolute values. Standards, mor- 
als and traditions are, they argue, mere 
reflections of self-interest and economics. 
They maintain that the person is the prod- 
uct of his social environment or his chro- 
mosomes; that there is no personal sin, no 
personal redemption, and no immortality 
of the soul. 

How could anyone, believing these things, 
face total terror with courage or equanim- 
ity? 

The religious man is able to defy the to- 
tal state precisely because he has a contrary 
world philosophy. Religion demands of him 


October, 1949 


that he recognize as his primary business 
his duty to God. It compels him to recog- 
nize the difference between creative and de- 
structive forces and to make a free choice 
between good and evil. It teaches him that 
man can be good only by intense spiritual 
effort. 

The religious man sees his life, not as 
an accident, but as a gift from God, as 
part of immortal life, which, by his own 
personal thoughts and acts, he can serve 
or injure. 

The religious man is a bound man. But it 
is within those bonds of faith that he 
achieves freedom. 

“Civil liberties’ are a form of freedom 
granted by the state and can be withheld 
or destroyed by the state. But freedom as a 
gift and responsibility from God derives 
from no earthly power and cannot be taken 
away by one. 

To the religious man, total state power 
is blasphemy, for in it Caesar dethrones 
God. The religious man recognizes a higher 
authority: the authority of God. For the 
religious man the state must be just, merci- 
ful, humble, truthful, decorous, noble in 
its institutions, furnishing an example of 
these attributes, and encouraging them in 
its citizens. 

In so far as the state has these quali- 
ties, it is a good state; in so far as it violates 
them, it is a bad state. 

I have spoken of the ‘religious man” 
rather than the Christian, for freedom 
through self-mastery characterizes all great 
religions and religious natures. Gandhi was 
a Hindu, not a Christian, but he denied the 
power of the state to do anything it chose. 
He denied its right to employ naked vio- 
lence, even denied the oppressed the right 
to resort to violent revolution. 

In the West, the religious groups stand 
as the last bulwark of Western man against 
total power because religious men know in 
what they believe. Among them are frailties 
of flesh and spirit, and fifth columns per- 
meate their ranks also. But those who stand 
the tests will not render unto Caesar the 
things that are God's. 

This is the dramatic confrontation of our 
age. On the one side, the ever-expanding 
State—materialist, arrogant, unchecked 
and brutal. And on the other side—resist- 
ance, without weapons, without physical 
power, without force of any kind, by men 
of good will. The last refuge of freedom. 
The last stand for the humble, aspiring dig- 
nity of man. THE END 


kwe awe Keke KKK kK KK K OK Kee eee 


Cdr yA li MM 


BY STRUTHERS BURT 


This I would ask of mystery, this 


only: 

That I should meet friend Death—or 
enemy— 

With level gaze, erect, still walking 
ONS Ge 


Summers are short as you grow older, 

June does not linger on its green- 
gold way, 

July’s a single note of bee-struck 
clover, 

August, remembered heat of yester- 
day; 

Only the autumn pauses and is pen- 
sive, 

Seems kind, is close, companionable, 

So that you count the footsteps in a 
mile, 

And reckless Time is cool and pon- 
derable. 


The deer sleeps in its bed of warm, 
worn grass: 


Kk ok ww Wie Kee eK: 


Dusk searches out the dark; 
The hours pass. 


Build you a fire in the waiting hearth, 

Sit close beside the warmth with one 
you love, 

And in the silence bright and round- 
embracing, 

Recall the thousand relit fires that 
prove, 

Remembered, and relit, and heaped 
with flame, 

How stars retrace the symbol of re- 
currence, 

And night is echo of repeated day, 

And flame, like love, is man’s most 
sure assurance. 


The trees stand choired in silence as 
the night 
Carries the moon above the hill: 
Winter is near; the wary wind is 
still. 


kK kkk KS 





‘ ra 


a 
r 


a 


a 


a cc 
x 
po 
lity fruits chat are 
ally undef che world-famous 
That's why Libby's 8 
cktail ( 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


... looks like silver 


ALUMINUM 






Club utensils available, including various sized 
ered saucepans, open fry pans, chicken fryers, 
itch ovens, roasters. 


tart 
Po Sete 


vith this 15-in. Club Oval Roaster 


‘395 


Young lady, start out cooking right. 
start right out in Club Aluminum 
nd you cook the easy, thrifty, Full- 
‘lavor, top-of-stove way. 

Club cooks inexpensive cuts of 
neat to savory, juicy perfection. 
“here’s less shrinkage, less loss of 
lavor and food value. Because Club 


...cooks like magic 


© 1949 CAPCo. 


cooks the “waterless” way on low 
heat you save vitamins, minerals, 
save fuel, have a cooler kitchen, too. 
The diagram tells the story. It’s Full- 


Flavor cooking! 
—s—, 


MEATS FROM 


» ALL SIDES ¢ 


= 


Thick walls spread 
heat evenly. Mois- 
ture-seal cover bastes 
back food juices. 






Outside hammered finish takes hard 
knocks... resists scratches. Smooth, 
stain-resistant interior cleans up 
quick as a wink. 


Millions of fine cooks use Club. 
Try it in your kitchen. Put it on 
your gift list. Sold at hardware, 
furniture, department stores and 
other dealers, at about half its orig- 
inal price. Club Aluminum Prod- 
ucts Co., Chicago 14, Illinois. 


CLUB ALUMINUM HAMMERCRAFT WATERLESS COOKWARE 


Also makers of Club Glass Coffee Makers and Club Coffee Dispensers 
ne in “Club Time,” ABC network, Tuesday mornings, and hear favorite hymns of famous people 





WEPRINTED COURTESY THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 





October, 1949 






“So she said she spent the afternoon at the beauty par- 


lor ...so I said, “Didn’t they wait on you?’ She said .. .” 


, 


U Jnder-Cyover Stuf 


By BERNARDINE KIELTY 


i AYBE you spend seventy-five 
N cents for a hair set. Maybe you 
spend two dollars, depending on your 
groove. But altogether we women in 
this country (and men with their hair- 
cuts and shaves) spent two billions 
twenty-five millions of dollars last 
year for cosmetics, permanent waves, 
and so on. 
eo 

Nazimova, the Russian actress, was 
the star who introduced hands to the 
American stage. Audiences used to 
swoon over those long, pale, gesturing 
hands of hers. John Barrymore was said 
to have studied with her, Jane Cowl 
shows the influence, and an occasional 
European actress still keeps the tradi- 
tion alive. But Clark Gable is something 
else again. His hands are huge and ex- 





Clark Gable —almost ruined 


actly right for his big husky body. But 
when he first acted one of the hand- 
technique stars got hold of him. In the 
particular part for which she primed 
him he was wearing a stiff straw hat. 
In his nervous state, he kept juggling 
the hat from one hand to the other, and 
finally deposited it on the wall of an old- 
fashioned well surrounded by a circular 
stone wall, which was the center of the 
set. The next minute, still concerned 
with what to do about his hands, he hit 
the hat by mistake and knocked it into 
the well, from which, instead of a deep 
cavernous splash, came the resounding 
whack of a straw hat hitting a bare 
floor. The audience roared and poor 
Clark Gable nearly gave up acting. 
(Continued on Page 16) 


CULVER SERVICE 
Pa — = 





Sod 





by hand “‘technique.”’ 


S¥y 








oa 





e “Tl always used one par- 
ticular shortening for 
cakes and lard for flaky 
pies. Now it’s Swift’- 
ning for both!” Mrs. 
Charles Berry, San Fran- 
cisco, California. 






Digestible! 
Nutritious, too! 


e “Swift’ning is grand 


for frying! It’s so diges- 
tible, so tasteless, and 
doesn’t smoke up the 
kitchen!”” Mrs. Horace 
Collingsworth,Jr., Atlan- 
ta, Georgia. 


Good cooks are 


switching to Swittining 


LADIES’ 






HOME JOURNAL 


Here at last i 


you perfect quick-mix cakes, extra 


fried foods. 


extra nutritious: 


recipes. 


IS a (Tully 


Swift’ning 


it 


all-purpose sho 


Ss 











_ MARTHA LOGANS 
HELPING HAND RECIPE fr 


“HERE'S TO YOU” CAKE 
Watch the litile ek peed show where mistakes 
might be made. 
@ Have all iaeredacats at room temperature. 
Pre-heat oven at 375°. Line bottoms of two 
9-inch layer cake pans with waxed paper. 
Ingredients: (Use standard, level measurements) 


Ya cup Swift’ning | 1 tsp. salt 
2% cups sifted cake flour 1% cups suger 
<P Be sure to sift flour _eup milk 
before measuring. Spoon 1 tsp. vanilla 
lightly into cup. 4 egg whites 
4 tsp. double acting baking powder ‘1/2 tsp. red food 
(5% if tartrate type) s. coloring 


: 
Step 1: Put Swift’ning in bowl. Sift in flour, 


baking powder, salt and sugar. Add 24 c. of the 
milk, and vanilla. Beat 2 min. on medium 


- speed of electric mixer, or by hand using 150 


o other or ike it! 


needs no refrigerat 
See how it 


out-perjorms 


strokes per min. gf Throughout mixing time 
keep batter scraped from sides and bottom of bowl 
with rubber scraper. Scrape bowl and beaters. 


Step 2: Add unbeaten egg whites, remaining 
1§ c. milk, and the food coloring. Beat for 2 
min. Scrape bowl and beaters. Pour equal 
amounts of batter into prepared pans. Bake 
about 28 min: qf When cake is done, it will 
spring back quickly when pressed with finger. 
Cool on cake racks. 

Spread 7-minute icing between layers of cake 
and over top and sides. Insert tiny glass toast 
cups around top of cake and fill with cranberry 
or any preferred fruit juice. 

WHERE TO BUY the glasses? Write Swift & 
Company, Dept.GL, Chicago 9, Ill. If xm prefer. 
decorate the cake with gumdrop “‘Golden M. 

Slice large orange and ek 
low gumdrops (almost to 
bottom) to make narrow 
(shaggy mum) petals. Ar- 
range in alternate colors on 
cake with narrow leaves cut 
from green gumdrops. 





os 4 iat 
ing—one a 


flaky pies, ee ee 
rvelously 
Try it in ally 
all other shortenings. 





U 


10Nn. 


oa oP 








16 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL October, 1949 


Oey 


Xclusive Pattern 


°n an 





ignalu re Silver Plate 


Marvelous value! This 











extra-heavy quality “Signature” Sil- 
ver Plate, with your own initial, is 
with top from 


regular size box of 75% 


Kellogg's Corn-Soya 


y it 
ye 


worth at least double this low special 
price. For easy ordering, there’s a 
handy coupon on the back of each 
Corn-Soya box. 


4 teaspoons, 75c 
4 dessert spoons, $1.00 
4 iced tea spoons, $1.00 
4A salad forks, $1.00 

3 tablespoons, $1.00 

1 knife and fork, $1.00 


Plus one Corn-Soya box-top — 
for each group 
OLD COMPANY PLATE 


— BY ROGERS SILVERSMITHS, 
IN CONNECTICUT SINCE 1825 






é i/ » 


No other cereal gives you all this 


CORN gives flavor and food energy . . . SOYA has 
| more protein than in any cerealtAnd crispy, delicious 
Kellogg’s Corn-Soya brings you vitamins and minerals, 
too. One ounce (24 cup) of this ready-to-eat cereal, 
with 4 ounces of milk, actually provides as much pro- 
tein as one egg and three slices of bacon. Get some at 








(Continued from Page 14) 

MATINEE TOMORROW, by Ward 
Morehouse, is filled with the glamour 
of the theater from the days when 
mother was a girl down to now—a 
straightaway account of the theater in 
this country since 1898, in which the 
author dwells most lovingly on the 
picturesque figures of the past. You 
don’t need to have seen the actresses 
he talks about to know them, because 
they have become legends. Or have 
they? Do the young know about 


INTERNATIONAL NEWS PHOTO 





Lillian Russell 


Lillian Russell —the big-bosomed beauty 
with her satin skin, bright blue eyes and 
blond hair, her many marriages and 
her impulsive generosity? 


Miss Russell had a dressing-room 
maid named Maggie whose duties in- 
cluded the care of her mistress’ pay 
envelope delivered nightly, in cash. 
{fter a time it was discovered that the 
figures on the pay envelope and the 
deposits in the bank did not agree, 
and Maggie was found guilty of hav- 
ing appropriated from twenty to 
thirty dollars a day, and had some- 
thing like $5000 on deposit in her own 
name. Calmness itself, Miss Russell 
was sure that it was her own fault for 
having exposed the girl to the tempta- 
tion, and some years later when Mag- 
gie, with her self-procured dowry, had 
snared a man and invited her former 
mistress to the wedding, Miss Russell 
responded with a fine silver coffee 
service. 


Bill Mauldin is real American—as 
Will Rogers was American. No Euro- 
pean country could have produced 
them. They say their say with a sureness 
that is nurtured only in a democracy. 
Their humorisstraight off the desertand 
the plains. If they’re impudent, it’s not 
for effect. It’s because they’re afraid of 
noone. A SORT OF SAGa, by Mauldin, 
is a gay, lighthearted book of boyhood. 
It’s Bill’s childhood in California and 
Arizona and New Mexico and the roads 
between. It’s lifewith Pop. Mauldin, Sr., 
was an entrepreneur and his projects 
ran from tourist cabins and gold mines 
to dynamiting swamps and rehabilitat- 
ing old autos. In whatever state of the 
Union the Mauldins might be living, 
their back yard always had a large 
“spare parts”’ pile. 


Bill and Sid, the two boys, had a 
riotous time. ‘“‘Look out for cars, stay 
away from railroad tracks and the 


pnako,  tomyiling 


Wonderful Flavor 
—flavor that makes = 
economy dishes fam- 

ily favorites—that’s what you get 


SSDS 


when you add Herb-Ox Bouillon and 
Chicken Cubes. Use them for soup 
stock and gravy base, too! For leaflet of 
delicious new Chinese recipes write 
The Pure Food Co., Inc., Mamaroneck, 

N. Y. Dept. LHJ-10. 





Pork Pot Pie 


Cut 1 lb. boneless pork shoulder in 
1” cubes. Brown in drippings. Add 2 c. 
Herb-Ox Bouillon, 1 bay leaf, dash of 
pepper. Simmer 1 hour or till meat is 
tender. Thicken gravy. Add 1 c, cooked 
carrots, 1 c. cooked celery, 8 small, 
cooked onions. Pour into casserole and 
top with whipped sweet potatoes (or 
white). Brown in oven 15 minutes, 


erb-(}x 


BOUILLON CUBES 








SISTER SIFTERS SET 


meets every sifting need 


FOLEY T.M.REG. 
U.S.PAT.OFF. 





1-cup Foley Sifter sifts directly into 
measuring cup without scattering 
flour. Fits into flour canister. 5-cup 
Foley Sifter sifts quantity ingredients 
easily with one hand. Comes apart 
to wash. Both sifters are single screen 
—guaranteed to sift as fine as triple 
screen. Spring-action handles. Sister 
Sifters Set in gay gift box, $2.18. 






eT OBS Pifun, 

Kon * Por 
‘© Guaranteed by * 
Good Housekeening 
f * 


ip 
#0) we 
245 apyrarystd THY 






MANUFACTURING CO. 
Minneapolis 18, Minn. 











LADIES’ HO 


HAPPY FAMILY LANDINGS! 






















~epper, Ground. Mild 
~ arnish for chicken, 


Whole or Ground. 
“<s, stewed fruit. 
wsserts, cakes, pies. 


Seed. In soups, or 
y flavor is desired. 


PS 
Ss Pickling. Ground: 
A * Ags, and for medic- 


© >-s; or in marinated 
S. 


e e ey ied seasoning con- 
Olf hke lc° ee A ingredient M.S.G. 
‘S on soups, gravies, 

ats. 


Wi th Coco nut’ 


MOTHERS—HERE’S A SLICK TRICK to encourage 
the youngsters to eat their cereal. Small fry love the 
“different’—the new—flavor that Durkee’s Shred 
Coconut adds to their cold cereal favorites. 


FOR AN EXCITING FLAVOR-LIFT in many dishes, 
keep a package of Durkee’s Shred Coconut handy. Try 
it as a topping for oranges, grapefruit or your favorite 
fruit cocktail. And here’s a money-saving tip:—if you 
use a lot of coconut buy the economical 8 ounce bag. 






er 


nwt 


, 
f 
ff 
f 


AZOG Spices. For | 


KYU © 


Yi, 












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COCONUT | 


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Sa 





|. Look to Your Spices! 


poultry seasoning 


A Balanced, Savory Blend. Espe- 
cially good in bread stuffing for 
turkey, chicken. 


rosemary leaves 

Sweetish, Pinelike Herb. In many 
Italian dishes; in poultry stuffing, 
cauliflower. 


parsley flakes 


Green ParsleyLeaves, Dried.Garnish 
for soups, stews, vegetables, salads. 


nufmeg 
Nutlike Kernel. If whole, grate as 
needed. Use ground in baking; on 
custard. 


onion salt 

Pungent Bulb, Powdered, Salted. 
Convenient way to get aroma and 
flavor of onion. 


garlic salt 


Scented Bulb, Powdered, Salted. 
Convenient way to get tangy garlic 
flavor and aroma. 








_ , JOURNAL 
LADIES’ HOME J 


(Continued from Page 16) 
the street from lepers and beggars.”’ 
These were their prescribed limits. 
’ But they found a house filled with fat 


~ 


ladies’? who smiled toothily and 


made gorgeous tortillas. Here they 


YOUR OWN 


: went day after day. That was when Bill 
| was three and Sid was four. Bill had 

i already been smoking cigarettes for 
©xclusive Tet tee months, but at the “‘ladies’’’ house he 


wasn’t allowed to smoke. If his father 





On an 





hadn’t found him and yanked him 


; ignatu 6 Silver Plate | 


Angela Thirkell fans will be glad to 
Marvelous value! This know that THE OLD BANK House 


extra-heavy quality “Signature” Sil- is now out—fifteenth in the series of 
Plat ith aun ‘ital: te Trollopelike, pleasantly sweet-and- 
ver ate, WI your w y 











: sour novels of Barsetshire. One of these 
with top from / worth at least double this low special fans (Mary A. Roche) sent a long poem 
regular size box of price. For easy ordering, there’s a to the publisher. We quote in part: 


Kellogg's Corn-Soya 


coupon on the back of each ve ae 
handy P Cook”’ manages the menu, 


Corn-Soya box. A maid shows in the guests, 
The children—by appointment seen— 
Can never become pests. 


Our author holds the mirror up 
To life—with art uncanny, 

But how I'd like to read a book— 
Just one—withoul a “* Nanny!” 


Actually it is the nannies and the 
cooks-with-menu that make these 
little novels what they are. It’s sort of 
fun—rueful fun—to read about them. 
They are so out of this world in poor- 
little-rich America! 


COLLIER'S 





ci"“Made a long “He'd put his 
eicastintoareed  roddown to get 

{bed, let the his line untan- 
Sispinner settle  gled and his 
dand started a hook hung over 


“ slow reel——” _ the side of the 
. boat and sud- 
: denly a 

; z 

7 



















t Taylor Caldwell (LET LOVE 
FomeE Last) has this to say about 
her writing career: ‘‘I wrote fairy stories 
‘vhen I was a child, then ‘serious’ books 
with ‘missions’ when I was in my twen- 
ties; and the novels about reality when 
I was in my thirties. Now in my forties, 
I write about ‘reasonable’ and mature 
people, and the middle class, whom 
Aristotle has called the backbone of any 
nation. When I am in my fifties I’ll 
probably write fairy stories again, be- 
cause the end of all reality is illusion.” 


4 teaspoons, 75c 
4 dessert spoons, $1.00 
4 iced tea spoons, $1.00 
A salad forks, $1.00 

3 tablespoons, $1.00 

1 knife and fork, $1.00 


Plus one Corn-Soya box-top — 
for each group 





OLD COMPANY PLATE 
—BY ROGERS SILVERSMITHS, 
IN CONNECTICUT SINCE 1825 


It sounds incredible, but it’s true. 
Prince Feisal, of Saudi Arabia, second 
son of King Ibn Saud, is furnishing 
‘ his new summer palace, 400 miles 
Z from Cairo on the Red Sea, with 
American rugs. In a country where 
the rugs on the poorest man’s walls 
would make a Westerner’s eyes water, 


No other cereal gives you all this. | i Piece tens Aeican ron 


CORN gives flavor and food energy . . . SOYA has The Red Sea makes us think again of 
THE EGYPTIAN, that vivid, breathless 
novel of ancient Egypt which will never 
leave us. The author is Mike Waltari, 
too. One ounce (24 cup) of this ready-to-eat cereal, | a Finn, who must have returned to a 
with 4 ounces of milk, actually provides as much pro- | former incarnation. He feels the hot 
Egyptian sun on his shoulders, he smells 
the black earth and hears the rustling of 


| more protein than in any cereal! And crispy, delicious 
Kellogg’s Corn-Soya brings you vitamins and minerals, 


tein as one egg and three slices of bacon. Get some at 


sen eee te oe oe 


October, 1949 





Sugaring-off draws youngsters to the sugar 
house! Hot maple syrup, cooled on snow, 
makes delicious candy—*‘sugar on snow.” 


Full of real 
maple sugar flavor 


If you've ever tasted “sugar on snow” — 
and remember its luscious real maple 
sugar goodness—then you know the de- 
licious flavor of Vermont Maid Syrup. 
To get this real maple sugar flavor, our 
skilled blenders select a maple sugar that 
has a good, full flavor; then blend it with 
cane sugar. This gives you, at moderate 
cost, real maple sugar flavor that is uni- 
formly rich and delicious. Get Vermont 
Maid Syrup at your gro- 
cer's today! 
Penick & Ford, Ltd., Inc. 
Burlington, Vermont 








®, Im Artwire 


s Rae (dil 
a Me ie ae me 


oe 


=/ RUBBER - COVERED 


WIRE KITCHEN AIDS. 


co ee o 

F Guemeed by 

Good Housekeeping 
* 


oo 45 soyrerisce ee 


5 populor sizes includ- 
ing twin-sink size. 
Stacks dishes for easy 
rinsing and drying. 


CUP AND SAUCER 
STORING RACK 
Holds service for 8 
(cups and saucers) in 

one unit. 


Assured protection for your fine China 


Space Sewers 


PLATE STORING 
RACKS—Two sizes (3 
and 5 section)—plates 
removed without dis- 
turbing others. 


a a 
ASK FOR “ARTWIRE 
QUALITY PRODUCTS” 
BY NAME-AT YOUR 
FAVORITE HOUSE- 
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STM ae Mme 
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SUFFERN, N. Y 


: 











LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


orning Magic with Coconut’ 


MOTHERS—HERE’S A SLICK TRICK to encourage 
the youngsters to eat their cereal. Small fry love the 












THE SPICE 
IN YOUR LIFE! 
by 
Virginia Coates 


SPICE COOKERY has come into its 
own! Today good cooks know a pinch 
of flavorful seasoning turns a tired 
dish into a tantalizing treat! 


START A SPICE CHEST from the 
chart on this page. These spices are 
“musts” for good day-to-day seasoning. 
Of course, there are dozens of others 
you will want to add and learn to use. 
I suggest you try marjoram next... 
then thyme, basil, mace, and oregano. 
And don’t overlook Durkee’s special- 


ties... Apple Pie Spice and Pumpkin 
Pie Spice .. . for that “just right” taste 
in pies and other desserts. 


CHECK UP AND STOCK UP your 
spice assortment often. It’s budget- 
wise to replace half empty tins which 
are out of date and out of flavor. After 
all . . . there’s no point in adding a 
spice to any food 
unless it con- 
tributes its full, 
zestful savor. 


Write for a free 
copy of this chart... 
Virginia Coates, 
Durkee’s Famous 
Foods, Dept. J-10, 
Elmhurst, Long 
Island, New York. 


PEPPE) 


MA. 





© 1949, The Gliéten Company 









“different’—the mew —flavor that Durkee’s Shred 
Coconut adds to their cold cereal favorites. 


FOR AN EXCITING FLAVOR-LIFT in many dishes, 
keep a package of Durkee’s Shred Coconut handy. Try 
it as a topping for oranges, grapefruit or your favorite 
fruit cocktail. And here’s a money-saving tip:—if you 
use a lot of coconut buy the economical 8 ounce bag. 


~ 
So 


=. 





va act RED 
CHoict 


ady...Look to Your Spices! 


paprika 


Sweet Red Pepper, Ground. Mild 
flavor, gay garnish for chicken, 
fish, salads. 


cinnamon 

Peeled Bark, Whole or Ground. 
Stick: In drinks, stewed fruit. 
Ground: In desserts, cakes, pies. 


celery seeds 


Tiny Savory Seed. In soups, or 
wherever celery flavor is desired. 


mustard 
Seeds: Used in Pickling. Ground: 
In salad dressings, and for medic- 
inal uses. 


pickling spice 

Assortment of Whole Spices. For 
pickling, relishes; or in marinated 
fish, stews, beets. 


flavor salt 


Complete blended seasoning con- 
taining miracle ingredient M.S.G. 
Works wonders on soups, gravies, 
vegetables, meats. 


We 
mi 





r 


er Scented Bulb, Powdered, Salted. 


es 


poultry seasoning 


A Balanced, Savory Blend. Espe- 
cially good in bread stuffing for 
turkey, chicken. 


rosemary leaves 


Sweetish, Pinelike Herb. In many 
Italian dishes; in poultry stuffing, 
cauliflower. 


parsley flakes 


Green Parsley Leaves, Dried.Garnish 
for soups, stews, vegetables, salads. 


nutmeg 
Nutlike Kernel. If whole, grate as 
needed. Use ground in baking; on 
custard. 


onion salt 

Pungent Bulb, Powdered, Salted. 
Convenient way to get aroma and 
flavor of onion. 


garlic salt 


Convenient way to get tangy garlic 
flavor and aroma. 


7.2 


Wiis BETTER PROOF OF YOUR GOOD TASTE 


than Towle Sterling on your table? There is no 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


there is no lovelier Sterling anywhere. 

The traditions of skill and craftsmanship in 
which every piece of Towle Sterling is created go 
back for two and a half centuries. The exquisite 
Towle patterns are designed by leading artists, 
made by masters in the art of silversmithing. 

Every single piece of Towle is Sterling — solid 
silver. And yet, in spite of its lifetime beauty — 
Towle Sterling cannot wear out — it is not expen- 


sive. A six-piece place setting can cost as little 


October, 1949 


a Wait til they see youve chosen ‘Lowle! 


start at $2.95. So little to pay for an investment 
in gracious living that will last all of your life- 
time — and more! 


TOWLE SILVERSMITHS, NEWBURYPORT. MASSACHUSETTS 


-OWLE 


S°T © Litas 


—_ 





7 - 
2 2, ~yhkitthe yljttt IP 








THE LIFT THAT 
NEVER LETS 
You Down 


For the curves you crave, 
wear a dainty ‘‘Perma-lift’’* 
Bra—the magic bra preferred 
by smart women everywhere. 
Guaranteed to give you last- 
ing healthful support, there’s 
no straining pull on your 
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your breasts from below, 
never lose that support 
through countless washings 
and wear. Deftly fashioned 
of satin, broadcloth or nylon, 
there’s a new ‘“‘Perma-lift” 
Bra style just perfect for you. 
Be expertly fitted today. For 
sports and dress— $1.50 to $4, 
at your favorite store. 


For a slim trim figure, enjoy the 

lasting comfort of a‘‘Perma + lift’’ 

Girdle—‘‘No Bones About It— 
Stays Up Without Stays.” 


*** Perma-lift’’ and **Hickory’’ are trade marks of 
A. Stein & Co. (Reg. U. S. Pat. Off.), Chicago 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from.Page 18) 
the reeds in the Nile. He thinks like a 
1300 B.C. Egyptian. He is once again in 
ancient Thebes and we—fortunate com- 
panions—are with him. 


This is the story of Sinuhe, a phy- 
sician, a man whom many women 
loved, who was a friend of Akhnaton, 
the Pharaoh, and Horemheb, the 
great general. (Akhnaton was that re- 
markable modern-minded Pharaoh 
who 1350 years before Christ was born 
believed in one god, a god of truth, of 
peace and good will; and Horemheb 
was the conqueror of the Syrians and 
the Hittites.) This was the world of 
more than three thousand years ago, 
before there were any Greeks, much 
less Romans, and when the Jews (the 
Khabiri) were wild nomad shepherds 
roaming the hills back of Syria. These 
were the days of Babylonia and of 
Crete, with Thebes the center of a so- 
phisticated, elegant civilization. 


Did you know that in those faraway 
days a good doctor like Sinuhe operated 
commonly on the human skull? That he 
gave raw liver when the patients grew thin 
and pale (anemia)? 

That beautiful women shaved the hair 
off thetr entire bodies, including the head? 
And wore wigs of fashionable color when 
in public? 

That travelers carried letters of credit on 
large trading companies? 

That there was dentistry in Babylonia? 
And modern plumbing in Crete? 

That, having no clocks, they measured 
time by water drops? 

That many people put thetr children out 
in reed baskets to float down the River 
Nile? 


Some who read this wonderful book 
will always remember Akhnaton, the 
prince who tried to ease the work of 
slaves, who tried to put over a New 
Deal in Thebes. Others will always re- 
member Nefernefernefer, the ravish- 
ing, rapacious courtesan in her diaph- 
anous fine linens. Still others will 
remember the desert battles and the 
siege of ancient cities, beside which 
the battle scenes of Henry V (movie 
version) pale. We repeat, it is a book 
that you can never lose once you have 
read it. It becomes a part of your con- 
sciousness. 


A very interesting fact, and a possible 
explanation of how it is THE EGYPTIAN 
takes such a hold, is that Mika Waltari, 
the author, used to be a successful de- 
lective-story writer. (Detective-story writ- 
ing, we have always said, is the most 
skilled professional writing in the whole 
jiction field.) 

e 


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PUBLIC 


SCHOOL 


How Good is Yours? 


By MARGARET HICKEY 


work affects the lives and futures of 30,000,000 boys and 

girls. The town with a school board determined to fulfill 
community needs will have schools ranking high in the 
standards of American education. The town with an unin- 
terested board, full of prejudice or personal interest, will have 
poor schools as a certain result. 

Our boards of education have broad and sweeping powers. 
The day is past when the chief duties were to hire the 
teachers, boss the janitor, buy the chalk and erasers. Today 
they order the erection of buildings, employ large numbers 
of personnel, and select courses of study. They handle valu- 
able properties and advise their communities upon the amount 
of taxes needed to keep the schools going. 


Ye can’t afford to take school boards for granted. Their 


Choice of Members Important 


Selection of the right people for such important duties is a 
very serious matter. Qualifications needed to make a good 
school-board member are not too difficult to meet: an adequate 
educational background, of course, but also genuine interest 
and the willingness to study community needs. A good school- 
board member must be willing to take a stand for better 
schools even though pressure and unfair criticism result. 
Farmer, housewife, storekeeper, industrial worker or bank 
president may qualify. 

Women should have a very special interest in serving on 
school boards. More and more they are beginning to realize 
their place in the educational statesmanship of their com- 
munities. On the average school board of five members, it is 
estimated that one is a woman. Of the 400,000 members of 
boards all over the country, there are about 30,000 women. 

Even when community groups persuade the right people 
to run for the school board, the entire battle is not won. 
It is also necessary to acquaint the public with the impor- 
tance of the right choice for this office. The varying methods 
used to select board members require different techniques. 
In some cities, members are appointed by the mayor; in 
ethers, by state officials. Nearly 85 per cent.are elected by the 
people of the community. It is to the advantage of the board 
to be chosen ata special election, for identity of the candidates 
is easily lost in the shuffle of a general election. 


Their School Executive Officer 


A board which serves its community well will place firmly 
in the hands of an able school superintendent responsibility 
for operating the schools. From his “board of directors” the 
superintendent gets policies, counsel and support. Many 
people still do not understand the difference between the 
executive work of the superintendent and the policy-making 
functions of the board. 

Make sure your school board is a good one. Be certain that 
its members merit your trust and confidence. For the local 
school board is American to the core, and at the core of 
strength in our national life. THE END 


23 


AFFAIRS DEPARTMENT - Edited by MARGARET HICKEY 





BOARDS... 


Revolt in Hast St. Louis, Illinois 


OR generations, citizens of East St. Louis have taken their run-down 

school system the same way they take the town’s hot summers. Every- 

body talked about politics on the school board, but no one ever thought 
of doing anything about it. 

The revolt began quietly at a potluck-dinner meeting of the Business 
and Professional Women’s Club in the fall of 1946, at a time when national 
directors of the organization were suggesting that local units sponsor more 
women for policy-making public offices. Someone moved that the East St. 
Louis club back Bernice Goedde as a candidate for the school board, at the 
election that following spring. Bernice doesn’t fluster easily, but it was 
obvious that she was stunned: “I don’t know anything about politics,” she 
told them. “I don’t have any children and I don’t know much about the 
schools.” Then she thought further. “Of course, I did go to school here 
myself. If you really want me to run for the school board, Pll do the 
best I can.” 

The clubwomen knew that Bernice Goedde’s best would be hard to beat. 
A member of a family that for three generations had run Southern Illinois’ 
largest lumberyard, Bernice had settled down to the management of this 
thriving business, after winning her license as an architect. Businessmen 
and clubwomen knew her way of stating blunt truths with an engaging smile 
that breaks into a hearty laugh hard to resist. 

Still, the East St. Louis situation was a tough one. Ever since the boot- 
legging gangs moved across the Mississippi from St. Louis back in the 
twenties, a bipartisan machine financed by gambling money could buy 
enough votes at each election to run the town its own way. Women had 
kept out of the political struggle waged with ballot (Continued on Page 31) 


PAUL BERG 


Bernice Goedde looks over a dilapidated one-room 
school typical of others in East St. Louis in 
1948. Under her regime as president of the 
school board such buildings are being abandoned. 





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October, 1949 


elerence [| ibrary |. |, 


CHRISTMAS KNITS 


HAT lovelier gifts could anyone give or receive than beautiful hand- 
made knits? Make socks for dad and college men, caps and sweaters 
for the children, and tailored or party sweaters for the feminine names on 
your list. They will all love them—and you too! 
wv) 


| 2372. KNITTED WESKIT. L5e. 
- am 5 : 
To be worn with skirt and blouse, or 


to brighten a basic dress. 


2494. CABLE-KNIT PULL-OVER. L5e. 
A coed favorite worn inside or over 
a special skirt with contrasting belt, 


’ 2499. NYLON PULL-OVER. L5e. 
si Who could resist a sweater so soft—so ahr 


’ 
4 
LM 


eusy to launder? 


\ ey 2192. SIMPLE PARTY SWEATER, 5c. 
\ Make it from pink-and-gold yarn, 
add gold buttons and belt. 


> 
< v 2554. CAPE-COLLARED SWEATER. L5e. - 
Lovely for evening with a o 


full taffeta skirt. r { 


~ 
~ 4 


2436. TAILORED SLIPOVER. 0c. 


re 4 
NM 
= 


Make this in soft, pastel angora. 


In a companion for 2435. 





2553. ROUND-NECKLINE SWEATER, 5c. 
Gold sequins add party touch 


to this easy-to-make evening sweater. Yo 


2537. LITTLE GIRL’S SWEATER. lL5c. 


Every little gicl will love a sweater 


re with her own name on the front. 
< ae 


ies 2435. EVER-POPULAR CARDIGAN. lc. 


= Also lovely in angora yarn—or 
even a daintily tinted nylon. 


2498. MEN’S STRAIGHT SOCKS. lic. 
Initials or nickname can be worked 


on the side in contrasting color. 


2538. STOCKING CAP AND SOCKS, lic. 
Made in easy ribbed stitch—wonder- 
ful for long hours in the snow! 


2152. ARGYLE SWEATER AND PANTS. lOc. 
Sheet includes directions for com- 
plete suit—or make just the sweater. 


2387. STOCKING CAP. 10c. . 
Each tassel is made from a different color. 
Cap part is done in both colors. 


2539. RIB STITCH PANTIES. lic. : ; 
Can be used as part of = 7/77." tl ~ 
complete set with 2538. i t & 


We will gladly send any of these patterns if you'll order by name and number. They will be 
mailed anywhere in the Uniled States and Canada upon receipt of cash, check or money order. 
Do not send stamped, addressed envelopes or Savings Stamps. Readers in all foreign countries 
should send International Reply Coupons, purchased at their post office. Please address all re- 

quests to the Reference Library, Ladies’ Home Journal, Philadelphia 5, Pennsylvania. 0Yo 







LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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26 





Makin g 


arrlage Work 


By CLIFFORD f. ADAMS 


Ph,.D., Pennsylvania State College 
Department of Psychology 


Ye hip, fuisd surprise of married life ti lal 
live tncvews0es ta frcporlion he ths duoabow. 


Building Companionship 


in marriage are sexual attraction and compan- 

ionship. Even with one tie weak or nearly ab- 
sent, the other may be sufficiently strong to hold the 
couple together. But one must be present if the mar- 
riage is to succeed. 

In the ideal union, the couple are matched in many 
ways even before marriage. They have comparable 
backgrounds, mutual interests, and similar standards 
and ideals. These are the basis of a firm and lasting 
companionship. The ties binding such a couple can— 
and should—increase in number and strength during 
the courtship and particularly after marriage. 

But even under favorable circumstances, the growth 
of companionship is not automatic. On the other hand, 
a wise and loving wife can do much to cultivate it even 
under handicaps. 

These are the elements of companionship in mar- 
riage: 


iif HE two strongest ties binding husband and wife 


e@ Sharing activities. Husbands and wives who enjoy 
life together shar@each other’s interests, hobbies and 
other recreational pursuits. Together they go to the 
movies, potter in the garden, play cards or pursue 
whatever activities their tastes suggest. And if at the 
outset they haven’t many recreational outlets in com- 
mon, they develop them. The wife, in particular, cul- 
tivates interests to match her husband’s. If he takes 
snapshots, she can collect them in an album. 
e Sharing social life. Though it is desirable for hus- 
band and wife to be content with each other’s com- 
pany, it is important that they have friends outside 
the family. Formal social activities may involve close 
friends, but often they do not. The most satisfying so- 
cial life for most couples is informal, inexpensive, and 
includes people attractive to both. Each spouse should 
make every effort to cultivate and like the other’s 
friends; each should avoid social entanglements which 
bore—or worse, exclude—the other. 
e Sharing purposes. Working together to achieve def- 
inite objectives is one of the most satisfactory ways to 
build enduring companionship, and this opportunity 
is available to almost every married couple. The ob- 
jective may be saving money toward buying a house; 
it may be expanding the garden, or painting a room. 
The nature of the objective is unimportant so long as 
it concerns something both want, and for which they 
can work together. 
@ Sharing children. Obviously both parents share in 
the creation of a child, but too often they do not share 
in the upbringing. Though the advent of the first baby 
often ends the mother’s participation in some outside 
activities which she formerly enjoyed with her hus- 
band, a new interest awaits both parents at home. The 
baby’s bath and bedtime should be, not chores as- 
sumed by the mother alone, but a high point of the 
day for the whole family. 
e@ Emotional sharing, or unity, between husband and 
wife, being intangible, is difficult to define, but vital to 
attain. It means sharing not only activities, but 
thoughts and feelings; it means spiritual identification 
of each with the other. Talking over problems, hopes 
and worries are obvious examples—but too often 
their purpose is defeated by nagging, criticism and 
complaint. 

Ame nrohlem ar annortunitv invoalvino nne nartner 


participate actively in every situation confronting her 
husband in fact, she can do so in spirit, whether 
the occasion is a minor annoyance or a major Crisis. 
If he has to change a tire, she can hand him the 
tools, instead of sitting in the shade. If she waits 
up for him when he has to work late, she is closer to 
him simply because she has matched her schedule 
to his. 

Such little acts, trivial in themselves, have a total 
effect far greater than their seaenstintle value. They 
express the will to share, and sharing is the essence of 
companionship. Cultivate habits of sharia with your 
husband, in work, in play, in thought and feeling— 
for habits gain significance through repetition. 


Building Healthy Attitudes 
Giese maladjustment is a major problem in at 


least one marriage in four, according to our re- 
search. As husbands and wives, these couples 
suffer; as parents, they wonder how they can help 
their children attain a better understanding of sex 
than they themselves have achieved. 

Adequate information is important in achieving a 
satisfactory sex adjustment. But attitudes are the vital 
influence determining an individual’s adjustment to 





Has Marriage Made You Happier? 


Marriage may mean much more to you than you 
realize. Think back to your single days. Contrast your 
happiness then and now as you answer these questions 
with a thoughtful Yes or No. (Wives without children 
will omit the last five questions.) 


1. Don’t you have a greater sense of security? 
2. Isn’t it easier for you to make sacrifices? 
3. Don’t you have more companionship now? 
4. Isn’t your husband your most understand- 
ing confidant? 
5. Don’t you look forward to his home-coming? 
- Isn°t sharing with him one of your greatest 
rewards? 
7. Wouldn’t you feel lost without him? 
8. Aren’t your motives more completely ful- 
filled? 
9. Don’t you have a deeper feeling of belong- 
ingness? 
10. Aren’t you sorry for friends who haven’t 
married? 
11. Isn’t your future more stable and better 
planned? 
12. Aren’t your recreations more satisfying and 
wholesome? 
13. Isn’t there greater purpose in your life? 
14. Haven’t you more real friends than ever 
before? 
15. Aren’t you glad you are married? 
16. Isn’t your children’s trust important to 
you? 
17. Don’t their achievements bring you a great 
thrill? 
18. Isn’t their love one of your most prized 
possessions? 
19. Aren’t they a real source of joy for you? 


6 —~> 
20. Isn’t any one of them worth all your sacri- 
fices? 


Many wives and mothers make near-perfect scores. If 
your “‘Yes” answers total more than 13 (9 without chil- 


dren), you are happier than when you were single. With 
sv? ornroa pit i figs (72 Paty beara ey Dat Py ie 


ate eters ene ie, OOrrrey ee ae 


marriage, and to the sex relationship which is an in- 
tegral part of marriage. 

These attitudes begin to form at birth. In all proba- 
bility, they are largely determined within the first few 
months of a baby’s life. While the patterns undergo 
modification and refinement as time passes, their di- 
rection is set long before the child enters school. 

All authorities are agreed that children receive their 
first impressions of sex from their parents. You had 
your first lesson in love when your mother held and 
fondled you, providing the warmth and security you 
needed. The very tones of her voice subtly affected 
your attitudes. 

And you received another lesson when diapers were 
changed or baths given. These incidents are the in- 
fant’s initial instruction in body functions. Such 
services, performed willingly but casually, teach 
him to take for granted his body and its function; 
but if often accompanied by impatience or distaste, 
these everyday activities inevitably begin to seem 
shameful. 

Next comes an exciting discovery. The baby finds 
that he has a mouth and ears and hands and feet. And 
just as naturally as he locates and handles his fingers 
and toes, he touches and explores the sex organs. In 
this way the baby learns about himself. If parents’ re- 
actions are the same with each discovery, no harm is 
done. But if certain discoveries are greeted with alarm 
or disapproval, attitudes of shame and fear are in the 
making. 

When the child enters school, his interests widen. 
He is curious about many things, sex included. The 
wise mother does her best to satisfy this curiosity, sex 
included. Her manner is the same when the questions 
concern sex as when they concern planes or tractors 
or darkness. And she teaches him to use the correct 
body words, in a matter-of-fact way. 

Sometime between two and four, most children 
want to know where babies come from. The only sat- 
isfactory answer to this question is the truth. Simi- 
larly, when the six- or seven-year-old wants to know 
how babies get started, the mother should give a truth- 
ful answer, adapted to the child’s understanding. 
Children whose parents have answered their ques- 
tions honestly usually turn to their parents when they 
want more information, rather than to some outsider. 

Finally, parents’ attitude toward each other is a 
vital factor in a child’s impressions of sex. If your 
mother and father loved each other, and regarded the 
sex relationship as a natural and beautiful expression 
of their love, the benefit of this influence is still with 
you. On the other hand, if your mother regarded the 
marital relationship as a duty or a burden, it will be 
hard to rid yourself of that impression now. 

If you and your husband haven’t achieved a satis- 
factory relationship, the difficulty almost certainly 
originates in the childhood impressions of one or both 
of you. Mutual blame only aggravates the problem. 

Why not discuss the situation, including your early 
backgrounds? This may not bring immediate improve- 
ment, but it should increase the sympathy and under- 
standing which are the basis for improvement. 

Give it a trial, for your children’s sake as well as 
your own. For remember that the greater your knowl- 
edge and understanding of sex, the better your chil- 
dren’s chances of achieving a satisfactory adjustment 
and a happy marriage. 


Do You Agree? 


The boy I date is very jealous and suspicious. 
Doesn’t this prove he loves me? 


Unfortunately, it doesn’t. Assuming that you are 
honest and fair with him, his jealousy should subside 


2 Ee Teo. See, * ey a eee 2 3 Sn, 


mt See 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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28 


tw Convo THallowen 


ULL up an old pumpkin and let’s talk this over. It 

doesn’t take black cats, spooks in the corner and 

wailing ghosts to make a good party—but it helps! 

That’s why everybody wants to get the crowd to- 
gether on Halloween night, the best date in the year to 
give a boy-girl party. (Incidentally, witches’ night out 
falls on a Monday this year, so better plan your shin- 
dig a couple of days early to hit the week end.) 

Not long ago I went to an interesting and different 
high-school party—a cross between a dance and a car- 
nival, staged in the school gym. The whole thing worked 
out so well (if a fellow and girl didn’t want to dance 
one number, they could play “hit the milk bottles,” 
“break the record” or some other game on the side) 
that I’m changing the plans round to fit Halloween and 
passing them on to you. It’s a smart idea for a big 
crowd because it keeps everybody busy, and if you’re 
planning a smaller party, just break the plans down to 
your size. 

What does it look like? ... Whether the party 
is big or small, the basic decorating plans can be the 
same. If you livein the country or a small town, 


make the most of free decorations by dragging in corn- 
stalks and colored leaves to heap in corners, use pump- 
kins, ears of corn and yellow and green squash as deco- 
rations. Then fill in all the empty spots with bunches of 
orange and black balloons and crepe paper hung in 
loops and streamers and arranged lanternlike around 
the lights. The effect will be a cross between traditional 
Halloween and a country-dance motif. If you live too 
far from the country to raid the cornfields, then you'll 
have to depend almost entirely on crepe paper, bal- 
loons and cutout decorations. The decorations often 
set the mood for the evening, so hang plenty. And to 
help you with your budget planning, here are some 
prices of Halloween materials to go by: orange and 
black crepe paper can be bought for $1.10 for twelve 
rolls; orange balloons are about $2.00 for twelve dozen; 
and black balloons (a specialty sold around Halloween) 
will cost about $3.00 to $3.50 for the same number. 

If this party is a school-gym affair, reserve one wall 
for the juke box or dance band and line the three other 
walls with refreshment and amusement booths. Best 
arrangement on this is to let each club in school plan, 


THE SUB-DEB @ EDITED BY MAUREEN DALY 





decorate and run one booth, allowing the club to keep 
the profits for the club treasury while the dance com- 
mittee depends on dance bids for its profit. Thus, while 
dancing goes on in the middle of the floor, fun and funds 
are piling up all round the edges! 

What does it taste like? . . ~ Several booths, 
hung with crepe paper and floating with balloons, 
can be used to sell refreshments. Pick things inexpen- 
sive to stock and easy to serve, such as taffy ap- 
ples on the stick, orange and black paper cones of 
caramel corn, and ice-cold apple cider in paper cups. 
Sugar doughnuts, holed over an orange-and-black 
broomstick, will draw a hungry crowd. If the weather 
is cold, one booth might sell hot chocolate or chile, to 
be eaten with a wooden spoon and served in thick pa- 
per cups. The director of your school cafeteria can help 
set prices on these refreshments so you can plan for a 
small profit. But keep all the food simple, over-the- 
counter fare that can be eaten in the hand. 

And how about fun? ... At this party, danc- 
ing will be the come-on attraction, so have a choice col- 
lection of records on hand for the juke box, or arrange 
to hire a good dance band. If there are a number of 
“swing your partner” enthusiasts in your school, a 
square-dance combo (who can play a few sweet tunes 
on the side) would be fun and in keeping with the rustic 
setting of the evening. 

And now for the amusement booths. The clubs will 
probably have some good ideas of their own for this, 
but you might start the plans rolling by suggesting 
such oldies as “hit the milk bottle” (use ordinary milk 
bottles, tennis balls and a tumbling mat from the 
gym to cushion the fall) or a ring-tossing booth, 
using embroidery hoops at three for a dime to toss over 
hard-to-loop ten-cent-store prizes. Try a darts booth 
with orange and black balloons as targets. In the Hal- 
loween mood, set up a fortunetelling booth with a for- 
tuneteller (maybe the school gossip columnist in gypsy 
costume, black wig and turban) smart enough to know 
exactly who would like to have what “dark young man” 
in her future. A ‘‘fun photo” booth is always a big 
draw if you can find a local or student photographer 
willing to contribute his services for flash pictures. Get 
the art class to paint backdrops for comic poses so the 
fellows and girls can watch the birdie with their heads 
sticking up over cardboard facsimiles of fat ladies, 
clowns and big-muscled strong men. You'll get some 
good shots for the school yearbook too. Just turn the 
planning committees loose with these ideas as starters 
and they’ll come up with a dozen more fresh and 
funny suzgestions. 

For instance, the high school I visited initiated a 
“break the record” game at their party, which drew 
the biggest crowd of the evening. Everyone wanted to 
fight it out for Bing or Frankie at three balls for ten 
cents. There was even a “‘request service” so players 
could request the record they wanted most to try to 
break! Here’s how the game is played: You'll need a 
collection of old (or unwanted!) records, some hard 
baseballs and a long board, deeply grooved. The board 
is set at the back of the booth, on a slow slant, and the 
records are rolled down the groove like clay pigeons, 
while the player tries to break them with a ball as they 
pass. And it’s just about ten times harder than it looks! 

Ask the crowd to come in jeans and cottons to make 
the mood even more carnival and casual. You’ll have 
all the spooks wanting to come out of their corners to 
join the crowd because there will be no mystery about 
the fact that this Halloween party is fun for everybody. 









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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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October, 1949 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


REVOLT IN EAST ST. LOUIS, ILLINOIS 


(Continued from Page 23) 


stuffing, business boycotting and outright 
violence. 

But Bernice Goedde was not a woman 
easily frightened. She decided her first move 
was to learn as much about the school situa- 
tion in her home town as possible. Architect- 
fashion, one of her first moves was to build 
a pine-paneled office for herself in the base- 
ment of the modest six-room bungalow she 
and her mother had just bought. There she 
piled a knee-hole desk high with magazines, 
newspaper clippings, books, and corre- 
spondence with experts in school administra- 
tion. Meanwhile she systematically studied 
public education in East St. Louis. It was 
not a pretty picture: 

Graduate teachers expected to handle up- 
wards of forty children had been held to a 
starting salary of $1700. They found it hard 
to introduce progressive methods learned at 
normal school in rooms where desks were 
rigidly bolted to the 
floor in old-fashioned 
regimented rows. 
Textbooks written 
fifteen or twenty 
years ago were still 


keke ke keke kek Kk 


sion. There was no system-wide Federal 
school-lunch program, no real vocational 
education or counseling, no general I.Q. 
testing, no visiting teachers for maladjusted 
children. 


Bernice GoEDDE was good and mad by the 
time she had gathered all the facts about the 
schools available to any taxpayer, but her 
anger is the constructive brand that says, 
“All right, now what do we do about it?” 
The first thing she did was to set up a ten- 
point platform: 

1. Full use of tax funds for the benefit of 
the community as a whole. 

2. Efficient and economical administration 
of the school system. 

3. Maximum service to the community at 
a minimum tax rate. 

4. Full authority delegated to administra- 
tive personnel, subject to rules and general 
policies of the board. 

5. Employment 
and promotion of 
personnel solely on 


St “s te ibe ean discrimina- 


in use. tion in the employ- 

The system had the BY JESSE STUART ment of personnel on 
highest school-leav- basis of race, creed, 
ing rate in the state, It is too late for beetles now to sing, political affiliation, 
and Miss Goedde Too late for butterflies to drink sex or marital status. 


thought she knew 


from flowers; 


7. Compensation 


why. Youngsters who Now is the time for hunters’ guns to for persons compa- 


expected to graduate 
into the stockyards, 
the railroad yards or 
the light and heavy 
industries with which 
East St. Louis is 
liberally supplied just 
weren’t interested in 


ring 


unaware 


In these brown autumn leaf-strewn 
woods of ours. 
The chill has come and caught us 


For frosts have nipped the corn 
and cane and burley; 


rable to that paid by 
private industry. 

8. Uniform pay for 
comparable work 
without regard to race 
or sex. 

9. Vocational guid- 
ance with aptitude 


the academic curricu- Two weeks ago the days were warm tests for all junior- 
lum of the high school. and fair and senior-high- 
Little attempt was But unexpected frost came very school pupils. 
made to give them early.... 10. Vocational 
the vocational train- The rabbits’ fur has changed from school at high-school 
ing they needed. gray to brown, level for the benefit 
Repair of school The color of ripe leaves beneath of pupils who do not 
buildings had been the sun; plan for a college ed- 
neglected so long that They feed when soft moon-misted ucation. 


the school board was 


stitches where an 
earlier one stitch 
would have been suf- 
ficient. A building in- 
spector from the state 
education depart- 


bird cries; 


windy skies. 


d N leaves rain down. 

faced with taking nine Night brings them refuge from the 
hunter’s gun. 

This is the time of frost and wild- 


The time of ripe leaves and blue 


Miss Goedde took 
her platform to Bob 
Barracks, crusading 
editor of the East St. 
Louis Journal. He 
promptly endorsed 
it and urged her to 
write a full-length 


ment reported that eke eet ke 2 a ake ae article on each of her 


the roofs of some 

schools were so bad 

you could see the sun shining through. Fire- 
escape doors rusted shut, unkept school 
playgrounds, no doors to the girls’ toilets, 
and even one school (McKinley) with no in- 
side plumbing were what Miss Goedde dis- 
covered. 

And there was more. Custodial jobs had 
been dispensed as political favors by the 
political machine. Gossip had it that repair 
work was handed out to the contractors will- 
ing to kick back part of the money to the 
school board. And there was a widespread 
assumption that teachers depended on the 
board’s whim for their jobs. 


Dr. F. L. EVERSULL, who left his post as 
principal of the senior high school in East 
St. Louis in 1933 and is now on the staff of 
Washington University in nearby St. Louis, 
puts the situation politely: ““Service on the 
school board carried no pay, but it was widely 
regarded as a steppingstone for the po- 
litically ambitious and a means of rewarding 
the politically faithful.” Supplies for the 
school cafeterias, for instance, were bought 
at retail from two or three grocers. Premium- 
priced fresh eggs came from the chicken farm 
of a board member’s wife. 

Fearful of investigation, the old board had 
made little effort to get Federal or state aid. 
No school buildings were built with PWA 
funds in East St. Louis during the depres- 


points. Miss Goedde 

doesn’t enjoy writing, 
but she managed to marshal her evidence in 
the informal hearty style in which she talks. 
In her first article she likened the school 
district to an industrial plant worth three 
million dollars. 

“Unlike other industries,” she went on, 
“it manufactures nothing which it can sell. 
It is not supposed to deal in steel, or in 
aluminum, or in grain. It deals in human 
beings and in the future of these human be- 
ings, and in the future not only of this state, 
of this nation, but, in fact, of this world.’ 

While Bernice was struggling with her 
articles, Mrs. George Warren, an active 
community worker, was busy getting fifty 
registered voters to sign a petition necessary 
to get Bernice Goedde’s name on the ballot. 
When the time came for filing, the petition 
contained 1100 names! 

The clubwomen framed a letter to every 
voter in East St. Louis and distributed sam- 
ple ballots all over town. Members of the 
Business and Professional Women’s Club 
spent six or eight hours a day distributing 
ballots to every house in the city. Cash con- 
tributions came in for the campaign from 
well-wishers in and out of the organization. 
Miss Goedde recalls that the Bartenders 
Union and the local Young Women’s 
Christian Association endorsed her name for 
the school board on the same day. All told, 

(Continued on Page 135) 


31 


the Only-est little Sleepers 







Sh-shers at right 
“Diapenda” fj shirt. Birth to 
2 yrs. 69¢ to 85¢ 
Jiffon—> Nevabind gown 
open or closed back. Birth 
to 1 yr. $1.25-$1.65. 


No Ginding. 


One- or two-pant 

sleeper sets. Apple 

green, pink, white, 
buttercup, blue. 


6 mos. to 4 yrs. 
$2.25 - $3.25. 


7 Pat. applied for, 


At most good stores. For 


store near you, write The William Carter Co., Needham Heights, Mass. 


in the world 
ly, Carters have 


Nevah | * Ww olen 























LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





October, 1949 


Whitest, brightest Oxydol washes ever— 


Even when dried inside! 








Yes, Oxydol, one of the whitest 

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It’s a new whiter wash... that 
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inside. 
With this 


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new white Oxydol 


anaes he Se se 








day, dry your clothes anywhere 
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And new white Oxydol is truly ~ 


safe ... washable colors actually 
come out brighter. 

What’s more...as long as you 
use new white Oxydol your 
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x el Oey, Tear Se Se 


‘ew Winite Oxydol 


- 


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- 


PS PPP EEE FEE EEE EEE FF SEF SSS SSS SSS SSS SSS SS SSS SHSVSEVSS 


on 





PEPE EOTERER OPP T EERE EERE EEE E EE PEER TENT EE ETE TERED PEER EOE ER EERE EES EEE TEER TEETH EE Ee 


LVPVEE PETE RRE ED 


Fifty Years Ago 
In 


The Journal 





HE Boer War commenced in 

October, 1899, a swarm of wasps 
took over a New York-New Haven 
train, and “a good set of teeth” cost 
$5. There was an Admiral Dewey 
boom for President, and over 5000 
horses pulled New York streetcars. 


In the October, 1899, issue, the 
JOURNAL announces that no more 
back copies can be supplied to 
readers ‘‘as the public completely 
buys out each issue.”’ 


Chides Editor Bok, “Poor people pay 
their physicians’ bills quicker than 
rich people, but in almost all cases, 
doctors’ bills are the last to be paid.” 


“A perfect woman: Her bust measures 
from 28-36 inches; her hips six to ten 
inches more than this; and her waist 
from 22-28 inches.” 


“It is the fashion these days to 
wear things on your belt. One girl 
wears a small looking glass, scis- 
sors, pencil, corkscrew, lorgnette 
and a scent bottle dangling from 
her middle.” 


Fashion note: “European women 
are wearing real turquoises, pearls, 
emeralds and rubies, set in gold, as 
glove buttons.” 


** Anecdotal Side of Admiral Dewey: 
After the Battle of Manila, Dewey 
received a war-trophy request from 
Chicago for the shoes he had worn 
during the engagement.” 


“In two New York theaters, the 
front dozen rows of the parquet are 
sofas . . . to make couples feel cozy 
and sociable.” 


Writes Rudyard Kipling: ‘‘The 
American man of wealth is owned 
by his family. The house belongs to 
the womenfolk. They exploit him 
for bullion and it sometimes seems 
to me that his lot is a lonely one.” 





GAEL KAKALALALAGSA 








> UN 


395 


Mise 


, pou of le dnl fear’ 


HWUIL 


Gossip about people you kn® .. 


editors you like. 


FIRST OF TWO PARTS 


7, the Rev. Gerald Sed- 
ide, Hoxton, paid his an- 
ev. Samuel Bott, of St. 
il. They are old friends, 
Anglo-Catholic, celibate. 
stocky and looks rather 
he is not popular in St. 
has the dewlapped mel- 
und; his life is harder, 
ppreciate him. 

for supper and they get 
as soon as the meal is 


and what goes on in New York. 


HEN the Goulds asked us to 

come to the Entertainment 

Room on the top floor of the 
Workshop and meet William Wyler, 
we found our favorite film director 
not only as likable as he looks in the 
picture here, but a man who really 
believes the best is none too good for 
American moviegoers. And at a spe- 
cial preview he’d arranged for the 
Goulds that evening of The Heiress, 
which he’d just finished producing 
and directing, this feeling of his was 
confirmed. For the movie he’s made 
from the hit play by Ruth and 
Augustus Goetz is wonderful en- 
tertainment, as you will havea chance 
tosee; deeply moving, magically bring- 
ing New York’s Washington Square 
of the 1850’s back to life. 


When the rough color proofs of this 
month’s food picture came to Alice 
Blinn, she noticed that in one of them 
the apples in the apple pie were darker 
than they’d been in reality. Seems that’s 
the way the man who makes the color 


JOSEPH DI PIETRO 


ea 


Setting up a Journal food photo. 


plates likes his apples to be in pie. 
Needless to say, the color was corrected; 
the apples in the magazine are the way 
they’re meant to be. But it reminded 
Miss B. of several years ago, when 
yellow cheese popcorn first came out 
and was used in one of our food color 
photographs. The engravers simply 
couldn’t figure why it wasn’t white. 





As might have been expected, letters 
have come in from all parts of the 
globe about our recent series, People 
are People the World Over; the latest 
one received by John Morris, post- 
marked Johannesburg, came from 
the editor of Zonk!, a monthly for 
African natives, asking for permission 
to reprint, to help the natives under- 
stand the civilizations in which they 
are beginning to take their place. 
John called up the South African 
Information Bureau to find out just 
what the word Zonk means. It means 
Punch! 


If you sit in a slumped position while 
you’re watching television, you may be 
developing a case of “‘telesquat”’ and 
“telecrane,” warns a Chicago doctor. 
Sitting on the large bone at the base of 
the spine can cause a low backache; a 
forward-bent position puts a strain on 
the vertebrae of the neck. . . . Some 
people are peppier early in the day; 
others, later. But according to a recent 
survey by a large university, more 
women than men reach their energy 
peaks in the forenoon. Most married 
people learn to allow for each other’s 
“cycles.” . . . In 1946, nearly 2,300,000 
Americans got married, but this year 
there will be only about 1,600,000—a 
30 per cent decline. The reason, accord- 
ing to one insurance company, is that 
so many eligible men got married that 
there are fewer available now to match 
the large supply of single women... . 
To buy a $45 suit, an American works 
33 hours; a Russian, 426 hours. 


When Gladys Denny Shultz told us 
that where she lives up the Hudson 
the village cobbler, much to his con- 
sternation, has in his cellar 600 pairs 
of uncalled-for shoes accumulated 
over the past decade, we phoned 
around town here to see what the 
situation was like in a big city. The 
shoe-repair men simply groaned when 
we mentioned the matter; one’s only 
consolation was that it was much 
worse with the dry cleaners, which is 
true, we then discovered. The con- 
sensus is it hardly pays to sell either 
the shoes or the clothes when the 
time limit is up, but is easier just to 
give them to charities or ship them 
abroad. And the funny part is that 
more clothes and shoes are left un- 
called for when times are bad. No 
one, it seems, knows why. 


“No chance of getting them out. You 
should see the place. So now we’ve got to have 
a ghastly sort of ceremony. It’s tomorrow. 
And I’m expected to preach about it!” 

Bott addressed himself to his typewriter. 
He always typed his sermons because his writ- 
ing was so bad that he could not read it. He 
pressed the shift key, and made his first head- 
ing: ACT OF GOD. 

After that there was a pause of twenty min- 
utes. Bott drew pictures on his blotting paper. 


First Lee 


Ale — 


If, along with most JOURNAL readers, 
you like to keep track of our illustrators, 
you can think of Coby Whitmore 
as just getting back from a sail by in- 
land waterways to Quebec in his 40- 
foot cabin cruiser, brand-new the day 





iy 


Seagoing Coby Whitmore ashore. 


he brought in his striking painting in 
this issue for Never Look Back. ... You 
can think of Al Parker, whose 
Randolph picture appears this month, 
as devoting all his time for a while, not 
to illustrating, but to the care of his 
convalescing wife. . And if Jon 
Whitcomb fans miss his sparkling 
paintings in a forthcoming issue, they 
can blame the fact that he felt like tak- 
ing time out for the fall fashion show- 
ings in Paris. 


If you've never heard of the Ninety-Nines, 
it’s the first organization in the world of 
licensed women airplane pilots, who've 
just written Bruce Gould that they'll 
be celebrating their twentieth anniversary 
here this month. From his aviation days, 
Mr. G. remembers when they started off, 
with ninety-nine original members (hence 
the name), though now they tell him they 
have 1200 or more, and thought the 
JOURNAL would be interested to hear that 
among them were many mother-and- 
daughter teams who fly together—not to 
mention quite a few grandmothers and 
granddaughters, the oldest 70, the young- 
est 16; one mother of two children being 
the only woman jet-plane pilot in the atr, 
and one daughter who'd always been 
afraid to fly, but learned and got a license 
because she didn’t want her mother 
piloting alone. 





LADIES’ ¥ 








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CANMF WW CUTAN | 
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35 


FIRST OF TWO PARTS 


N September, 1947, the Rev. Gerald Sed- 

don, of St. Frideswide, Hoxton, paid his an- 

nual visit to the Rev. Samuel Bott, of St. 
Sody, North Cornwall. They are old friends, 
both in the late fifties, Anglo-Catholic, celibate. 
Father Bott is.gray, stocky and looks rather 
like a Scotch terrier; he is not popular in St. 
Sody. Father Seddon has the dewlapped mel- 
ancholy of a bloodhound; his life is harder, 
but his parishioners appreciate him. 

He arrives in time for supper and they get 
out the chess board as soon as the meal is 
over. In London his evenings are spent in 
missions, so he looks forward to this relaxa- 
tion very much. He was consequently some- 
what aggrieved when, on the night of his ar- 
rival, he was told to put the chessboard away. 

“T can’t play tonight,” explained Bott. ‘I’m 
sorry. | have a sermon to write. I tried to get 
it done this afternoon. But I couldn’t think of 
anything to say.” 

“Very unusual,” suggested Seddon un- 
kindly. 

“Well... it’s a funeral sermon. Not even 
an ordinary funeral. We-can’t bury the de- 
ceased. They’re buried already. Under a cliff.” 

“Oh? Pendizack Cove?” 

Seddon never had much time for reading 
the newspapers, but he remembered this in- 
cident. During August a huge mass of cliff- 
side had fallen into a cove a couple of 
miles from St. Sody village and obliterated a 
house on the east side of the cove. Every 
person inside the house had perished. 

“It was a mine, wasn’t it?” he asked. “A 
mine, washed up into the cave behind the 
house?” 

“Partly. But that was months ago. That 
was last winter. It went off inside the cave 
and seemed to do no damage. We all thought 
what an escape the house had had. It was a 
hotel, you know. Used to be a private house, 
but they'd turned it into a guesthouse. The 
cave runs right under the cliff. The blast must 
have shattered the rocks and loosened a 
great slice of the cliff face. Later, cracks were 
found at the top of the cliff. Humphrey 
Beven, the Survey man over Falmouth way, 
came to have alook. He wrote to Siddal that 
if those cracks got any wider he didn’t think 
the house was safe and they'd better get out. 
Siddal owned the hotel. He never answered. 
Never did anything about it. And now he’s 
under the cliff.” 

“You mean that they’re all still buried?” 





Copyright, 1949, by Margaret Kennedy 


ILLUSTRATED BY COBY WHITMORE 


“No chance of getting them out. You 
should see the place. So now we’ve got to have 
a ghastly sort of ceremony. It’s tomorrow. 
And I’m expected to preach about it!” 

Bott addressed himself to his typewriter. 
He always typed his sermons because his writ- 
ing was so bad that he could not read it. He 
pressed the shift key, and made his first head- 
ing: ACT OF GOD. 

After that there was a pause of twenty min- 
utes. Bott drew pictures on his blotting paper. 
First he drew a dolphin. Then he drew some 
curved capitals of pillars. And then he drew 
Pendizack Point, standing out into. the sea. 
That was still there. That was on the far side 
of the cove. It had been there for hundreds, 
perhaps thousands, of years. But the chaos of 
fallen rock and boulder, the new, raw cliff face 
on the eastern side had been there only a 
month. He could not have drawn it. 

For weeks that stony confusion had met 
him at the end of all his thoughts, blocking 
them with a kind of shuddering jar, as the 
road had been blocked on the night when he 
ran down to see what had happened. For he 
had heard, everyone in the village had heard, 
the roar and rumble of the falling cliff. 

He sighed, crossed out his first heading, 
and typed a new one: bE STILL AND NKOW 
THAT i aM GOD. 

“You aren’t getting on very fast,” observed 
Seddon. 

“| was frightened,” said Bott. 

“Nothing to North London in ’Forty-one, 
I should have thought.” 

“IT know.” Bott rose and went to the win- 
dow. It was a fine night with a rising wind. He 
could see the trees waving about the church 
tower, a dark and moving mass against a 
starless sky. ““The survivors,” he said, ““came 
here. They came up here for shelter, that first 
night.” 

“There were survivors?” 

“Oh, yes. They sat here talking all night. 
You know how people talk when they’ve had 
a shock. They say things they wouldn’t say 
at any other time. They told me how they had 
escaped. . . . They told me a great deal too 
much. I wish they hadn’t.” 

“How did they escape?” 

‘T don’t know what to say about it at all,” 
said Bott. “Nobody will ever know the whole 
truth. But what they did tell me ——’ He 
came to the fireplace and took a chair opposite 
Seddon. ‘‘Now listen,’? he said. “See what 


you make of it... .” (Continued on Page 74) 





By AHMAD KAMAL 


Y childhood, up to my ninth year, was curious and wonderful. It was 

spent on one Indian reservation and then another. Then, quite abruptly, 

we called a halt to our wandering. We came to a standstill in Cleve- 
land, on Lake Shore Boulevard, somewhere near Euclid Beach amuse- 
ment park, on Lake Erie. My mother settled down to correlate the folklore 
and legends she’d gathered, but I mooned around the house—homesick for 
the reservation in the Black Hills where I'd spent the most recent, and there- 
fore the most marvelous, year of my life. 

My mother was putting the place in order: I suppose I bothered her. I 
was trying to. On the afternoon of our second day in Cleveland, she suggested 
that I go out and make some new friends. 

“T don’t want to,” I said, acting as miserable as I could. “Heck with new 
friends! Id like to keep my old friends!” 

She looked at me. ““Out!” she ordered. So I went. = 

I went down to the boulevard and watched the traffic whiz past. I stood 
in the entrance of a filling station on the corner until somebody yelled for 


me to get out of the way before I got run over. Then I raced automobiles. 
There was a king. He promised that if I beat the automobiles he’d give me 
any wish I wished; anything at all. I said I wanted to go back to the reser- 
vation. The king agreed. But I had to win; if I lost I would be killed. I had to 
watch over my shoulder for a car to cross the intersection. The king would 
say “Go” and I'd have to beat the automobile to the nearest telegraph pole. 
I won about half the time, and lost the other half, which didn’t decide 
anything. 

Then I ran into a letter box fastened to a lamppost. I caught it over my 
right eye. There was a flash of bright light and then I banged the other side of 
my head against the sidewalk. I sat up and the man came out of the filling 
station and said would I please go away, that he couldn’t have anybody com- 
mitting suicide in front of his place. It was bad for his business. 

I held my head. “I hate this town!” I said. 
He helped me up off the sidewalk and led me into the filling station. “Sit 
down there on the stool,” he said. He got some ice out of the tank under the 








| 
r 


water cooler and put it on my eye. “Go ahead,” he said, “ery if you want to. 
I got some kids about your age. They'd sure ery.” 

“T don’t wanta.” 

“You the new little boy moved in just down the street?” 

“Round the corner—the green house,” I said. “The ugly house. I hate 
this place! How'd you know?” 

“Little girl told me,” the man said. “She knows everything. She’s en- 
gaged to my boy.” 

“Little girl?” 

‘Four vears old,” the man said. “He’s four and a half.” 

‘I’m engaged,” I said. “J hate this place!” 

*[ believe you,” he said, nodding. ““Where’s she?” 

“Back in South Dakota,” I said, feeling my eye. “She’s Indian. Sioux. 
She cried when we left. She gave me Gabriel.” 

“Who's Gabriel?” he asked and I explained sadly: 

‘tHe died on the way here. He got sick on some tomatoes. He was ahawk.” 


urna 


37 





ILLUSTRATED BY 


“T didn’t know Indians cried,” the man said, playing with the cash 
register. “I always read they didn’t.” 

“They do, too,” I said. ““They’re humans, jus’ like other kids.” 

“How old’re you? Eleven?” 

“Tm goin’ on nine,” I said. ‘Do I look eleven?” 

“T thought you were. What were you doing on a reservation?” . 

“J wasn’t doin’ much,” I said, feeling the other side of my head where I 
connected with the sidewalk. ““My mother was gettin’ folklore an’ things 
from the Indians. Before that we were in Arizona an’ New Mexico an’ Florida 
an’ all over the place.” 

““What’s your daddy do?” the man asked “How come your mother 
travels so much?” 

“We don’t travel much,” I said, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. ‘““We 
jus’ go places an’ stop awhile. He’s a big man. More’n six feet. He’s very 
firm with me. I had a sister. She. died when I was little. I was more 


sorry when Gabriel died.” (Continued on Page 139) 


Vs comiphote-ttoness 2 ; 
ue 


NOVe). 














ILLUSTRATED & 


HE was brushing her hair when the awful feeling swept 
over her. It shook her so that she laid down the hairbrush 
and held to the edge of the chest of drawers with both hands, 

The April sun was brighter, angling into the big bedroom with 
its mellow antique maple and pine. And it revealed too much. She 
saw the small lines at the corners of her gray eyes, she saw the hol- 
lowed places under her eyes and the mark on her nose from her 
glasses. She saw the fold of softness under her chin where the line 
should have been clean and delicate. She saw the pallor of her skin 
with no glow under it at all. She saw, in fact, the footprints of the 
years on herself. 

And suddenly it seemed dreadful. She didn’t want to be middle- 
aged, she didn’t want tomorrow to be that fatal birthday marking 
the downward slope in her life. But no power on earth could keep 
tomorrow from being Friday and her birthday. 

Where had the years gone? And what had she done with them? 
Nothing, she thought, nothing. She had been busy enough until 
the children were grown up and gone; now the days were jammed 
with housekeeping, Red Cross, League of Women Voters, Garden 
Club, Woman’s Club, Ladies’ Aid, and a hundred other projects, 


and what was it all about, really? What did her projects amount to? 


By GLADYS TABER 


HARRY FREDMAN 


Check your ticket to middle age. You may find it’s 


She had always been too busy to devote time to beauty courses, 
fancy massage, exercise groups. Her clothes were merely adequate. 
They didn’t, as her daughter said, do anything for her. Her hats 
were terrible. Her shoes were sensible, with arch supports in 
them—it was either that or limp. Sometimes she limped anyway. 

If only she could be young again! Really young, breathlessly 
young, gay and light and free. Running against the wind with her 
hair blowing, innocent and hopeful and dreaming. Yes, she wanted 
to turn the clock back and feel again the delicate sweetness of first 
love, the magic of spring in the heart. 

Her husband had asked her what she really wanted for her 
birthday, and she had not been able to answer. “Just a day to be 
sixteen,’ she would have said. Was she immature still, infantile, 
or at the dangerous age, needing a psychiatrist? Or did other women 
have this dreadful ache the day before this special birthday? 

She looked at her husband’s picture; the frame was tarnished, 
so she automatically carried it to the kitchen and polished it. The 
face was still thin in the picture, but there were deep wrinkles 
across his wide forehead, and gray in the dark hair, like smoke in 
the night. But looking older only made him look more distin- 


cuished. (Continued on Page175) 


good for a round trip. 





ea PCL aie 


me too. love me 



































‘Rosemary,’ I had been about to say, 








By NANCY GARBETT WILBUK 


ILLUSTRATED BY JON WHITCOMB 


WAS waiting for Rosemary. Nothing un- 

usual in that. Out of my thirty years, I 

must have spent five or six waiting for 

Rosemary, if you include the war. But this 
was different. This was the first time I had 
ever waited for my wife Rosemary, and the 
train was late. 

I have loved Rosemary since she was eight- 
een, a very pretty, intelligent eighteen, 
and that’s seven years ago. [wanted to marry 
her there and then, before being shipped 
off to Europe, but her father tsk-tsked and 
talked about her extreme youth, so I 
sailed a bachelor. 

And when I came back, I had to finish at 
law school and I would not start our married 
life as the undergraduate husband of the 
fashion editor of Fiancée: the Magazine for 
the Engaged Girl. 

Because Rosemary had blossomed, and no 
doubt about it. Not only was she twice as 
pretty and three times as intelligent, she was 
now quite aware of it. Such perfection was a 
little alarming, but she still wanted to marry 
me and that was the main thing. But you see 
my point. Rosemary, in her own, fetching 
way, was practically a personage while I was 
still toiling through my textbooks. No. This 
thing had to be done right, which meant 
waiting until I qualified. 

It took two years to get us married. It 
wasn’t until I was settled in Hassock, Massa- 
chusetts, with the law firm of Shelby, Sack- 
ville, Strongarm and Fenwick, all dead ex- 
cept Fenwick, that we finally set the date. 

And did that suit Rosemary? Not a bit of 
it. Fiancée was embarked upon an elaborate 
issue covering The Trousseau, and Rosemary 
had to be there to launch it. But she wouldn’t 
postpone the wedding. She said: 

“No, postponed weddings are unlucky. 
We'll get married and then I'll go back and 
finish up. Then I'll join you in Hassock and 
be the perfect wife for happy ever after.” 

And that was how I came to be pacing up 


and down Hassock’s diminutive railway sta- 


tion, waiting for my wife. I wondered 
how she’d look. I wondered what she'd 
be wearing. I wondered how she’d fit into 
the life of a little country town after the 
bright lights of Manhattan. Mrs. Charles 
Arden. Rosemary Welles Arden. It might be 
pretty difficult for her to make the adjust- 
ment after being Rosemary Welles: “Rose- 
mary Welles says it’s pink for spring”; ““Rose- 
mary Welles says it’s the season for satin.” 
Yes, it would be quite a change to have 
Rosemary Arden saying it’s stew for dinner. 

Well, I’m an intelligent man, I hope. Pd 
read all those depressing little books that 
point out what snags you may expect to meet 
Now You Are Married. I was in this thing 
with my eyes open. If Rosemary was going 
to have a tussle with her adjustments, I’d be 

‘in there pitching for her. Or with her. Any- 
way, pitching. 

And then the train was in and my mouth 
was dry and my knees were jelly. They 
stayed that way till I saw her. She was a tiny 
little thing. Enormous waves of masculine 
pride and possessiveness swept over me, and 
then she was in my arms. 


I awoke at seven-thirty, rolled over and 
felt for my wife. Then I leaped up with a yell. 
“Rosemary!” I hollered. “Hey! Where are 
you?” 

There was a small rustle and Rosemary 
appeared in the doorway, very bright and 
fresh and housewifely in a ruffly house dress. 

“What,” I demanded, “do you think you 
are doing?” 

She came over and kissed me. ‘‘Making 
toast,” she told me. ‘Frying bacon. Beating 
eggs like crazy.” 

“Look,” I said, “I should have told you. 
I never eat breakfast. Just a cup of coffee on 
the run.” 

“Tsk-tsk.”” Rosemary must have caught 
the habit from her father. “Very bad for you. 
A nice big breakfast will make you feel ever 


so much better.” 


(Continued on Page 243) 











43 








IPSW. 


= 
Sp 
L 


y 


By RICHARD PRATT, Architectural Editor of the Journal 


OR seventeenth-century houses you can hardly do better than Ipswich— 

it being the claim of this charming old Massachusetts place that within 
the town itself, and along its outlying lanes, there are more of our earliest 
homes than anywhere else in the land. Not only do the houses send you back 
three hundred years to the time of the town’s original settlers, but the Ip- 
swich telephone book today gives you the names of those earliest families— 
descendants of a long line of local citizens whose enduring devotion to the 
place is of course the secret of the well-preserved appearance that Ipswich 
now presents. There may be slightly older houses elsewhere, but nowhere, 
to my knowledge, a more complete assembly of this pioneer period. 


Every summer, in July, they celebrate a Seventeenth Century Day, and 
open all the historical homes to the public. But next to being there on that 
occasion, these six pages of pictures will give you the best idea it is possible 
to get of the beauty that was built into these first American houses. Their 
roots of style and structure stem from Elizabethan cottages of Southeastern 
England, from where the Pilgrims came; but here, in Massachusetts, be- 
cause of a more rigorous climate and unlimited lumber, they took on at once 
a new American look. In them was born, thereby, a method and manner of 
building which is still going strong three centuries later, from here to every 
corner of the country, coast to coast. 





Ipswich River (facing page) rises and falls with the tide, through the town, bordered 
by ancient dwellings like the 1648 Emerson House that faces the old stone bridge. 


Under the elms of High Street are the 1680 “House with the Orange Shutters,” 
the Kimball House, built in 1715, and the gambrel-roofed Fowler Housé, 1720. 


“Overhang’’ construction of east side of Whipple House and diamond-paned windows show colonists’ liking for Elizabethan traditions. 


a 


This room was added as a kitchen in 1670. Early American ladder-back chairs face the widespread fireplace with its customary accouterments. 





HIS is without any question one of the very first houses to have been 

built in the English-speaking colonies of America, still standing to- 
day; the Ipswich chronicles sétting forth that as early as 1638, a cen- 
tury and a half before the Revolution was won, John Fawn, a Pilgrim 
settler, began construction on this site. It might even now be known 
as the Fawn house, had Fawn unfortunately not sold his property 
within a couple of years. But it was bought and brought to completion 
by John Whipple, whose name it bears, and whose family and de- 
scendants occupied it for the next two centuries; at that, not a record 
for Ipswich, where another family, the Goodales, still live in the house 
their forebears built three centuries ago. At any rate, for reasons of 
age and quality, the Whipple House must be reckoned one of the 
most important in the country; being now preserved as a museum by 
the Ipswich Historical Society, which has furnished it with many 
fascinating pieces of the early period, and maintains it with meticulous 


The woodwork of the bedroom is the earliest in the house. Eighteenth-century field bed, with fish-net canopy, has a cross-and-crown coverlet woven in 1750, 


care. Under those circumstances it should be standing for centuries to 
come; for after one look inside you can see that it was built to last. Its 
post-and-beam construction has grown even more solid and secure 
than it was when first put together; while this hardwood framing, 
dominated by the tremendous “‘summer”’ that supports the ceiling 
joists, gives the rooms an air of medieval strength and permanence. 
The roof and weatherboarding may have to undergo minor repairs 
every half century or so, but the essential body of the house is good 
enough to last forever. 

From its position on the northeast corner of the Village Green 
where the local militia trained for King Philip’s War one hundred 
years before the American Revolution, this old house has seen the 
march of many men playing their parts in succeeding chapters of 
American history. Few houses have witnessed so much, and fewer 
still look so well today anywhere. 


° 


—— 





A) on ee ee oor ia 


A6 





NURIOUSLY enough, this house on the outskirts of town, over- 
C looking the meadows that run down to the dunes and the ocean, is 
notanative of Ipswich, but was brought here about thirty years ago from 
Newburyport, ten miles away. In its present foster location, where the 
passage of time seems almost imperceptible, it has found a home where 
its future is assured; partly because of its present owner, Dr. Langdon 
Warner, Professor of Oriental Art at Harvard, whose occasional 
Korean pieces blend beautifully into the early American settling. 

The stairway in the entrance hall is one of the most outstanding 
features of this house, illustrating the transition between the com- 


pletely enclosed early types and the open, more decorative examples 





that followed later on. 


on three sides. 


ixterior is distinguished by a saltbox profile, with a hewn overhar 


oO 
Is 









The original stairway is one of the 
finest and best-preserved late Sev- 
enteenth-century types. English, 
Oriental and Early American fur- 
niture blend harmoniously in the 
large, heavily beamed living room. 


bck hr tape 














CCORDING to Ipswich history, this house was built as a wedding 
A present for the Robert Paine, Jr., who was later to become an 
important figure in the witchcraft trials at Salem, thirty miles to- 
ward Boston from here. The young man had been graduated from 
Harvard just four years before—in the class of 1656!—and the 
house into which he moved at his marriage must have been one of 
the best in the neighborhood, now a few minutes’ drive from the 
center of town. The excellent restoration was accomplished by 
the late Mrs. Robert Dodge, whose son is now the owner. 





‘ 
The bedroom contains a Sheraton four-poster and Early American hooked rugs. 


18 


WA | Ill IH | 
I EM I tM 


By SIR RICHARD LIVINGSTONE 


HAT is the greatest secular prose book in 

the world? You may be surprised if I 

suggest that it was written more than 
two thousand years ago and that it is The Re- 
public of Plato. And you may be even more 
surprised if I suggest that it is very relevant to 
our own times and problems. 

There is no doubt about the importance of 
the problems which The Republic discusses— 
the greatest of all problems. What is goodness, 
virtue, the good life? Are they worth pursuing 
for themselves in spite of difficulty, discourage- 


_ment and apparent failure? And in what kind 


of society or state can they be best achieved? 
That is the subject of the book. It raises those 
two great fundamental and closely linked prob- 
lems, how should we live, and what sort of goy- 
ernment should we have. 

And, along with these, it raises innumerable 
other problems. Here, for the first time in his- 
tory, is a thinker who perceives that the charac- 
ter of a civilization and of a state depends on 
eduecationand can and must be molded by it: 
here is stated a vital truth, which we have not 
yet grasped, that to end education at adoles- 
cence or at twenty-one is to check and stunt 
mental development, and that, at least, the 
leaders of the’ community should at intervals 
throughout their lives have the opportunity to 
renew their studies, deepen their knowledge, 
rethink their position, and revive their ideals. 

Here, for the first time, the position of women 
in a state is seriously discussed, and the con- 
clusion is reached that both sexes should have 
the same education, that both are capable of 
the same occupations and interests, that both 
should have the same duties in the state—even 
down to serving in its armies. A surprising con- 
clusion for a man to have reached who lived in 
a country where women led secluded lives, al- 
most in conditions of Purdah. 

Here, above all, for the first time, is the con- 
ception of a state governed by an aristocracy, 
not of birth but of intellect and character, re- 
nouncing private property and family ties in 
order that no personal interests may come be- 
tween themselves and their task of regulating 
the life of their country after a divine model. 


The Training of a Philosopher 
Why did Plato write The Republic? The an- 


swer to that is because of his personal experi- 
ence. Before the close of the fifth century B.C., 


Copyright, 1948, by BBC and London Calling, England. 


a progressive degeneration had clouded the 
brilliant promise and high hopes with which 
the Athenian democracy began; the leadership 
of unscrupulous demagogues and the strain of 
a long war were the chief causes of its decline. 

Plato, then a young man, joined the aristo- 
cratic party, which wished to reform the state, 
thinking, as he says, “that the new regime 
would substitute the rule of justice for that of 
injustice. ... But,” he goes on, “I soon saw the 
reformers make the democracy which they had 
overthrown seem a golden age.”? The democ- 
racy was restored and put to death unjustly 
Plato’s master, Socrates, the wisest and best 
man of his age. 

“T continued,” Plato goes on, “to consider 
how some improvement could be brought about 
not only in government but in society as a 
whole. But, finally, 1 came to the conclusion 
that every state is badly governed.” So, feeling 
that he could do nothing by going back into 
politics, he decided to try to diagnose the evils 
from which the world was suffering, to discover 
their causes and how to cure them, to form a 
clear idea of what a good life is, and to consider 
in what kind of state such a life could be lived. 

Is not that very modern? Cannot one im- 
agine a man looking out on the confusion of 
our world, feeling about it as Plato felt about 
Athens? And do not we need a Plato, if we 
could find one, to think out a basis on which a 
better world order and a nobler civilization 


could be built? 
How to Improve the World 


But what basis? How can society, politics, 
the world be improved? Plato’s answer is clear. 
The social and political problem is at bottom a 
moral problem, and so the*title which he gave 
to the work that we call The Republic was On 
Goodness. 

You cannot improye the world, he thought, 
unless you improve men. As he says: “Govern- 
ments reflect human nature. States are not 
made out of stone or wood, but out of the char- 
acters of their citizens: these turn the scale and 
draw everything after them.” There, then, is 
the major political problem defined. You must 
make men good. But that raises another prob- 
lem. How can you make them good? 

Plato’s answer is, by education. He was the 
first to see that the problem of politics is 
largely a problem of education. His ideal state 
rests on his system of — (Continued on Page 183) 


= 


Death comes before its time for those whose education ends. 


CIRCE AND HER LOVERS 
IN A LANDSCAPE 
By Dosso Dossi 


HERE are paintings which, like 
“huge cloudy symbols of a high ro- 
mance,” never cease to challenge the 
imagination, to promise the revelation 
of some hidden secret. In the canvas by 
Dosso Dossi (c. 1479—e. 1512) from the 
Kress Collection in the National Gal- 
lery of Art, a nude woman, seated in an 
idyllic landscape, is surrounded by birds 
and beasts. Who is she and why does she 
point, like one of Michelangelo's Sibyls, 
toward an inseribed tablet? The scene 
fits the legend of Circe, who turned men 
into animals; but absent are those 
wolves, lions and swine Ulysses saw 
when he encountered that “awful God- 
dess of the luxuriant tresses, own sister 
to the wizard Acétes.”’ A transformation 
in the story has taken place. The ani- 
mals are now the most charming and 
gentle of beasts and even the lioness is 
moreheraldic than savage. Nature seems 
under a spell, so that the spoonbill and 
the owl do not fear the faleon, nor the 
stag and the doe the dogs. It is a scene 
of sorcery based on the legend of Circe, 
but transformed from the Olympian 
realm of the Odyssey into the fairy 
world of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 
There is a clue to this change. In the 
court of Ferrara, where this picture was 
probably painted, Ariosto had composed 
his famous Orlando Furioso, setting 
forth a new version of the Circean myth. 
In his romantic epic, Alcina is the per- 
fect example of the beautiful and seduc- 
tive woman. Like Circe, she changes her 
lovers into animals; but instead of do- 
ing this with the touch of a wand, as 


_ Homer describes the transformation of 


the followers of Ulysses, she uses eso- 


- teric incantations. These in Dosso Dos- 


si’s canvas are symbolized by the tablet 
and the cabalistic book with which Al- 
cina—for the nude figure is probably 
she—holds her court of wild creatures 
spellbound. 

And here there is perhaps a parallel to 
the human admirers who were en- 
thralled by Dosso Dossi’s patroness. Lu- 
crezia Borgia, then Duchess of Ferrara. 
For she, too, wove a spell over her lovers, 
whether poets, courtiers or princes. One 
wonders whether she may have felt 
some instinctive sympathy for the se- 
ductress in Orlando Furioso. Does this 
perhaps explain why the witch in Dosso 
Dossi’s picture is portrayed in such an 
appealing way, with a look of innocent 
expectancy? It is easy to speculate, to 
imagine that Lucrezia Borgia, consider- 
ing herself a victim of the sinister forces 
aroused by her beauty, may have iden- 
tified herself with the wistful enchant- 
ress depicted by her court painter, Dosso 
Dossi, as she may have considered her- 
self eulogized in the tribute to Alcina 
composed by her court poet, Ariosto: 


Her matchless person every charm 
combin’d, 
Form/’d in th’ idea of a painter’s mind. 
—JOHN WALKER, 
Chief Curator, National Gallery of Art. 





NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART, KRESS COLLECTIO> 


CIRCE AND HER LOVERS IN A LANDSCAPE 


By DOSSO DOSSI— 1479-1542 








= “4 e 
i a a 


50 








- 
rod 









There are two ways 
to go to school... but some boys just 


have to do it the hard way. 





George Washington High School, in San Francisco: it has special classes 
in aeronautics, auto driving and family living, two gyms and a stadium to 
seat 7000. Students eat lunch on bleachers in view of Golden Gate Bridge. 


PHOTOS BY JOSEPH DI PIETRO 


~A 


ome 











Chuck had first job at 11; couldn’t raise 
$83 to join Merchant Marine last year. 


HUCK SWANMAN is “a natural,” a movie-script writer’s idea of 

the all-American boy, He is 17 years old, 6’ 2” tall, tan and mus- 
cular, with ice-blue eyes and blond hair which he sometimes makes 
white-blond with ammonia and peroxide “‘just for kicks.”’ Girls his own 
age call him “‘that tall, dreamy kid you just think about getting a date 
with.” For older people, Chuck’s Size 13 shoes and huge adolescent 
appetite (four ham and salami sandwiches, an apple turnover, two 
cupcakes, two oranges and a quart of milk at one lunch) make him a 
perfect target for teasing. But those same adults almost invariably 
comment, ““He’s just one of those sweet kids—everybody likes him.” 
At George Washington High School in San Francisco, an advanced 
and sophisticated school where almost 75 per cent of the senior class 
go on to college, Chuck manages to make only a C-plus average in 
spite of study and hard work. However, one of his teachers com- 
mented, “In a case like his, an 1.Q. doesn’t mean everything. He’s got 
a personality that will make him a success if he just keeps trying.” 
As a type, Chuck Swanman would delight the believers in free 
enterprise, free competition and the American dream. He is convinced 
that ‘“‘a fellow can do anything in this country if he works hard and 
gets the breaks.” To Chuck, ‘‘the breaks” will mean getting situated 
with a good law firm about eight years from now, when he finishes 
high schoool, college and law school. To him, the ability to make money 
will be first and most important proof that the breaks have begun to 
pay off. He hopes to make $150.a week his first year out of school, $800 
a month after that and $16,000 a year by the time he’s thirty. Chuck is 
well aware that these figures are not insignificant goals, but his alert- 
ness, charm and adaptability may take him wherever he wants to go. 


“They're both good kids. I can see why so many fellows want to date them,” 
Chuck teases his sisters for being fickle, carries bathing-suit pictures of both 
in wallet and serves as willing blind date for their sorority girl friends. 





He swims well, taught himself to ski on 
rented skis—“‘I didn’t have money for a bike. 





ia a. “ng 





“We like Swedish food at our house.”” Chuck 
once ate 20 plettars (pancakes) at one sitting. 











aoe oases nn oe SS ny 


aa - 
It takes all kinds of young people to make up the teen-age | 
i world. This is the fifth of a series of articles about teen- 
agers and we still haven’t found any two alike. What’sdone_ | 
in Iowa may be frowned on in Idaho; the hit dance step in ~ | 
Columbus, Georgia, may be old stuff in Columbus, Ohio. | 


Objectively, candidly, we are presenting young people as 
we find them, in the high schools they work in, the homes 
they are growing up in, places where they find their fun; 
at their best and at their worst—twelve Profiles of Youth. 





Already he has the tastes and many of the personal skills that fit into 
this dream of success. He is an expert skier, dances the rumba, swims 
well and shoots golf in the high 70’s. He has a junior membership, a 
gift from his uncle, in the Olympic Club, one of San Francisco’s swank 
athletic clubs. Last Mother’s Day he saw his first polo game as a pres- 
ent from his mother (his father died when he was two); occasionally 
he treats her to an afternoon at the races as a spectator and sometimes 
makes a small bet himself through a classmate whose father is a bookie. 
During the San Francisco opera season he manages at least one pair of 
$6 seats for himself and his mother, but is willing to take standing 
room alone to hear his favorites, Aida, Rigoletto and Madame Butter- 
fly. Once, two years ago as a high-school sophomore, he spent $24 on 
a girl in one week, and he is still paying back his sisters for money he 
borrowed for dress-suit rental and an orchid for his first formal dance 
last year. He saved for almost twelve months to buy himself a $90 


pair of Swiss ski boots and won’t wear (Continued on Page 183) 


At 175 pounds, Chuck Swanman tried out for football squad, failed because 
“I don’t seem to have my co-ordination yet.’’ Though good athlete, he avoids 
most school sports since after-school practice interferes with part-time job. 





“My sisters have good clothes 
sense,” but Chuck buys all his own. 











yy must meet parents courteously, talk 
out baseball or weather, “look depend- 
le when he says “We'll be home by 1.’” 








“Pretty as a picture—and with the right 
7 : a 


frame!” Boys say “ideal girl” is 5'4’’, 120 pounds, 


wears blond hair cut short “but 
not scalped”: has blue eyes, wears little 


make-up, sweater and skirt, both in blue. 


\ “real doll,” according to teen-aged males, 
is understanding (“Knows a guy can’t take 
her out every night’’), has a sense of humor 
(“Die—I thought I'd laugh!”), is sincere 
(“Lets you know if the romance is for real or 
just for kicks”), and has a sense of value 
“about everything from money to morals,” 
Boys look first at girl’s figure, then eyes, 
smile and third finger left hand to see if she’s 
“going steady.” Ideal may smoke if she 


doesn’t use a holder, but never on the street. 


. 





Smooth boy, or “brute,” can order without 
playing “big wheel,” asks date what she 





wants, doesn’t look worried at prices. 


““Begged, borrowed or double-dated,” a car 
is a “must” for a big evening. “No smart 
joe would ask a girl to walk in high heels.” 











- rr “OD eeT.3s 7 7 —. aa 





Good sport doesn’t mind occasional bus 
ride, local movie when boy is broke. But 
“ideal fellow” spends $5 to $10 weekly. 





“Some girls date for the food, some for 
the fellow.” Most boys choose girls who 
like “burgers, small Cokes, long walks. 





“Tt’s up to a boy to make the first move.” 








For girls, “dream date” is “taller than 

I am,” 160 pounds, has brown eyes and brown 
hair, wavy or crew-cut. He wears white 

dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, over T shirt; 
blue pull-over, khaki or gray slacks. 


Girls like boys who smoke pipes (“‘It looks so 
domestic”) but shun fellows who light up 
stogies “to show off.” “Real dude” may 
drink “‘with the fellas,” seldom on dates. 
A good date or “peon” should be athletic, 
but not musclebound. Girls want dates to 
get high grades in history and science. A 
“drag” likes a good dancer, with “sweet 


feet,” notices boy’s clothes first, then his 
build, eyes, smile and hands. Teens pick 
Bob Mathias top high-school male. 





“The most fun I ever had was on a picnic 
with my girl. We climbed a fire tower, 
danced in the grass, didn’t spend a dime.” 


“But a girl must co-operate after that...” “Ten seconds; not too hard, not too long.” 


















— 3 


“Tt’s fun and it’s outdoors.” Min- 
jature golf comes to 35c a game. 
g g 





Pizza pie is good on a “different 
date”; Chinese food also rates. 


stare ce Me 






ee 
Boat Tiding, 50c apiece. Good 
sport goes along with crowd, 





Record shopping is inexpensive 
fun; date costs only carfare. 


“Exit whistling. Brother—it’s wonderful!” 





Tyrie. 
Je viae 


a ae ta | 


SEX FACTS 
(EN 


for AA é 


ee “Every kid is curious. A joke, a few words, something you read—then you start piecing it all together.” 


“| VE always felt sorry for fellows who have to send away for books 
and keep looking up the words in the dictionary. My mother and dad 
have always been frank with me. There’s nothing about sex I don’t 
know or can’t ask them about.” . . . “Everybody picks up a lot of 
information from dirty talk. After that you just have to fill in things 
for yourself... but I'd get thrown out if I ever mentioned anything 
like that around our house. I know my parents.” 
These comments, both made by high-school students, represent 
the range of opinion and attitude encountered among teen-agers in a 


recent survey made by the Lapres’ Home Journat to determine where 


* 


- 
> 


teen-agers get their sex information. Boys and girls of from 16 to 19 
were interviewed in the East, Middle West, South and Far West; the 
majority of those interviewed were eager to discuss the subject 
because, as one boy commented, “We talk about sex among ourselves 
all the time anyway, so why not talk about it openly?” 

Out of this survey, two general conclusions can be made: most 
teen-agers do not get information about sex from their parents; they 
do get information frequently in 4 distorted and inaccurate form, from 
books (popular novels, medical’ texts, lewd pamphlets and comics), 


movies (both family type and (Continued on Page 234) 











There’s a Man in the House 





By Harlan Miller 


The woman next door likes her comfort at her 
home-coming football game. Her husband staggers 
into their alma mater’s stadium draped with sev- 
enteen dinguses, including back rest, foot warmer, 
radio, field glasses, vacuum bottle, umbrella and 
stadium boots, and resembles a parachutist about 


to jump. are 


If you want a genuine glimpse of the modern wife, 
try to catch the facial expression of a young bride who 
has just dropped an old heirloom spoon down her 
kitchen sink’s garbage grinder. 

> > 


After years of dogged resistance, I’ve yielded 
to my lady love’s plea for a big attic fan. (My 
change of heart came the night I had to sleep up 
there when we were ambushed by sudden guests.) 
And she’s right; it does suck in the living-room 
curtains, and even cools the house. 

> <> 


“If you like a talkative neighbor,” confides 
Peter Comfort, removing a tricycle from his plum 
tree, “you calthim chatty. But if you don’t like him, 
the same man could be garrulous!” 


ss 


In my serener moments it’s crystal clear that there’s 
nothing too menacingly w rong with our neighborhood 
cherubs that a diplomatic ice-cream cone once a month 
won’t correct. a 


My wife’s a jump ahead of me: She interprets a 
comment as a suggestion, a suggestion as a criticism, 
a criticism as a reproach, and a reproach as a de- 
nunciation. (So I’ve taken to writing her tender 
little notes about household matters, with three X’s 
at the bottom.) > 


It cost the man next door $3000 to remove 
their front porch and face-lift the house when his 
wife gave him the word that front porches had be- 
come unfashionable. Now it’s costing him $4000 
to build a smaller porch on the side of their 
twelve-room house which cost $6000 to build. 


eS 
One more year and I'll never juggle another storm 
window; I'll have three-way glass and screen in every 
magic casement. (Squeezed out of what used to be 
my liquor money, before I reduced the flow toa trickle. ) 


Our town’s most fiftyish playgirl’d rather be 
whistled at in her convertible than kissed by her 
youngest grandchild. She needs a big strong man’s 
help to put her automatic top down in a rainstorm, 
and declines to baby-sit more than once a month, be- 
cause she never had any baby-sitters. 


> + 


I hadn’ really noticed that the fortyish Clark 
Gable type in the next block had become afflicted 
with a roving eye until I observed that his loving 
wife was noticeably more aware of the opposite sex, 
herself. She’ll teach him a lesson, the dolt! 


> > 


My desire to imitate the English, by installing 
a washboul in my bedroom, has been baffled by the 
plumbers. They've sirened the city hall into such 
elegant regulations that it would cost more than a 
whole bathroom did before the war. (Maybe I'll try 
a stainless-steel basin and water pitcher!) 


oe 


Our neighbor across the street is involved in a 
household feud about the two red pillows his wife’s 
aunt gave ‘em. He doesn’t like °em anyhow and 
keeps putting “em out of sight on the davenport. 
but she always puts “em back in the limelight on 
the love seats. (I’m glad my wife isn’t that can- 
tankerous!) a Tes 


Of all the precious little attentions a husband 
gets from his loving wife, the one that worries him 
most is her solicitude about whether he’s paying 
his insurance premiums promptly. 

+ <+ 


Our neighborhood lovebirds ate now worried 
lest one of em outlive the other too long. Their cur- 
rent ambition is to be killed together in a plane crash 


at 80. a oes 
I'm having difficulty selling Junior on the delicate 


touch in shaving. He seems to labor under the teen-age 
illusion that it’s not his beard but his skin he wants to 


scrape off. pes 


My wife’s still adamant against an electric 
dishwasher, though she’s weakening gradually. I 
suspect she hates to relinquish her chance to test 
my love occasionally with a little pressure to help 
her wash “em. 


An exaggerated importance has spotlighted the 
time our Young Enchanted must get home from 
their dates. I suggest (to avoid agument) a set of 
three placards with the numbers 10, 11 and 12 
painted on ’em, depending on how you feel and whom 
the date’s with. FOP. ys 


Those newfangled wingless chickens leave me 
unenthused. I learned to like chicken wings as a boy, 
because I had three sisters and wings were all I ever 
got. My father believed in chivalry and enforced it 
with a sharp carving knife. They got the white breast 


meat. 
> + 


I’m mildly pleased that skirts are due to be 
shortened. P’ve become reconciled to long skirts be- 


cause of a suspicion that the women who wear long 
skirts ought to wear long skirts. 
> <> 


After a four-year argument, my daughter now 
concedes that an eighteen-year-old girl shouldn’t date 
one boy exclusively. But I suspect it isn’t my eloquence 
so much as the fact that she now has more boys to 


choose from. 
fi Con Pre 


Every plump husband knows that the best 
reason for reducing is not so much to reduce the 
pressure on his belt as the pressure from his wife. 
Even a slight bulge around the middle gives her 
too much leverage on him at every meal. 


> F 


When Junior confides that he'll ee make 
his son do something you had to talk him into against 
his will a short year ago... w hen your daughter con- 
fesses that you've een eid up her boy friends 
correctly . . . when your youngest astounds you by 
swimming out to the far raft with a waterproof grin on 
his face .. . when your wife greets humorously one of 
your screwy ideas that you were betting secretl ry 
would kindle an argument... when every member of 
your family at dinner seems eaiully adept at “taking 
it” and handing it out . . . then you stop envying your 
successful eee ae who has a plane, a boat and 
a place in Florida, and merely pity him as a misguided 
loon. 





Junior tells me it was Doris Lee’s painting 


“Arbor Day” that stimulated his kindergarten 
teacher to let each class plant a tree. His class 
tree is now big enough for climbing and a broken 
collarbone, and a profound sense of maturity in 
the sixth grade. 


o 


eeeeoaeeoeeeoeveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeceeeeeeseseeceeeeeeeeee 








4 whi 
by Me 





THIS YEAR, next year, any year— 
the gray flannel suit belongs. It belongs 
to the woman who follows a beaten 
path to town every day and puts it 

on with a fresh white shirtwaist or a 
bright red jersey. It belongs to the 
commuter, the world traveler, to the 


woman who has many suits or only one. 


THIS WAY. that way, a dozen ways to 
wear it. As shown, with a gray 

flannel beret and soft brown veil with 
scarf attached—jacket buttoned up, 
raccoon scarf over the arm—or with 
the sharp contrast of two colors: 


red hat, mauve jersey blouse. 


THINK OF ITF also with navy blue: 
a surah blouse, a navy cloche, calfskin 
bag, capeskin gloves .. . with 

a matching gray or yellow cashmere 
sweater, a crocheted hat, string or 
chamois gloves . . . with a gold 
velveteen shirt, brown gloves and 


shoes. Every color is right with gray. 


} HOTOGRAPHS BY WILHELA CUSHMAN 





THE TIMELESS GRAY FLANNEL SUIT 


By Wilhela Cushman This gray flannel Suit is so skillfully cut that it belongs to this season but is not confined to 


Fashion Editor of the Journal 


‘| 


j 


it, so well proportioned that it is becoming to most women, so versatile that its uses 


7h 





are limitless. Also brown or blue. rescular and junior sizes. Alvin Handmacher. $60. 





oa 





cS 


A white faille weskit, jewel-buttoned, 
by Stanley Wyllins. White gloves. 


well as this. They are mort 
give them, not all at once, h 
One woman| 
accessories. For casual wear] 
looks hand-knit, or a Scotch: 
ton shirt. Town blouses may 
white satin, matching velve 
skin, capeskin or jersey for e; 
for later. Small scarfs can be | 


with rhinestone pins. Pearls 


little velvet hats can be picke 


**Leweoile. Fara total of ar 





LADY 
IN A DILEMMA 


The important, unpredictable occasion—and “not a thing to 
wear.” It happens to everybody—to busy career girls, to 


women who have extra time and money to spend. It’s always 





unexpected, invariably disconcerting. It assumes proportions Sj de swish of green taffeta, by Hattie 
that it shouldn’t. It would be absurd to say that an inadequate Carnegie, caught with a velvet rose. 
dress could blight an evening, or a future. But every woman 
knows that looking right has an unmerciful connection with 
feeling at ease. The question is: how to avoid the agitating gap 


in a wardrobe, the extravagant solution of rushing out to buy. 


A few simple answers plus a little quiet planning on your part should reduce the hazards, or at least 
the frequency of the crisis. The occasion usually is one of those in-between affairs. A short dress, 
especially this year, fits more hours, goes more places than a long one. It could well be taffeta, which 
is a twelve-month fashion—perhaps one of those crinkled ones that never need a press. A faille suit 
is a wonderful thing to pluck off a hanger, to wear to luncheon or dinner the year around. The jersey 
top with a faille or velvet skirt is an “at home” or a movie or a dancing dress. A black crepe or 


jersey dress has been known to last for years, with changes of accessories to mark the seasons. 


In the first disquieting moment of wondering “what to wear,” don’t 
ignore the dress that you have looked so well in so many times. It’s 
a mistake to lose confidence in it. Well brushed and pressed and 
given the complement of a loved pin or scarf, it may be better than 
a hit-or-miss purchase in which you may feel uncertain or out of 
character. And don’t overlook the possibility of combining the new 
with the old. Taffeta overskirts are in again for the basic crepe or 
jersey. A velvet hat or scarf or glove is glamour added for silk or wool. 
A little fur necklet is wound with pearls. As small a thing as a veil 


or a little something not quite a hat can be the touch that charms. 


Pink velvet sash with Emily Weath- 
erby’s roses, for crepe or wool dress. 


OGRAPHS BY LEOMBRUNO »* BODI 


aa 
Wes 


If possible, keep an extra pair of good suede pumps in reserve, a pair 
of extra sheer stockings, fresh gloves, a special purse not tired out 
by everyday wear. It would be a soothing thought in a time-deficient 


world to know that practically everything is under control.—R.M.P. 


Ribbed sweater, by Beattie, 
leopard tie, calfskin belt, bag. 






Side-pocket flannel skirt, jersey 
shirt, Mary Stevens, $17.95 each. 


Hat t ICH D ERLINGER, bag by VAN S 


il ‘ Ke H K VILHELA Ct HMAN 











ti 
7 } 





° - 
shel itl Ure i 
Rid, Klee 


eee ae a areal della 








The suit in fine-quality flannel, in navy, 
beige or brown, dressed for town with 
gray squirrel, satin scarf, velvet gloves. 
$y Alvin Handmacher, $65. The skirt an 
extra costume with velvet blouse and hat. 


Muff by HAROLD RUBIN, scarf by LILLY DACHE, 
gloves by MERRY HULL, velvet blouse by DOBBY, 


The dress with deep neckline, soft 
shoulders, slim silhouette, in flat crepe, 
black, navy and ten other colors, $49.95, 


by Harry Schacter. With long pearls, 





white gloves, veiled hat for afternoon. 


THE REMARKABLE {| It t 


By Wilhela Cushman 
Fashion Editor of the Journal 


They go everywhere. They go together. 
They achieve what you always have in mind—a wardrobe 
complete and well connected. They have the asset and the 
look of fine quality which will prove itself next year, as 
well as this. They are worth the many changes that you 
give them, not all at once, but as you need them. 


One woman will choose fur, another velvet 





accessories. For casual wear. the suit takes a sweater that 
looks hand-knit, or a Scotch-plaid flannel vest and dark cot- 
ton shirt. Town blouses may be wool jersey, bright silk faille, 
white satin, matching velvet. Gloves follow the clock: pig- 
skin, capeskin or jersey for early hours, velvet and white kid 
for later. Small scarfs can be tied with gold medals or clasped 
with rhinestone pins. Pearls can be long or short. Berets or 
little velvet hats can be picked up at counters, and dolled up 
with veils. For a total of around $215, you can own the re- 
markable three. We show them in the fashion of navy blue 
and black, but color Re : oe 
combinations are 


almost ‘unlimited. 


The coat for day or 
night, for suit or dress, 
in chinchilla wool, gives 
you the choice of black, 








brown, gray or navy, by 
ie eutral in color is what Mrs. F. P. Molden 







Lo Balbo, around $100. For town with squirrel beret and scarf, pig- 
skin gloves. For casual wear: garnet sweater and beret, suit skirt. diplomat, she travels by car, ship, plane. 


Sauirrel scarf by ESTHER DOROTHY. sweater by BFATTIF, hook-and-eye pin by GOLDA LEWIS. et and over-arm calfskin bag by Mr. John. 


EAD 





60 


T yt SAY 


This year Im looking for... 


rT) 


BY RUTH MARY PACKARD 


A WOOL DRESS A BLACK SUIT A BUSINESS COAT 





* 


Pad 





Thesuit in fine-quality flannel, in navy 


beige or brown, dressed for town with 


gray squirrel, satin scarf, velvet gloves. 





By Alvin Handmacher, $65. The skirt an 
extra costume with velvet blouse and hat. 


Muff by HAROLD RUBIN, scarf by LILLY DACHE, 
gloves by MERRY HULL, velvet blouse by DOBBY. 





The dress with deep neckline, soft 


shoulders, slim silhouette, in flat crepe, 





black, navy and ten other colors, $49.95, 


by Harry Schacter. With long pearls, 


“T wear it in town all day and then on to dinner.” Mrs. 


Vincent Sardi, Jr., likes this type of black broadcloth, 


; Miss Kay Kerr, fashion co-ordinator for Neiman 
white gloves, veiled hat for afternoon. 


Marcus, likes this navy-blue velvet-collared reefer by 





A DRESSMAKER SUIT 


Mrs. John Cannon, of New York and Chicago, finds a beige wool, 
velvet-collared suit most adaptable for city life. By Lo Balbo. Taffeta-tied 


brown fox scarf by Aaron Reiss. Black suéde box-bag by Alan Miller. 


A TWEED COAT: 


%, 


a 





‘ee 


neh RS 


. . . casual in character, neutral in color is what Mrs. F. P. Molden 
prefers. Wife of a young diplomat, she travels by car, ship, plane. 


Lo Balbo coat, leopard beret and over-arm calfskin bag by Mr. John. 


PHOTOGRAPHS BY JOHN ENGSTEAD 


61 





6 2 


oe eae 


Re Be tt gn eee 


ay 










Sie ee 


id I, <a a te 


es 
‘abricsaes 
New Designs ane 


Yours w 


for the Making = 


By NORA OTLEARY 


Each year fabrics become more beautiful 
and varied... patterns more exciting... 
sewing gadgets more efficient. All 
these things contribute to the success 


of women who make their own clothes. / 


PHOTOGRAPHS BY FRANCESCO SCAVULLO 


HAT BY IRENE 
BAG BY VAN S. 









Jacket of simulated fur, costs under $20 to make, ‘‘Easy- 
to-Make”’ Vogue Design No. 6890, 12 to 20. Wrapped-back 
skirt, ‘‘Easy-to-Make”’ Junior Design No. 3308, 24 to 28. 


The newest-looking shade of blue tweed made up in‘a great- 







HAT BY VANS. 





; 





ls 


63 


Enthusiastic women all over the country are eagerly 
making their own clothes. Loeal sewing classes 
and fabric shops are popular with both young 
and old. Some sew as a creative hobby. some as an 
economy. others because they like the effect 


and fit they get when they make their own clothes. 


Sheer chartreuse chiffon over matching taffeta in a ballet- 
length dinner dress. Delicately shirred bodice is belted with 
emerald-green velvet ribbon. Vogue Design No. S-4996, 12 to 20. 


DRAWINGS BY MARGARET SOMMERFELD 

















HAT BY IRENE 
GLOVES BY 
VIOLA WEIN BERGEF 





The perfect basic dress in beige wool. Neckline can Slim suit to make of gray worsted. Flattering 
be pinned high, or rolled in a deep V. Pattern also has ‘nipped-in”’ waistline. Wear with touches of 
optional peplum. Vogue Design No. 6889, 12 to 40. yellow. Vogue Design No. S-4027, 12 to 20. 


Buy Vogue Patterns at the store which sells them in your city. Or order by mail, enclosing check 
or money order *, from Vogue Pattern Service, Putnam Ave., Greenwich, Conn.; or in Canada 
from 198 Spadina Avenue, Toronto, Ontario. (*Connecticut residents please add sales tax.) 





Other views and prices of these patterns on page 222 


Beautiful, bold black-and-white plaid wool two-piece dress. 
Wear the top with a black jersey skirt, the skirt with a bright 


@woous velyeteen jacket. Junior Vogue Design No. 3299, 9 to 15. 


64. 


VHOTOGKAPHS BY McADOO-—LINDBAY 


AMERICAN BEAUTYS 


WINTER-LONG WARDROBE 








Princess style, double-breasted gray reefer, $29; snug-fitting brilliant red velvet cloche. 


Pocketed, barrel-skirted red wool, $25. 


Full-skirted rustly brocade, about $25. 
Petite EILEEN KENNEDY, nineteen, has an eye for color and practicality in 
her clothes, which must be simply cut and infinitely variable for life in 
Brooklyn, work in New York. She picks the gray fitted coat to go over her red 
dress and navy suit. These are simple enough to wear on her job as secretary 
at the Cornell Club, adaptable for a date after 
working hours. For this she keeps a pair 
of spick-and-span suéde pumps, perhaps a 
fresh blouse at the office. For that special 
dinner, she wears a dance dress of garnet red. 

Kileen likes clothes that she can “‘dress 
up or down,” wisely chooses her accessories 
for colors that accent or blend. A small 
junior size, Eileen must be attentive to line 
and cut, avoiding shirts and skirts, as they 
minimize her height; however, sweaters and 
skirts come into play for favorite pastimes of 
skating and bowling. | By CYNTHIA McADOO 


Navy rayon flannel suit, $25; palest gray felt hat. 








i 
| 


Baried alive! 
Judges are the unwilling morticians 


for thousands of marriages. 


By 
JUDGE PAUL W. ALEXANDER 


Court of Common Pleas, Toledo 


“BARS. JONES, will you describe in your 
own words what happened May 4, 
1946?” the lawyer asked. 

“My husband came home very late. He’d 
been drinking again. I knew he’d been run- 
ning around and when I asked him where 
he’d been he got so abusive I made up my 
mind | just couldn’t stand it any longer. 
Next day I left him,” she answered. 

“Thank you,” and the lawyer motioned 
her to step down. 

“Just a moment,” said the judge, leaning 
forward. “You say he’s been drinking the 
last three years?” 

wes.” 

“Did he drink before you were married?” 

eNo.” 

“Did he drink or run around during the 
first six years of your marriage?” 

**No.”’ 

‘Then what got him started?” 

‘How should I know?” Mrs. Jones replied 
indignantly. 

‘Don’t you have any idea what went 
wrong?” persisted the judge. 

“All I know is he got to drinking and run- 
ning around,” Mrs. Jones told him. “And 


WHO DOTH NOT ANSWER TO a8 etd Oe 0 on 


SIE 9) et heel ae i Te cee eee 


< 
» 
oI 
a 
2 
5 
Go 
Q 
° 
5 


Judge Alexander has helped bury 20,000 marriages. Here he advises a couple to keep theirs alive. 


I couldn’t take it any longer. He made a 
nervous wreck out of me.” 

“Yes,” sighed the judge in a resigned 
voice. “The evidence shows he has been 
guilty of legal grounds, and under the law the 
court has to grant you a divorce.” 

Mrs. Jones is typical of millions of divorce 
seekers: aware only of another’s guilt, of 
superficial symptoms, the outward manifes- 
tations; with little insight into the causative 


factors, the real roots of the trouble—and 





hence unable to do anything about it. 

And the law is that way too! 

I am politely referred to as a “judge.” 
Maybe that is one of those legal fictions. In 
reality | am just a faintly glorified public 
mortician. In the last dozen years I have 
presided over the final obsequies of more 
than 20,000 dead marriages. 

For, in reality, Jane and John kill off the 
marriage. The divorce trial is merely the au- 
topsy, or post-mortem. The divorce decree 
is the burial certificate. 

Now we public morticians are called upon 
to bury a lot of live corpses. We know there’s 
still a spark of life in many a seemingly dead 
marriage. It’s hard to discover, but it’s there 
if only we had adequate time and resources 
to probe for it and bring it back to life. 

Half a century ago, we started taking chil- 
dren out of the criminal courts and handling 
them in a brand-new kind of court, the ju- 
venile court. In criminal court, the sole is- 
sues were guilt and punishment. In juvenile 
court these ideas were relegated so far into 
the background that in the more progressive 
courts now they have entirely disappeared. 


They have been replaced by the new phi- 
losophy of diagnosis and therapy—Healing, 
treatment. Instead of determining whether 
the child is guilty of an offense and then 
punishing him, the court tries to determine 
why the child behaves as he does and_.£o cor- 
rect his behavior. 

The court over which I preside handles 
both juvenile delinquency and divorce. Years 
ago I became conscious that we were able to 
straighten out and help an impressive ma- 
jority of the delinquent children, while at 
the same time a painful majority of the un- 
happy spouses got no help at all. Our work 
in juvenile court was constructive; in di- 
vorce court, destructive. The contrast was 
thought-provoking. 

Much thought has been given this problem 
by the American Bar Association, world’s 
largest legal organization. It has a special 
committee on divorce and marriage laws 
and family courts. This committee has sug- 
gested patterning our divorce courts after 
our modern, progressive juvenile courts— 
handling our unhappy and delinquent spouses 
much as we handle our delinquent children. 
After all, their behavior is not unlike that of 
a delinquent child—and for much the same 
reasons! The committee asks: 

Why not substitute in divorce courts the 
modern philosophy of diagnosis and therapy 
for that of guilt and punishment? Instead of 
determining whether a spouse is guilty, why 
not try to diagnose and treat, to discover the 
fundamental causes, then bring to bear all 
available community resources to remove 


or rectify them? (Continued on Page 122) 








This could be the last chance to say yes... 


ee 


By FLORENCE JANE SOMAN 


JUST don’t see, Evie,” Martha said, ‘how you 

can go on frittering away your time the way 

you do. Now take today, for instance. What 
did you do today?” 

Evie blinked. ‘“Today?” she echoed. She appeared 
to be thinking for a moment. “Why, nothing much, 
I guess. I spent most of the morning on the tele- 
phone and then I met Carrie downtown for lunch— 
she was so blue and depressed—and then we went 
to the movies and stopped in for a soda after- 
ward.” Her face brightened. ““We saw such a good 
picture, Marth. It was ce 

“Yes, I know,” Martha said. “But what did you 
accomplish today?” She leaned forward in her ear- 
nestness. ““What did you do that was constructive?” 

Oh. 


thing, I suppose.” Her brown eyes were very clear 


Evie said. “You’ve got me there. Not a 


and undisturbed as she looked at Martha. “I guess I 
never accomplish anything except getting older.” 

“Well, now that’s just what I mean,” said Martha. 
“We are getting older. And these are the rich, full 
years in our lives that will never come again. Believe 
me, Evie *” But she stopped and sighed. Evie 
was reaching for a grape from the plate beside her on 
the porch glider, and her eyes had misted in a way 
that made Martha lean back in her chair. She knew 
that she no longer had Evie’s attention. 

I suppose, Martha thought ruefully, that if I started 
to talk about clothes or movie stars or people we know, 
she'd be all wide-eyed with interest again. But about 
something important —— She shook her head in a 

little gesture of indulgence. 

They were very unlike, the two sisters. Evie was 

two years older, but there was a perennial childish- 
ness about the agreeably snub-nosed face under 
the fair, baby-fine hair. Everything about Evie 

| was soft, from her plumply rounded body 
to her voice. She had a way of slurring her 
words together as if, even in this, she could 
not take the time or trouble to be neat and 


ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER M. 


efficient. But the effect of her soft tones and blurred 
intonation was very pleasant, and when she laughed 
her rich and hearty laugh, as she did so often, 
people usually found themselves laughing and 
relaxing along with her. 

Martha was tall and slender, in contrast. She had 
rather lovely features, the wide eyes dark and a little 
grave, the mouth finely shaped. Perhaps it was her 
shyness, however, or a natural reserve that made the 
pattern of her face too smooth, too composed for 
actual beauty. She was twenty-eight. 

“The rich, full years,” she repeated now with a 
sigh. ““Do you know that [’m getting awfully old, 
Evie? Pretty soon your friends will be telling-you 
that your sister is very well preserved for her age.” 
She grinned as Evie laughed and then her lovely 
eyes grew serious again. “But I do think you need 
stirring up a little, Evie; you have a good mind if 
you'd only use it. Wouldn’t you like to keep abreast 
of the times?” She looked hopefully at Evie. 
*““W ouldn’t you like to read some books on economics 
or science? It’s really your duty to keep informed 
about such things.” 

Evie reached for another grape and shuddered im- 
perceptibly. ““You wouldn’t catch me wading through 
any of that stuff for a million dollars,” she said. “I'll 
let you be smart enough for both of us, honey.” She 
rocked contentedly on the glider. ‘But I tell you 
what. Maybe this fall I'll join your book club—they 
read novels, don’t they? And I'll take an art course 
too. I could always draw pretty well.”’ She leaned her 
head back on the cushion, with the air of one who had 
just discharged a difficult duty successfully, and 
Martha couldn’t help grinning again. 

“You were always an armchair dynamo,” she said. 
“You know you won’t do anything about it at all.” 
Her eyes were warm with love as she gazed at 
Evie, but she gave a little sigh. It seemed a pity to 
her that her sister’s life was an aimless wandering 
that led nowhere. And 


(Continued on Page 225) 


BAUMHOFER 








JUSTRATED BY 


1 ae 





... and now you'll understand why the hand that rocks the cradle is mother’s. 


By VAL TEAL 


EN father came home from work the dining-room 
table was piled high with clean clothes off the line. 
Mother and Pud and I were sorting them. 

**Isn’t dinner started?” father asked. 

“Not yet,” mother said. ‘This has been a terrible day!” 
She was folding underwear. “I’m in a tizzy,” she said, 

“No system,” father said. “If you’d manage better, you 
wouldn’t have to keep running your work into the evening. 
I have to leave early.” 

“System, my neck,” mother said. “You can’t systematize a 
thing like housework.” 

“A man could,” father said, helping to look through the 
socks. ‘Man works from sun to sun,” he said, “but woman’s 
work is never done. How true! How true! Women don’t have 
to keep at their work all their waking hours,” he said. ‘Not 
if they manage properly.” 

“Well, at any rate, you didn’t throw out that old saw about 
getting help,” mother said. She was putting the vegetables on 
the stove in the kitchen. “I’ve finally convinced you I can’t 
get help,” she said. “Even if I could get it, 1 don’t want it,” 
she said. “I like to be alone. It’s just that today everything 
happened. Telephone, doorbell, Bumps running away.” 

“It’s just,” father said, “that today as usual, like all women, 


you wasted steps and energy and time running from this to 


” 





that and that to this again. If you’d work by a schedule 

“Ho-hum!” mother said. She was back in folding things 
again. “Next time I get married,” she said, “‘I think I'll marry 
an artist.” 

“Artists are very poor providers,” father said. 

“What of it?” mother said, ‘“They’re not systematic. 
Wouldn’t you like an artist for your next father, boys?” 

I laughed. I knew mother was fooling. Pud looked up at the 
ceiling and thought it over. 

“T don’t know,” he said. “I guess that’d be O.K. Would he 
let us use his paints?” 

“Oh, sure, he would,” mother said. ‘He'd let you use his 
paints and paint anyplace you liked. He wouldn’t care if the 
house was a mess. He’d take us on picnics and say pooh to 
the housework. “So this is Monday,’ he’d say. ‘Who cares?’ 
he'd say. “There’s always Tuesday Wednesday Thursday 
Friday Saturday,’”’ 

“Yeah, I know,” I said. ““We’d have a lunch half hanging 
out of a basket, sausages and bottles. That’s the way artists 
do, | saw it in a movie. We'd go singing along all in a line, 


all barefoot, and if we walked by a lake we’d rent a boat.” 


“Wouldn’t we though?” mother said. “And if we get 
stranded on an island, our artist father will say, ‘Oh, well, 
tomorrow’s tomorrow.” 

“We'll just sit and play in the sand,” Pud said. 

“And when he comes home from work and dinner isn’t 
ready? What then?” I said. ‘“What will he do then?” 

‘**He won’t come home from work,” mother said. ““He’ll be 
home—all the time. He’ll work in the study. Or maybe we'll 
give him the sewing room. How would that be? And we won’t 
have a washday. We'll just pile the dirty clothes up until we 
run out and then we'll do the whole thing like the Norwegians 
do. We'll wash twice a year and it’ll be a big celebration with 
coffee and doughnuts.” 

“Well, where will you do your sewing?” I’ said. 

“Well, let’s see,” mother said. “Where shall I do my 
sewing? Oh,” she laughed, “there won’t be any sewing of 
course. Artists’ wives don’t have sewing to do. Ill sell the 
sewing machine and get a—oh dear, what shall I get with 
the sewing-machine money?” 

“Hey!” father said. “‘I’m still here.” 

Mother looked up at him like she didn’t know it till then. 
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, that’s right, you are. I’m so relieved,” 
she said. “Hold out your arms,” she said. 

Father did and she started loading him up with clothes to 
be put away. 

“Bath towels in the linen closet,” she said. ‘“That’s your 
underwear and this is Pud’s and open your hand and you can 
take one more pile—there. Those are Bump’s undershirts. 
Just put them on his dresser. Go on,” she said, “‘and here, 
boys, you take some,” and she started loading us up. 

“And here,” father said and he leaned over, still holding 
his loaded arms stiff out. He kissed mother hard. Then he 
straightened up and set his mouth in a straight line and 
nodded his head hard once at her. “There, woman,” he said, 
“you put that away. And give it some good hard thought. 


Planning your next husband!”’ he said. (Continued on Page 214) 


‘Rp A 
unning a house 


is NOT a business,”’ 


Ramee tts 


ia r S 
It’s running a 


3-RING CIRCUS!” 


































\\ 


; S S 
Y ——S ae as 
Sen AVY 


N 
a 


47 





Grapefruit Piquant 


Beef-and-Kidney Ragout 


Tomatoes with Savory Spinach 


French-Fried Eggplant 
auliflower 
Crusty Bread 
Dutch Apple Pie — Cheese 
Coffee 


(Serves 6) 


inne 





PHOTO BY STUART-FOWLER 





By ANN BATCHELDER 


AYBE you will recall that, from time to time, I have laid claim, 
as they say, to being quite a weather prophet. Not one of those 
scientific 100-per-centers, understand, but a good» run-of-the- 
mill prophet, whose batting ayerage is well up in the big league. 
Last spring I prophesied a long, hot, dry summer. Little, if any, 
rain; sweet-pea season all shot; little use to invest in grass seed, as we 
urbanites and suburbanites wouldn’t be allowed to use hose or sprin- 


kler in the gardens. And what did I get for all this and more of the same? 


Just a big laugh and some slighting remarks. I had only a handful of 


serious takers. A real minority. 

How to be a prophet. Now you may, in view of my success 
this summer, wish to have an inkling of how it’s done. [Il tell 
you—not all, but a few hints. Watch the last Friday in the month. Jf 
the last Friday is hot and humid, or hot and clear, the following month 
will be that way—and you may count on it. Not 100 per cent, but it 
will run about 80. Same if any last Friday turns cold, rainy, snowy or 
as clear as a piece of ice, there you have your next month—and you 
can make your plans accordingly. This is my greatest and most re- 
liable prognostication source. It almost never fails. 


The moon—the almanac. The Old Farmer’s Almanac used 





to cast a weather eye and tell folks what was in store—weatherwise. 
But late years it seems to me it’s pretty much guesswork. Little do 
they say in that indispensable compendium of knowledge about how 
thick the fur is on cat and squirrel. Or if the cat seeks to establish resi- 
dence back of the range in the kitchen or pre-empt the rocking chair in 
the sunniest window. No, sir, the cat may come or go, those careless 
weather prophets pay no attention to what she’s trying to tell them. 
But J do. I pay attention to shooting stars, to the moon and how brittle 
the twigs are and what time the leaves turn and when the wild geese 
go over and many other pertinent things. And that is why, how and 
whence I’m a weather prophet. 

And now another prophecy. Right now [ll let the weather 
be. Enough for me that I saw the summer through, knowing 
ahead all the time what we were in for, and carrying on accordingly. 


So here’s something else. I see by the signs that colder days are 
oO ’ Cc d 





coming up. After all, it’s October that (Continued on Page 132) 


= 











OEE A 00 on te AE ANION 6 


Se 


I Harriet Beecher Stowe once wrote a book 
entitled The Housekeeper’s Manual. It dealt 
with every known and most guessed-at prob- 
lems that bedevil the lady of the house. Uncle 
Tom and Little Eva haven’t a thing to do with 
it. Harriet was a versatile woman. 


2 A backward glance o’er traveled roads leads 
me to tell you again—and sometimes (wo 
agains—about cooked cereal molded in indi- 
vidual molds, and served with brown or maple 
sugar and cream. Or with a fruit sauce. 


3 Don’t let walnuts be forgotten in your 
kitehens. Like the cracker barrel in the old- 
time country store, the walnut is an indis- 
pensable item. Has a hundred uses, all good. 


A The Welsh-rabbit season has opened up. Ever 
serve them on anchovy toast? Or on toast with 
a thick slice of tomato under the cheese? Or 
with a good helping of baked beans—yes, 
ma’am, baked beans? Well, you'll be ringing 
the bell every time. 


#® A nice change from the Sunday-night 
scrambled eggs and bacon is a little trifle 
called eggs diable, and they’re mighty good 
eating. Spread crisp toast with butter, then 
give it the old one-two with deviled ham and 
tomato sauce and pile on the scrambled eggs. 


G In passing, I wonder if you have ever heard 
of the woman who said she would never per- 
mit her children to drink a drop of water that 
hadn’t been strained! On account of germs. 


4 What subject. is more full of flavor, of 
savor and sheer deliciousness than a fine slice 
cut from the center of a ham, neatly trimmed— 
but not of all fat—and slit around the edge to 
keep it from curling? 


% Well, take a slice of ham about an inch 
thick, do as above, then make a paste of one 
teaspoon of brown sugar, two of prepared 
mustard, and three of flour, with vinegar to 
make the paste, spread the ham with this, 
put it into a glass dish, cover with milk and 
bake at 350°F. until it’s very tender. Takes 
about an hour. 


9 Answer to query: No, Gertie, you are off on 
the wrong foot and your mother is right. An 
alligator pear is no relation to an ordinary 
pear. Nor has it any remote connection with 
an alligator. Its right name is avocado and it 
grows on a tree of the same name. 


10 Vanilla custard, the baked kind, served 
with sliced peaches—or any berries you can 
get hold of, crushed and sweetened—is a des- 
sert to be proud of. 


Il Boiled rice molded in small molds, ar- 
ranged on a platter and covered with a cus- 
tard sauce, is made very de luxe by scooping 
out an opening in the top of each mold and 
putting in a filling of fruit, berries or jam. 


‘\ 


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t 
; 
AER ORE y a 
‘ ee Cee) 


_ 





Wine & bay 


By ANN BATCHELDER 


12 Now this isn’t New England and never 
was. But it’s good, and when you want a vari- 
ation of that powerhouse dish—oyster stew— 
here you are. 


133 Make a stew and make it the best. Add a 
cup of diced cooked celery, the tender inside 
part, and be sure to drain it well before it goes 
in the stew. Serve in cups with toasted 
crackers. Have it hot. 


14 From an old cookbook: ‘One thing that 
should be impressed on the young—and not 
so young—housekeeper is that onions should 
be banished from all cooking and from the 
kitchen. An onion is as disagreeable in the 
house as a spoiled fish.” There’s a Victorian 
idea that I hope has been banished forever. 


15 Any meat hash that calls for a moistener— 
and what one doesn’t?—is another thing if 
good strong broth is used and water forgotten. 


1G There is more to a sardine than a little 
tyke of a fish to be stuck on a cracker. Get 
some skinless and boneless ones, season with 
lemon juice, roll in fine cracker crumbs and 
grill. Serve on toast fingers with a green salad. 


17 Scalloped oysters are with us again; in fact, 


all oyster dishes are taking up their major roles 
for the coming months. 


18 For scalloped oysters, add the juice of a 
lemon when you’re preparing this dish, and 
have your scallop two—three at the most— 
layers thick. Two layers are better, and a glass 
pie plate is ideal for cooking them in. 


19 Chops, pork or veal, split and stuffed with 
deviled ham, are delicious. Stuff before broil- 
ing, of course. Or split the chops and put a thin 
slice of cooked ham in each, then broil. 


20 You know about that omelet trick orig- 
inated in a French provincial inn. It’s simple, 
as most perfect things are, so, before folding 
your omelet, spread it with seasoned very heavy 
cream. Sprinkle it with Parmesan cheese and 
run under the broiler for a few seconds. The 
omelet must be as soft as possible before the 
final touches. 


21 And here’s an idea for stuffed poteioes. Whip 
your potatoes with milk, butter, seasoning and 
a raw egg. Fill shells half full. Add one oyster 
to each. Fill up with more potato. Brown in 
the oven. 


~ FALLING DAYS 


Lostina pattern of falling leaves 
Tracing the summer's going. 

Now we shall turn to ripened sheaves, 
The cropped orass in the mowing. 

Now we shall find the chalice rare 

And the wine that is October’s air. 


op se SY 


ae 


22 If you are as fond of green peppers as I 
am, try this. Wash your peppers, get out all 
the seeds—but al//—and cut each into six 
pieces. Fry them slowly in hot oil. Season with 
salt and pepper. Fry half a bud of garlic in the 
oil first and then take it away. 


2:3 I love all corn puddings. There are as 
many as there are kernels on a fat cob. Here is 
one kind. Take a can of Golden Bantam cream- 
style corn. Chop fine a green pepper and a 
small sweet red pepper and cook in a little 
butter, until tender. Add to the corn, all in a 
bowl. Add a beaten egg, salt and pepper to 
taste, and a cup of milk. Mix, pour into a 
pudding dish, cover with fine crumbs, and 
bake until the pudding is set and brown. 


. 24 Sign No. 1: A wonderful dish is broiled 


bluefish or any fine white fish broiled and 
garnished with lobster fritters. A very rich, 
well-seasoned cream sauce is poured over the 
fritters on the platter, and broiled spiced- 
peach halves are just dandy with this. 


225 Sign No. 2: To make the lobster fritters, 
prepare aregular fritter batter. Chop the fresh, 
boiled lobster, season with lemon juice and 
mix with the batter. Drop by spoonfuls in deep 
hot fat and fry to a golden brown. Then follow 
Sign No. 1. 

26 Sometime when you’re making creamed 
chipped beef, try using sour cream. No flour 
needed—just season. 


27 Here’s a variation on a favorite theme. 
Next time you bake bananas, brush well with 
butter, sprinkle lightly with salt, then pour 
over them one cup hot cranberry sauce. 


28 If you like eggplant, you’ll like this one. 
Prepare fairly thick slices of eggplant, dip 
in beaten egg and fine cracker crumbs and 
fry in deep fat. Drain. Season. On top of 
each slice put a fitting thin slice of cooked 
ham, on this a perfectly poached egg and, 
over all, hollandaise sauce. Talk about your 
Benedicts! 


29 Thin slices of lime with alternate slices 
of lemon do dress up a cup of jellied madrilene. 
And lime with fruit and some vegetables makes 
for an uplifted mood. 


30 French toast, so called because the French 
never heard of it, is all right with us folks, 
anyway. For something a little special, try 
heaping the slices with sliced sugared peaches, 
or with any fruit or berry, and there’s a simple 
dessert or a bride’s breakfast dish. 


31 “Standing with reluctant feet,” I can see 
the dead leaves falling, falling. Hear the wild 
loon calling. And the sound of the mourning 
dove is the call to other days. But I shall meet 
you all ann come November. That’s a date! 


BIORDER DESIGIN BY JOHN URBAIN 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


KIES PAY MORE 


give you a finer cigarette! 

































L. G. GRIFFIN, veteran independent auc- 
tioneer of Clarksville, Va., says: ‘‘Season 
after season I’ve seen the makers of 
Luckies buy fine tobacco — prime, ripe, 
golden leaf. I’ve smoked Luckies for 14 
years.’’ Here’s more evidence that Luckies 
are a finer cigarette. 


Yes, at tobacco auctions Lucky Strike 
pays millions of dollars more than 
official parity prices for fine tobacco! 


There’s no finer cigarette in the world today than Lucky 
Strike! To bring you this finer cigarette, the makers of 
Lucky Strike go after fine, light, naturally mild tobacco— 
and pay millions of dollars more than official parity 
prices to get it! So buy a carton of Luckies today. See 
for yourself how much finer and smoother Luckies really 
are—how much more real deep-down smoking enjoyment 
they give you. Yes, smoke a Lucky! You’ll agree it’s a 


finer, milder, more enjoyable cigarette! 






COPR., THE AMERICAN TOBACCO COMPANY 


Z S/th ET, — Lucky Stuke Meand Fine Tobacco 


So round, so firm, so fully packed—so free and easy on the draw 





within you, unseen 


but beautiful 


— ean open a new world to you 


Deep-rooted in every woman’s heart is 
the longing to be appreciated, loved— 
to feel that she really “counts” in life. 


Yet so many women are pathetically unsure 
of themselves. They are baffled by vague unsatisfied 
desires. They feel they are “‘missing something” 
which should rightly be theirs. 

No woman has to live with an unhappy, hum- 
drum self. You can consciously change yourself— 
become lovelier, charming. A wonderful force 
within you can help you do this. 

Like a seesaw, this force is a balance between 
your Inner Self and your Outer Self. It explains 
why your Outer appearance can so easily sway 
your Inner being—the way you act, and your 


whole appeal to other people. 


You know the magic lift in spirit that fills you 
when you are someone lovely to see. You step out 
with a high heart and happy confidence that glows 
from your face—and that others respond to on sight. 
But—how unhappily insignificant you can feel— 
and be—when you fail to show yourself at your best. 

Yes—the loveliness you show to others can do 
more for you than you dream! 

So don’t be negative about yourself—ever. Have 
belief in your own possibilities—and in the worth- 


whileness of making them come true. 


Make the most of your best 


Start today to chart yourself a new way of living 
that will bring a new and lovelier You shining out 


other woman 







LADIES’ HOME JOURNAI October, 1949 


—— 





w 


- 


MRS. ASTOR’S lovely complexion has an unforgettable quality. “I take my Pond’s everywhere 
with me,” Mrs. Astor says. “To my mind there is no better face cream.” 




































ew. oe 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Hd Fit tok fist 


Beautiful distinction, serene poise, gay little sparkles of wit from her Inner Self 


meet you charmingly in Mrs. Astor’s lovely, expressive face ... a face that leaves 


in the minds of all who see her an enchanting picture of a most enchanting person. 


from your face—challenging interest and 
friendship wherever you go. Base this new 
living on the ever-abiding laws of health and 
beauty . . . sensible exercise every day to 
keep your body lithe, muscles firm, circu- 
lation singing... good relaxing sleep every 
night... good food, but not too much of 
it... enough water to drink. . . and fas- 
tidious cleanliness. 

Remember that soft, immaculate skin and 
cold cream go together like twins when it comes 
to cultivating skin beauty. But, your face 
creaming cannot be just haphazard to do the 
most for you. 

A wonderfully effective creaming ritual has 
been worked out by Pond’s—to help your face 
look its soft loveliest. This “Outside-Inside” 
Face Treatment with Pond’s Cold Cream is 
simple and quick—as you can see from the 
directions in the. center of this page. ““Outside- 
Inside’”— this Pond’s treatment literally acts 
on both sides of your skin. 





FROM THE OUTSIDE—soft, fluffy Pond’s Cold 
Cream thoroughly cleanses, beautifully softens 
your skin as you massage. 

FROM THE INSIDE—every step of this treatment 
stimulates the blood in your cheeks to new 
beauty-giving activity. 

Make this rewarding Pond’s “Outside-Inside” 

Face Treatment an every-night-at-bedtime 

habit. You can practically promise yourself 

you'll soon be saying—"‘this is the nicest look- 
ing me I’ve ever seen in my mirror.” 








Your. - face 
ts what you make tt! 


See what this 
“QUTSIDE-INSIDE” TREATMENT 
will do for your face 


Always at bedtime (day cleansings, 
too) cleanse and soften your face 
with Pond’s Cold Cream this way: 


Hot Stimulation—Quickly splash 
your face with hot water. 


Cream Cleanse—swirl Pond’s 
Cold Cream all over your face: 
This light, fluffy cream will soften 
and sweep dirt and make-up from 
pore openings. Tissue off well. 


Cream Rinse—swirl on a second, 
soft Pond’s creaming. This rinses 
off last traces of dirt, leaves skin 
lubricated, immaculate. Tissue oft 
again—lightly. 

Cold Stimulation—give your face 
a tonic cold water splash. 


Feel the differenee—your skin is 
softer, fresher! See the difference— 
your skin is smoother, radiant! 


You'll never want to skip this 
beauty care—it really works! 


Lovely, young Mrs. Astor says—‘This Pond’s 
way of caring for my skin is a joy. It leaves my 
face meticulously clean, so refreshed, and brings 
color up in my cheeks.” 


To outwit Dry Skin 


From about 25 on, the natural oil that keeps 
skin soft starts decreasing. Before 40 skin may 
lose as much as 20% of its own softening oil. 

You can offset this drying out if you give your 
skin an oil especially suited to its needs. You 
can give your skin the extra daily help of Pond’s 
Dry Skin Cream. This special, softening cream 





FH sup pining 08 PO 


co | 
~] 


is very rich in lanolin, which is most like natural 
skin oil. And, it is homogenized to soak in 
better. Dry, thirsty skin actually seems to 
“drink it up.” 


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(Continued from Page 74) 
had done nothing all day save read and eat 
sandwiches. 

Nancibel put the can of water on the wash- 
ing stand and took the tea tray to the bed- 
side. Mrs. Paley, she perceived, was not really 
asleep. She lay tense and rigid, her eyes tight 
shut. Neither Paley said anything, and all the 
violence no doubt broke out again as soon as 
the door was shut on them. 

Tea for Miss Ellis came next. She never 
said ‘‘Come in” when you knocked. She al- 
ways called out, ““Who is it?” One day, 
vowed Nancibel, J’/l say, “It’s the Duke of 
Windsor.” 

“Your tea, Miss Ellis.” 

“Oh? Come in.” 

The room was frowsty and full of card- 
board boxes. It had been a nice little room 
before Miss Ellis came, with bright chintzes 
and good furniture. But she had managed to 
give it a poverty-stricken look. She put noth- 
ing away; all her possessions lay strewn 
about that the world might see how shabby, 
soiled and broken they were. The most 
squalid object in the 
room was Miss Ellis 
herself, in the torn, 
mud-colored dress- 
ing gown, her greasy 
black hair falling 
over her eyes. 

“Have you done 
the lounge?” 

“No, Miss Ellis.” 
(A nice row there'd 
be if she didn’t get her 
lea ill I'd done the 
lounge!) 

“Then you’d 
better do it right 
away, Nancibel. 
When you've done 
the lounge you can 
go and help in the 
kitchen. I shall be 
down shortly.” 

This conversation 
took place every 
morning and its of- 
fensiveness was de- 
liberate. The impli- 
cation was that 
Nancibel lacked the 
wit to remember the 
usual routine and 
the conscience to 
follow it. 

Fred was still 
pushing the sweeper 
about when Nancibel came downstairs. She 
took it away from him and told him to go and 
dust the stairs. 

A few minutes’ break, and a cup of tea, 
came after the lounge was finished. Mrs. 
Siddal was now in the kitchen, which smelled 
of coffee, toast and sizzling bacon. Mrs. Sid- 
dal was a passable cook, but she had taken to 
housework too late. She was clumsy and 
amateurish; she made many unnecessary 
movements. Nancibel’s mother could have 
done twice as much in half the time. 

Poor thing! thought Nancibel. Let’s hope 
she gets a proper cook soon. P’r’aps I shouldn't 
feel so blue here tf there was a cook. 


and right.” 


to re-enlist till 


Duff and Robin Siddal came in from bath- 
ing, their wet towels round their necks. They 
were sent out into the yard again to hang the 
towels on a line while their mother spooned 
out bowls of porridge for them. It had never 
been her intention, when she opened the 
hotel, to feed her family in the kitchen. The 
Siddals were to have had their own table in 
the dining room. But they had found that 
they could not talk in the dining room. The 
guests embarrassed them. 

““Where’s Gerry?” she asked. “‘Didn’t he 
bathe with you?”’ 

““No,”’ said Duff. ‘‘He’s attending to the 
electric-light machine.” 


Sue put Gerry’s porridge bowl into the 
oven to keep warm and wondered who would 
have seen to the electric light if Gerry had 
not been there. Of her three sons, he was the 
most loving and the least loved. For he had 
inherited none of the charm which had be- 


VEXT MONTH 


“T would like to go back, sir. I can 
take whatever punishment is just 


ACHARY didn’t need a history 

book to tell him that desertion 
from Lord Nelson’s navy was a 
serious crime and carried no guar- 
anty of just punishment. He had 
slipped out of a porthole to freedom 
when he was only fifteen, but now, 
after a year of vagabonding, his 
love for Stella and loyalty to his 
adopted father gave him courage 
“Bony” 
Sometimes a child like Stella can 
teach a man that love and courage 
travel the same road. 


Elizabeth Goudge’s newest novel 


1 * * 
fentian Hill 


a serial in three parts begin- 


ning in the November Journal 



























































October, 1949 


trayed her into marrying Dick Siddal. Heaven 
knew from what plebeian strain he received 
his stocky build, his snub nose and his ten- 
dency to boils, Even as a baby he had bored 
her, though no child could have given less, 
trouble. Low-spirited, affectionate and con 
scientious, he had plodded his dreary way to 
maturity without giving her one endearing 
memory. His letters during the war—and he 
had fought at Arnhem—were so flat as to be 
almost unreadable. 


Sue was ashamed that this should be so 
and that the two others should entirely di- 
vide her disappointed heart. For Robin was 
the picture of a brother she had lost in 1918. 
And Duff was the son of her dreams; he had 
Dick’s charm, Dick’s beauty, Dick's bril- 
liance, untarnished as yet by Dick’s failure. 
She could deny nothing to Duff. But she 
made a faint stand when he asked for cream 
with his porridge. 

“Not after today,” she said. ‘I shall have 
to keep what there is for Lady Gifford. She's 
going to be very difficult to feed.” 

“What's the mat- 
ter with her?” asked 
Duff. “It sounds a 
very nice illness. I 
wish I could catch 
it.” 

Shuffling feet were 
heard in the kitchen 
passage. The master 
of the house stood | 
for 4 moment in the 
doorway, hugging 
hisolddressing gown 
round him. Duff and 
Robin moved to 
make room for him, | 
and his wife handed 
him a bowl of por- 
ridge which he ac- 
cepted with exagger- 
ated humility, He 
was in his Poor Re- 
lation mood. 

After a short 
pause, Duff made 
an effort to resume 
the conversation. 
“Two more fam- 
ilies,” he said, ‘will 


was licked. 


to do the bedrooms. I told her so last night.” 

“Mother!” cried Robin. ‘‘ Now she'll walk 
out.” 

“T don’t think so,” said Mrs. Siddal. “I 
don’t think she could get any other job.” 

Her voice was sharp as she said this, at 
a hard line appeared round her mouth. 
This sharpness and this hardness were n 
natural to her. Work she did not mind, 
or sacrifice of leisure, rest and comfoi 


enn a. 


self when people treated her badly, and 
she had begun to realize that ruthless bul- 
lying was the only method likely to suc- 
ceed with Miss Ellis. For Duff’s sake she 
must learn how to hold her own, for Duff 
would never go to Balliol unless the hote 
could be made to pay. 


Mr. Siddal his porridge and 
timid glances one face to another. He 
was pointedly ging to be left out. The af. 










self. 
Duff asked 
upon keeping 
“Only for th 


his mother. “ urse she’s worth a muc 
better job. But $Re wanted to be at home for 
while after she gt out of the ATS. Accordin, 
to her mother, @Mere’s been an unhappy lo 
affair, and she§ taken quite a time to ge 


over it. She wa: 
had her trou: 
and he threw hi 
seems he thou 
His people were auctioneers in the Midla 

(Corthinued on Page 80) 












LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 79 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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(Continued from Page 78) 
and they persuaded him to break it off. He 
can’t have been much loss, but she cared for 
him, poor child. How any family could think 
their son too good for Nancibel!”” 

“You would,” said Siddal, “if Gerry 
wanted to marry her.” 

Mrs. Siddal looked so terrified that all 
three burst out laughing. 

“He could do worse,” said Mrs. Siddal, re- 
covering. ‘‘I don’t know a nicer girl.” 

“Then why did you look so scared?” asked 
Duff. 

“Tt wasn’t the idea of Nancibel which 
scared her,” said his father. ‘It was the sug- 
gestion that Gerry might marry anyoneat all. 
He can’t afford to marry. We want his money, 
all of it, in order to send you to Oxford. Gerry 
mustn’t look at a girl for the next seven 
years: not until you've been called to the Bar 
and got a few big briefs. That’s why your 
mother won't do anything to cure his spots. 
She’s always worrying about those little bits 
of nurses at John’s, always on the catch for a 
young doctor. She hopes those spots may put 
them off. 

This came so very near to the truth that 
nobody could think of anything to say. 


Meditations of Sir Henry Gifford 
“A policeman to see Lady Gifford."’ That's 
enough about that. If I think about thal any 
more I shall drive into a tree. I can do nothing 
about it. No use asking her. ‘‘T mustn't be up- 
set, Harry. My heart specialist made me prom- 
ise not to get upset.”’ /f we want lo get to Pendi- 
zack tonight we must go right on. We've no 
lime to make a detour of 
Sifty miles because she’s 
heard of a liltle inn where 
you gel Cornish cream and 
lobsters. That's how we lost 
| mileage yesterday. “‘A po- 
| liceman ——"’ J will not live 
in Guernsey. When we 
come to the turning I shall 
run straight past it. She's rustling the map 
back in the car there. Determined we shan't miss 
it. But she can’t read a map. Too stupid. Nol 
stupid at getting what she wants. She will un- 
derstand only what she wants to understand. If 
we want lo get there we must go right on. Must 
get there soon after the children do. Can't have 
them arriving in a —— They got off all right, 
anyway. “A policeman ——”’ I rang up. “Oh, 
Mathers! Did the children get off all right this 
morning ?”’. . . “Oh, yes, Sir Henry. And a 
policeman called to see Her Ladyship. No, he 
wouldn't say. I toldhim she’d left for the coun- 
try and he took the address.” . . . “Darling, a 
policeman called to see you.””. . . “A police- 
man. Why, how odd! What does a policeman 
call about?” Wouldn’t she have looked fright- 
ened if it was. . . no! She’s never frightened. 
She doesn’t believe that anything disagreeable 
could possibly be allowed to happen to her. Now 
she wants to sit pretty in Guernsey, and noth- 
ing to stop her except me. I can’t help it if she’s 
bought a house in Guernsey. She can do what 
she likes with her own money. But I won't live 
| there, and she can’t escape income tax unless 
I do. What about my work? “But Harry, 
why should you work? If you lived in Guern- 
sey and paid no income tax you would bea 
rich man.” She doesn’t understand. I'm not 
going to Guernsey. If only she wasn’t so ill. 
I wish they could find out what's the matter 
with her. One must make allowances for her, 
poor thing. She has a lot to contend with. But I 
| must stick to my guns about Guernsey. “A 
policeman ——” 








Gerry sIDDAL’s boils were always worse 
when he was at home. They afflicted him as 
they afflicted Job; they were the stigmata of 
a patience tried to its utmost limits. 

He was an affectionate creature. He loved 
his mother, and he had only very recently 
left off loving his father. He was fond of his 
brothers. But things at Pendizack had got to 
| such a point that he would do anything, in- 
vent any job, to avoid his family at meal- 
times. With each of them separately he could 
get on very well, but he could no longer bear 
them as a group. 

So he tinkered with the electric-light ma- 
chine until he could be sure that breakfast 
was safely over. Then he went into the 





; 


Your conscience is what 
your mother told you be- 

fore you were six years old. 
—DR. G. BROCK CHISHOLM. 


October, 1949 


kitchen and ate congealed porridge while his 
mother cut the Paleys’ sandwiches. To his 
astonishment, she gave him all the cream 
which she had been saving for Lady Gifford. 
She was suffering from one of her spasmodic 
fits of remorse. 

“You need more fats,” she declared. 
“Darling, are you going over to Porthmerryn 
this morning?” 

“TI could if you want anything.” 

“T've a list of things. But before you go, 
will you help Nancibel put up those extra 
beds in Mrs. Cove’s room?” 


Sue began to wrap up the sandwiches and 
Gerry took his dishes into the scullery to 
save Nancibel the trouble of collecting them. 
He put up the extra beds in the attic, col- 
lected the list of errands in Porthmerryn, and 
started the steep climb up the drive. At the 
second turn of the road he met a tall thin 
woman who asked timidly if this was the 
way to the hotel. 

“Pendizack Manor?” he said. “ Yes, Can 
I help you? It’s my mother’s hotel.” 

She hesitated. ‘I only wanted .. . they 
said there might be rooms ———” 

“Did you want rooms? How many?” 

To answer this was quite beyond her. He 
began to wonder if she was entirely sane, for 
she kept her eyes averted and her head 
ducked a trifle sideways, a symptom which 
he had observed in lunatics. 

“T'll take you down to see my mother,” 
he suggested at last. 

At this she rallied and gave him a quick 
glance. Her eyes were beautiful, but a little 
mad. ‘‘Oh,”’ she said, 
“thank you.” 

They started back down 
the drive and Gerry 
adopted an indirect 
method of getting informa- 
tion. ‘‘ Wehavethreerooms 
vacant,” he told her. 
“One double, on the ground 
floor, and two small single on the first floor.” 

“Two single? Oh, thank you.” 

“Our terms are six guineas a week each.” 

“Oh, thank you.” 

There was a pause. Glancing at her, he 
discovered that she was really quite young, 
but so thin, so worn, that her youth was not, 
at first, apparent. 

“You've left your friend,” he suggested, 
“over in Porthmerryn?” 

This startled her. She gave him a scared 
glance and said, “‘I—I have no friend.” 

“But you want two rooms.” 

“Yes. One for me as well. I mean it’s for 
my—my father.” 

“And your father is in Porthmerryn?” 

“Oh, no. He—he’s here. At the top. In the 
car.” 

They had reached the house and he took 
her to the office. She seemed to become a 
good deal more sensible and collected when 
talking to his mother. She explained that 
her name was Wraxton; her father was 
Canon Wraxton. They had been staying at 
the Bellevue in Porthmerryn, but had not 
liked their quarters there and had left that 
morning. They wanted two rooms for a week. 
Her father was waiting in the car at the top 
of the hill while she inquired about accommo- 
dations. 

“Tl go up and tell him we have rooms,” 
volunteered Gerry. : 

But she seemed to be so disturbed at this 
idea that he had to let her go alone. 

“‘T’m astonished they weren’t comfortable 
at the Bellevue,’”’ said Mrs. Siddal. “It’s a 
very nice hotel. I wonder if they’re all right.” 

“Ring up and find out, before they come,” 
suggested Gerry. 

“T could do that. I could ask Mrs. Perkins, 
in confidence.”’ 

She rang up the Bellevue, but got no 
farther than the name of Wraxton when a tor- 
rent of squeaks from the telephone inter- 
rupted her. Mrs. Perkins had a great deal to 
say about the Wraxtons. 

“Well?” asked Gerry, when the colloquy 
was Over. 

“They’re all right as regards money. But 
she says he has the most awful temper; he 
quarreled with everybody.” 

(Continued on Page 82) 








An educational film on 
menstruation, by Walt Disney 
Productions, makes it easier 
for you to give your daughter 
a sane, realistic angle 


on growing up. 





Elizabeth 
Woodward 


Newspaper columnist and 
author... one of the nation’s 
foremost authorities on the 


affairs of teen-agers. 


The film explains 
*what happens and 
Mi why .. . and these 
ibright, animated 


» little characters show 
| a girl what to do and 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


ots of mothers are so busy catering to 
finicky appetites, letting down hems, 
and wheedling a bit of help with the 
dinner dishes . . . that you don’t stop to 
consider how much of your daughter’s 
growing up is mental. Mother’s the Big 
Boss . . . dealing out the discipline and 
the favors. Mother’s the Servant... 
meals on time, socks washed, clothes 
mended and pressed. 


But Mother the Giver of Really Im- 
portant Information? Hardly! You’re 
too busy. You’d be shocked. You wouldn’t 
understand. 


If your daughter has picked up a lot 
of information on subjects you don’t 
discuss at the dinner table. . . you might 
well ask yourself “Now, where did she 
hear that? With whom has she been 
talking?” 

For talk about such things your 
daughter will do. All her friends put their 
heads together and buzz. Each tidbit of 
information is passed around to all. And 
the sum total can add up to something 
horrific ! 

Maybe she’s come across a scientific 
tome complete with diagrams, and grisly 
photographs. Now it’s a hodge-podge in 
her mind .. . a terrifying nightmare. 


But maybe you’re the one who has 
filled her with fear and superstition ! May- 
be you had a quiet chat with her yourself. 
You dug into your own experience... 
and shared with her some of the bogey 
ideas you picked up when you were a 
teen-ager . . . ideas that have clung to 
you ever since. No wonder your daughter 
may be afraid to talk things over with 
you. 

You’re the Censor 


A girl’s first experience with menstrua- 
tion can and does condition her for life. 
And you're to blame if she develops 
complexes, imaginary ailments and a 
twisted personality ! 

Explaining menstruation is, of course, 
a serious responsibility. And thousands 
of mothers shy away from it. Some are 
timid .. . more than a bit puritan. They 
don’t like to discuss intimate subjects. 
It’s a personal ordeal for them to push 
out the words. 


Some mothers just don’t know the 
words. They haven’t the slightest idea 
of how to explain menstruation in easy, 
scientific terms. 


It’s hard enough for many mothers to 
start . . . it’s even harder for others to 
stop. They have to go on. . . with start- 
ling revelations their daughters didn’t 
expect and weren’t ready for. Which 
topsy-turvies many a daughter’s point 
of. view. 

Telling a girl what she wants to know 
in a way that will do her the most good 
and. avoid the most harm. . . is beyond 
some mothers. They’re resigned to leav- 
ing it all to chance . . . hoping for the 
best. Let her find out in hygiene class. 
Pass the buck to her hockey coach. Let 
her pick up what she will from the other 
girls, from the stories she reads and hears. 


That’s sidestepping your responsibil- 
ity. But if you can’t tell her what she 
wants to know adequately, sanely, scien- 
tifically ... why not choose the source 
of her information ? 


New Film Does Your Job for You 


There’s a magnificent film for her to see! 
An animated motion picture short in 
sound and color by Walt Disney Produc- 
tions, sponsored by the distributors of 
Kotex. It’s called ““The Story of Men- 
struation.”” And it’s built around the 
premise that accurate knowledge helps 
to create a healthy attitude toward men- 
struation. It takes the mystery out of a 
normal physical routine . . . and substi- 
tutes a sane, common-sense and enter- 
taining solution to a girl’s problem of 
living with menstruation. 


The film is a labor of love. Months and 
months of the most serious thought and 
planning . . . supervision by eminent 
medical authorities . . . checking and 
rechecking by educational experts. It’s 
plain speaking . . . but it’s rich in dignity, 
humor, beauty, grace and charm. 

And who but International Cellu- 
cotton, distributors of Kotex, the leaders 
in the field of sanitary protection, would 
have dreamed up and seen into reality 
this public service for the women and 
girls of America? Their film is one 
more step in the outward and forward- 





looking educational program they have 
sponsored for years. 


It’s an inspiration that has already 
been enthusiastically welcomed by over 
four million teen-age girls. Mothers, 
doctors, nurses, educators, editors and 
public health and government authori- 
ties are wholehearted in their approval. 
A mother wistfully said “My attitude 
toward being a woman might have been 
far different if I’d had a chance to see a 
film like this.” A woman doctor says 
“The picture portrays beautifully and 
unemotionally a phase of a normal girl’s 
life.” A magazine editor writes “We 
heartily recommend the film.” It suc- 
ceeds in treating a serious subject with 
clearness, good taste, scientific accuracy, 
humor and even good cheer. 


See the Film for Yourself 


“The Story of Menstruation” has been 
prepared for use in school classrooms . . . 
for organized groups of teen-age girls... 
(it has even been shown to boys) . . . and 
for Parent and Teacher organizations. 
Showings to industrial personnel and 
other adult groups may be arranged. 
The film is available free of charge. It 
runs ten minutes; requires a 16 mm 
sound projector. 


The picture is supplemented by a 
delightful booklet, “Very Personally 
Yours,” which gives more detailed infor- 
mation on menstruation, together with 
exercises to relieve cramps, and helpful 
tips on good health and good grooming. 
This booklet is obtainable free on request. 


See the film yourself! It will help you 
to live through your daughter’s growing 
up. Recommend that her school make the 
film available to her and her girlfriends. 
It will help her to be proud instead of 
scared to be a woman ! 


YOURS FOR THE ASKING! 


Write for booklets for one or more girls. 
To arrange for a short term loan of the 
film for showings to schools, P.T.A.’s, 
industrial organizations, etc. . . . write to 
the Educational Director, International 
Cellucotton Products Co., 919 North 
Michigan Ave., Chicago 11. No charge; 
no obligation. 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 80) 

“Oh, mother, don’t let’s have them.” 

“Tf he’s a canon they must be respectable. 
We can’t afford to have rooms standing 
empty.” 

Outside there was a sound of wheels 
crunching on gravel. They looked out the 
window and saw a large car nosing its way 
round the last bend. It drew up before the 
front door. 

Miss Wraxton was driving, and the canon 
sat behind. He was so exactly what they had 
expected that both the Siddals were startled. 
They had imagined a man with a large nose, 
bushy brows, small eyes, purplish complexion 
and a controversial lower lip; and here he sat. 

“Oh, dear,”” whispered Mrs. Siddal. ‘‘Oh, 
dear. I can’t ——”’ 

She went to the door, determined to say 
that she had no rooms after all. But the 
canon, who had got out of his car, was so very 
affable that she let him the rooms. Nothing 
seemed to put him out. He did not object to 
small rooms and he offered to pay for the 
week in advance. The bargain was concluded 
in a blaze of sunshine, and the only cloud 
came from the awkwardness of his silly 
daughter, who could not give an intelligible 
answer to Gerry’s question about the lug- 
gage. She twitched and muttered until her 
father’s attention was drawn down upon her. 
He gave her a glance of disgust and said: 

“Since my daughter chooses to behave like 
a half-wit, I must answer you myself, Mr. 
Siddal. The small blue suitcase is hers. The 
rest of the luggage is mine.’’ He cut short 
further incoherences by adding, “That will 
do, Evangeline. If you can’t talk sense, don’t 
talk at all.” 

Nothing else occurred to ruffle him except 
a little unpleasantness in the hall, where he 
encountered the Paleys setting off on their 
day’s picnic. Mrs. Siddal introduced them, 
and the canon was ready to shake hands. 
But they merely bowed and marched out the 
door. Mrs. Siddal had become so inured to 
their habitual haughtiness that she did not at 
first estimate the impression it must make on 
the canon. He stood staring after them. 

“What intolerable insolence,” he said. 
“Who is Mr. Paley?” 

“‘He’s an architect. You must have heard 
of him. He did the Wessex University build- 
ings.” 


“Ou? That man! Yes. I’ve heard of him. 
Is he always as offensive as this?” 

““He—they’re very reserved people. I 
don’t think they meant to be rude.” 

“Oh, don’t you? I do. I’ve never been 
treated like that in my life.” 

He continued to discourse upon the in- 
civility of Mr. Paley while she took him up- 
stairs and showed him his room. 


The train from Paddington was crowded 
and many people were obliged to stand in the 
corridor all the way to Penzance. But the 


October, 1949 


four Gifford children had seats. Two heavily 
bribed porters got the seats for them under 
the generalship of a secretary and a butler. 
A widow with three little girls, who tried to 
assert a prior claim, was pushed out into the 
corridor, and the Giffords were installed, sup- 
plied with luncheon tickets, sweets and mag- 
azines. 


SentTIMENT among their traveling compan- 
ions had been on the side of the widow, and 
nothing about the Giffords was likely to 
change it. They belonged quite clearly to 
the kind of people who feed in the black mar- 
ket, wear smuggled nylons and do not scruple 
to secure more than their share. They played 
a noisy game of Animal Grab during the first 
part of the journey, and Hebe insisted upon 
letting her cat out of its basket. It was a care- 
less arrogance which brought retribution 
upon her and Caroline and Luke and Michael. 
For when they went down the train to lunch- 
eon their seats were reoccupied by the widow 
and her family, and nobody interfered. 

There was no aroma of the black market 
about the newcomers. They looked like an 
illustration in a Save Europe pamphlet. 
Everything they had was meager. The three 
girls were tall and pallid, like plants which 
had been grown in the dark. Their hair was 
home-cut in a pudding-basin bob, and their 
shabby cotton dresses barely covered their 
bony knees. The widow herself was a spare 
little woman, grim and competent. She 
whisked her family into the compartment as 
soon as the last Gifford had vanished down 
the corridor. Having taken her own seat, she 
produced, from a string bag, a packet of dry- 
looking sandwiches, dealt out three apiece, 
and handed round water in an enamel mug. 
At the end of this Spartan meal she pro- 
vided the children with pieces of gray knit- 
ting. Not a single word did any of them say. 

The Giffords, flushed with food, came 
hallooing back along the corridor. There was 
a stupefied pause, while they discovered their 
baggage in the corridor and, peering through 
the window, identified the intruders. 

“It’s the orphanage,” said Hebe. “* They’ve 
pinched our seats.”’ For she had noticed these 
thin girls in the corridor and had decided 
that they must be orphans traveling in 
charge of a matron. And she had wondered if 
she would have looked as awful as they did if 
Lady Gifford had not adopted her to be a 
sister to Caroline. 

““What beastly cheek,” said Luke. 

Caroline suggested that they should sum- 
mon the guard. But Hebe had already opened 
the door and sailed in to do battle. “Excuse 
me,”’ she said to the matron in charge, ‘‘ but 
these are our seats.” 

The matron glanced up. She scrutinized 
Hebe from her tawny hair to her sleek legs 
and then went on with her knitting. 

“We were sitting here,’’ said Hebe. “We 
went to lunch, but we left our luggage. You 

(Continued on Page 84) 


***See the dog. See the dog run. Run, dog, run!” 
Gee, mom, do people really talk like that?’’ 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 83 


- Swinging in the hammock after sixteen hours of 
travelling sounds dull! But not to Lt. Cmdr. 
Bill Hyer — when Betty Lewis sits next to him. 














5 





Their GOOD-f 


was just 


a BEGINNING 


How romance came to a 


Woodbury Deb— 


Another blind date with a Navy man. A friend of a friend 
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He’d turn out to be handsome — Lt. Cmdr. Bill Hyer 
was! He'd be very presentable — Bill was! But he 
wouldn't be back! For Forsythe is no seaport. 

It was a whirlwind success. their date. But when Bill 


edged closer in the hammock and whispered, “Ill be 


a 
oad 





“| wish to stay as glowing as Bill thinks me,” 
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back soon,” Betty smiled very politely. Same old story. 





But Bill came back. Down from New York to Georgia %, 
every other weekend. Sixteen hours’ worth of traveling. \ 


Betty reserved the garden for a sunny day — and they 
were married. When Bill kissed the satin cheek that 
matched her dress, he said,““Never more beautiful. Honey.” 
“Never less beautiful,” Betty vowed, “if I keep faith- 2. 
ful to my perfect skin care — Woodbury Facial Soap.” 








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(Continued from Page 8&2) 

had no right to put our luggage outside.” 
She looked round the compartment for sup- 
port, with the confidence of a child nurtured 
in privilege. She encountered glances of in- 
difference, of amusement, but not of sym- 
pathy. ‘You shouldn’t have let her,’’ she 
told them angrily. 

At that a woman in the corner spoke up: 
“They paid for their seats, same as you ‘ave.”” 

“We got them first,” said Hebe. 

She made a sudden pounce on the smallest 
orphan, jerked it up and was about to take 
its place when the matron intervened. 
Smoothly and quietly she seized Hebe’s arm 
and thrust her back into the corridor, Her 
hand seemed to be made of iron. Just before 
she let go she gave Hebe a savage pinch. 
Then she shut the door on the Giffords, re- 
turned to her seat and took up her knitting. 

“T’ll go down and find the guard,” said 
Caroline. 

“No,” said Hebe, rubbing her pinched 
arm. “They got in without the guard. We 
must retake the fortress by our own strength.”’ 

“T’ve got a water pistol,” said Michael. 
“T can fill it in the lavatory.” 

“No. The local natives are unfriendly. 
We mustn’t use artillery. We must lay an 
ambush. Sooner or later those orphans will 
have to go down the corridor. When they do, 
we'll pop in and take our seats again.” 

“She’ll push us out.” 

“Not if we’re prepared. If she pinches, 
we'll pinch back.” 

They waited and it was not long before 
one of the orphans, after 
a whispered colloquy with 
the matron, rose and came 


into the corridor. Like Charm—It’s a sort of 
bloom on a woman. If you 


lightning, Hebe popped in 


October, 1949 


“That’s where we shall be staying,” said 
Caroline to Blanche, and again pressed her 
to take a sweet. But Blanche explained that 
she had none to give them back. ‘*Oh, that 
doesn’t matter,” said Caroline. ‘‘We have 
lots. We get parcels from America.” 

Blanche timidly took the sweet. 

“Do you get parcels from America?” 
asked Michael. 

etn 

“What's in them?” 

“T don’t know. Mother keepth them.” 

“We have feasts with ours,” said Luke, 

Blanche’s eyes widened. She stared at him 
in a kind of ecstasy. 


Ar this moment her sister returned up the 
corridor and was offered a sweet, too, which 
she accepted with the same reluctance. The 
newcomer told them that her name was 
Beatrix and that the third sister was called 
Maud. Their surname, they said, was Cove, 

““Why don’t you go into the carriage and 
rest your back?”’ said Caroline to Blanche. 
‘Beatrix can stay here with us.” 

“T like it here,” said Blanche fervently. 
To her sister she murmured, “They have 
feasts.” 

“Q-o-oh!” breathed Beatrix. 

Both sisters fell into a reverie, sucking 
sweets and staring at these wonderful Gif- 
fords. 

The word “ feast”’ had a magic significance 
for the little Coves. They had a book called 
The Madcap of St. Monica's, in which dormi- 
tory feasts were held at midnight. The word 
conveyed to them they 
knew not what of hospi- 
tality and convivial enjoy- 
ment. Their favorite game 
was to plan feasts which 


have it, you don’t need to have 
anything else; if you don’t 
have it, it doesn’t much mat- 
ter what else you have. 

—J. M. BARRIE, 


they would give if they 
were rich. 

Their ignorance of the 
world was fantastic, for 
their mother could never 
afford to let them do any- 


and took the vacated seat. 
No notice was taken of her 
and nothing was said until 
the absentee returned and 
stood timidly in the door- 
way. Se Pa 





Then the woman ad- 
dressed Hebe. ‘‘ Will you kindly move from 
my daughter’s seat?” 

Daughter? thought Hebe. Then they aren't 
orphans after all. “No,” she said. “It’s mine, 
for I had it first. If you try to put me out 
again I shall have you committed for assault. 
My father is a judge and I know all about 
the law. You’ve given me a bruise already 
that I could show in court.” She pulled up 
her sleeve and showed the mark of the pinch. 

After a short pause her antagonist said, 
“I’m afraid, Blanche, that you’ll have to 
stand for a while, as this child does not know 
how to behave. Try to sit on a suitcase in the 
corridor. I want you to rest that poor back 
all you can.” 

“Been ill, has she?” asked the woman in 
the corner. 

“Yes,”’ said the enemy. ‘Only just up 
from a bad illness.” 

A murmur of sympathy went round the 
compartment. “Pity about some children,” 
said the woman in the corner. “‘ Think they 
own the earth because their father is a judge. 
Working people’s children would be ashamed 
to behave like that.” 


Buancue, in the corridor, sat down upon a 
suitcase and returned the stares of Caroline, 
Luke and Michael. They, too, were im- 
pressed by the poor back. Caroline offered 
her a sweet, which she refused. 

““Go on,’”’ said Luke. “Don’t you like 
marrons glacés?”’ 

“T never had any,” whispered Blanche. 

“Well, do try one” 

“N-no thank you.” 

“Are you going for a holiday?” Michael 
wanted to know. 

“Yeth,” said Blanche, who lisped a little. 

““Where?”’ 

“Pendizack Manor Hotel.” 

“Oh!” said the three Giffords. 

Luke and Michael looked through the win- 
dow to signal the news to Hebe. She gave 
them a warning scowl. One of Blanche’s sis- 
ters was just about to go down the corridor 
and she wanted an ally to seize the second 
seat. But none of them felt inclined to join 
her. It was more fun in the corridor. 


thing or have anything 
that they wanted. But daydreams cost noth- 
ing and in daydreams they lived, nourishing 
their starved imaginations upon any food 
that they could find. These Giffords, these 
madcap children who had stepped straight 
out of a fairy tale, were a banquet. 

The Giffords talked and the Coves listened, 
without envy. They could have knelt and 
worshiped the Giffords for doing and having 
so much. 

“And we have a secret society,”’ said Luke. 
“Hebe started it. It’s called the Noble Cov- 
enant of Spartans. When we all get to Pendi- 
zack I dare say she'll let you join.” 

Poor Hebe, sitting alone in the carriage, 
too proud to leave her hard-won seat, was 
tantalized by all this fraternization going on 
in the corridor. She had rushed in, she had 
been brave, she had got herself pinched, she 
had gained her point, only to find that her 
supporters had fled. 

She fished a small notebook and pencil out 
of her handbag. The notebook contained the 
rules of the Noble Covenant of Spartans. 
She had just decided to add a new one, al- 
though it could not become a law until the 
others had voted on it. She wrote: 


Rule 10. When a Spartan has done a daring 
thing for the benefit of all Spartans, even if he 
is not Leader that week, everyone else must 
back him up. : 


Mrs. Thomas was washing the supper 
dishes. Nancibel came downstairs wearing a 
white dress with a red belt, red sandals and a 
red snood. She was saving up for a red bag. 

“You going out?”’ said her mother. 

“Yes. I’m going for a walk with Alice. 
We're just going along the parade for a bit 
to listen to the band.” 

Mrs. Thomas went with her to the door 
and watched her go down the lane. Jf only 
she could meet somebody, thought the mother. 
Some nice fellow that would appreciate her and 
look after her. So sweet and so pretty, my Nan- 
cibel. And clever. She’s well rid of that soppy 
Brian if she only knew it. But there’s nobody 
good enough round here. For Mrs. Thomas 
came from the Home Counties, and despised 
the rustic population of Porthmerryn. 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


At the first little terrace at the top of the 
hill there was a cottage with a notice on the 
door. LEDDRA. CHIMNEY SWEEP. Here Nan- 
cibel stopped to pick up her old school friend, 
Alice Leddra. 

They went through the narrow streets to 
the Marine Parade, where a band was play- 
ing and half the population of Porthmerryn 
was strolling up and down. Alice was full of 
a new boy whom she had picked up at the 
Drill Hall dance on Wednesday. He had 
said that he was staying at the Marine Pa- 
rade Hotel and she hoped she might meet 
him again. 

Nancibel was skeptical. ‘“Stopping at the 
Marine Parade? Then whatever was he doing 
at the Drill Hall? They’ve dances every 
night at the M. P., and a much better band.”’ 

“Oh, he doesn’t like the M. P. dances. 
He’s ever so good-looking, Nance. And can 
he dance! But he doesn’t feel at home any- 
where because of his childhood.”’ 

“What was the matter with his child- 
hood?” 

“Well, really, it’s quite a romance. He was 
born in a slum—in Limehouse. And all his 
family was on the dole. But he got out of it 
and got himself educated and now he’s a 
writer.’’ 

“Good gracious! When did he tell you all 
this? At the Drill Hall?” 

“Yes. He said he felt he could talk to me. 
He felt I was sort of different.” 

“Alice, I never met any type of boy that 
didn’t want to talk about himself, and they 
all told me I was different. But I will say I 
never met one that made enough money 
writing to stop at the M. P. Let’s hope he 
sends some of it back to his poor family 
in Limehouse.” 


‘Tuey had moved to the sea wall and were 
leaning on the parapet, listening to selections 
from II Trovatore played by the band. Dusk 
was falling and the lights of the harbor were 
beginning to shine in the water. Across the 
bay Pencarrick Lighthouse sent a long beam 
through the air, sweeping from the horizon 
to the mysterious, dim mass of houses on the 
hill. 

“There he is!”’ cried Alice suddenly. She 
pointed out an astonishingly beautiful young 
man wandering by himself on the shingle. 

Nancibel’s heart missed a beat. And then 
it nearly stopped altogether from sheer sur- 
prise. For she had believed that such mo- 
ments were over and done with forever and 
ever. She had thought that her heart was 
broken. Nor did she want to have it mended; 
she had decided to get along without it. 

“A slum?”’ said Nancibel. ‘‘ He never came 
out of no slum. It takes orange juice and 
Grade A milk to grow that sort.” 

A moment later he looked up, recognized 
Alice and flashed a dazzling smile. He crossed 
the shingle and climbed the flight of stone 
steps up to the parade. 

“What’s his name?”’ asked Nancibel. 

“Bruce.” 

He was standing before them. 

Alice said, ‘““This is my friend, Miss 
Thomas.” 

Nancibel was included in that brilliant 
smile for a couple of seconds. He suggested 
that they should all go and eat ices at the 
Harbor Café. The three of them set off; 
and the scandalous account which he gave 
them of the goings on at the.Marine Parade 
made it a very pleasant walk. 

“Five thousand clothing coupons,” he as- 
sured them. ‘‘All stolen, of course.-And the 
thing is done quite openly. The headwaiter 
hawks them from table to table in the dining 
room.” 

Alice exclaimed and wanted to hear more. 
Nancibel said nothing, though she smiled at 
them both in a genial way. /?’s all waiters’ 
talk, she was thinking. No visitor would know 
so much as that. He’s some kind of servant. 

“You don’t say much,” he protested at 
last. 

“P’r’aps that’s a good thing,” said Nanci- 
bel. 

‘“‘She’s one of the quiet ones,”’ said Alice. 

“She doesn’t look it.” 

But he had money. His clothes were ex- 
pensive-looking, and the wallet which he pro- 
duced in the Harbor Café was full of notes. 











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Her heart was beating quite steadily now. 
It had only been in that first moment, when 
she saw him alone on the beach, that it be- 
trayed her. For an instant he had seemed to be 
some touching counterpart of herself: alone, 
young and unhappy. And she still felt that 
she could have liked him if so much had not 
been wrong. 

His accent was wrong: a refined super- 
structure upon Cockney foundations. Half 
the idioms which he used had evidently been 
picked up recently. And he was showing off 
all the tirne: about the Marine Parade, about 
his intellectual friends, about his lowly birth. 
Showing off to her, as she was very well aware, 
though the thickheaded Alice did not seem to 
have tumbled to it. And very awkward it 
was going to be, when they all went home; 
because he would want to escort her and Alice 
would think that she had been poaching. 


October, 1949 


“Why should you want to?” 

‘‘Well—I want to be somebody,” he told 
her. 

Nancibel nodded. She understood that. 
She said, ‘I did a little bit the same thing 
once. When I went into the ATS I said my 
name was Rita. | felt I could be a quite dif- 
ferent person if only I was called Rita.” 


He was so reassured by her manner that 
he hardly listened, “It’s true about my 
writing,” he hastened to say. “I’ve written 
a novel and it’s to be published. When I’ve 
got the money I shall do nothing but write. 
At present I’m a secretary—a_ secretary- 
chauffeur.” 

“What’s it about? Your book?” A 

“T’ll tell you about it, if I may. It’s 
about this kid, see? Well, he’s a kid at the 
beginning of the book. Born in a slum.” 


But Alice had her 
own problem and was 
not anxious to let him 
accompany her, incase 
he might read the no- 
tice on the gate. So, 
when they left the 
café, she suggested 
that he might see Nan- 
cibel up the hill. 

“Okay,” exclaimed 
Bruce, betrayed by 
alacrity into a dis- 
carded idiom. ‘‘I 
mean, I couldn’t like 
anything more. Thank 
you for a delicious 
evening.” 

“Thank you,” said 
Alice. 

Forthelengthof the 
first street the pair 
walked in silence. 
When they started 
climbing the hill he 
broke out: 

What kind of girl 
are you, Nancibel? 
Why don’t you talk?” 

“Because I don’t 
like your way of talk- 
ing.” 





















“Ah? Ithought you 
didn’t. What’s the 
matter with it?” 

““Well—for one 
thing—I don’t like 
what you said about 
your home.” 


xk x «© * * Wee 


Fie nda Glo 
ts Ne “ 


BY MYRNA BAILEY ~ 

The slender elm is yellow; close be- 
side 

A trembling maple cherishes late 
green; 

Now, from the upper windows, can 
be seen 

The boughs slow swinging in a year- 
end tide 

Of color; far east, flats of steel cloud 
ride. 

Stand here by me, Love, see the 
golden mean 

Of seasons; winter winds begin their 
keen 

For dying summer, yet she cries her 
pride; 

All of this was mine noon yesterday, 

But thinking of you, I reserved a 
share; 

Look! A dozen golden elm leaves 
flew away 

To whirl against the somber blue 
skies there; 

Six are mine and half the sky, then, 
if you say, 

But nothing for me if you do not care. 


“Oh, help!” cried 
Nancibel. ‘‘ You've 
got slums on the 
brain.” 

“Several distin- 
guished writers hap- 
pen to have seen the 
book,” said Bruce a 
little stiffly. ‘‘And 
they think very wel 
of it,” ; 
on. Do you begin with 
him being born?” 

Bruce relented and 
continued. ‘‘ Yes. He 
had no father. His 
mother was on the. 
streets. The opening 
chapter, where he’s 
born, is pretty strong. 
So he grows up in 
these terrible sur- 
roundings and then 
the war comes and 
he’s evacuated to the 
country. He gets sent - 
to a terrible farm 
where he’s treated 
worse thanever. Well, 
then he grows up a 
bit more and he meets 
this woman—she’ a 
good deal older than 
he is, a wealthy, aris- 
tocratic woman, and 
very beautiful, of 
course, and she takes 
him up, just for a 





“Don’t you? I sup- 
pose I should have 
concealed my slum 
origin.” 

“Why do you keep calling it a slum?” 
cried Nancibel, exasperated. “I think it’s 
very hard on your mother.” 

“What?” 

‘She must have been a good mother. Any- 
way, she gave you plenty to eat, by the look 
of you. Why should you tell everybody her 
house was a slum in that scornful sort of 
way? I’m sure she worked hard to have it as 
nice as she could.” 


‘There was such a long pause after this that 
Nancibel thought he was too much offended 
to say another word. They reached the top of 
the hill and left the houses behind them. A 
winding lane took them across the cliffs 
among little fields fenced by high stone walls. 
The town and its lights lay below and they 
could see the great curve of the twilit ocean. 

“T wasn’t born in a slum,” said Bruce at 
last. 

“What?” 

“We lived in a nice house on a building 
estate. Five rooms and a bathroom and 
quite a big garden. Dad was very proud of 
the garden. He was never on the dole. He 
worked for the Metropolitan Water Board 
and got eight pounds a week.” 

““My goodness gracious! You weren’t born 
in Limehouse at all?” 

“No. All lies. I tell them because Lime- 
house is easier to live down. People think 
more of you if you’ve risen from the gutter. 
But a home like mine is impossible to get 
away from.” 


ink Beh Ke SaaS 


whim, and he becomes 
her lover.” 

“Where does he 
meet her?” 

“He’s the Boots in a hotel where she’s 
staying. But she takes him with her to her 
house in Mayfair. Of course she’s terribly 
depraved. And when he finds out what she 
really is he strangles hef and gets hung.” 

“Ts that all?” 

“Yes. I wanted to call it Waste. But that 
title’s been taken. So I’m calling it Hang- 
man’s Boy.” 

There was a pause and Nancibel felt she 
must say something. ‘‘ Well, I expect you'll 
feel better now you’ve got it all written out.” 

“It doesn’t appeal to you asa story?” 

“N-no. I’m afraid I don’t like miserable 
books.” 

*“What kind of books do you like?” 

“T like books about nice people. And a 
story where it all comes out right in the end.” 

“But, Nancibel, that’s not true to life.” - 

“J dare say not. Why should it be?” 

“You’re an escapist. You don’t want to 
face facts.” 

“Not in storybooks I don’t. I face plenty 
between Monday and Saturday without 
reading about them. . . . Look, this is my 
home. Good night, Bruce.” 

“Good night, Nancibel.” 

She ran up a path and opened a cottage 
door. For a moment he saw her framed in an 
oblong of light and got a glimpse of a family 
within, sitting round a table with teacups. 
Then the door shut. 

He turned and strolled back to the town. 
He was racked by a tumult of conflicting 

(Continued on Page 88) 




















LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 86) 

emotions. Nancibel was a stupid girl. Nanci- 
bel was the most delightful girl he had ever 
met. Hangman’s Boy was tripe. He would 
burn it. He was a great classical writer and 
might rank with the Bronté sisters if only he 
could find something to write about. Soon, 
very soon, he would find something. The 
world was all before him. He must see her 
again. 

He was cast down and uplifted; humble, 
yet full of a tonic exhilaration. He knew that 
he had done nothing so far, but he had never 
been more sure that he was somebody. He 
walked on air until the lane brought him 
within sight of the town again. Down on the 
Marine Parade the band was still playing. 

His spirits fell to zero. He remembered 
who he was and what he was. 


Pendizack Church Town stands on the top 
of the cliff. It consists of seven cottages, a 
post office and a public house, crouching in a 
fuzz of trees beneath an enormous church 
the Church of St. Sody. 

For the best part of the year the services 
are poorly attended. But in the summer the 
beauty of the cliff walk and fame of the choir 
bring a trickle of visitors from Porthmerryn. 

Bruce went because he was told to do so. 
His mistress had a fancy to see the place and 
had ordered him to escort her. So he was 
waiting, rather sulkily, in the hotel lounge. 


Present ty she appeared. The cruel light of 
the morning sun so emphasized her age, her 
bulk and her dowdiness that he felt consid- 
erably reassured. None could suppose him to 
be more than a secretary-chauffeur to so ripe 
an employer. 

“Don’t you have to wear a hat?” 
as they went out of the hotel. 

Mrs. LeChene said, “‘I hope not. D’you 
think they’ll throw me out of church? I 
haven’t a hat.” 

She couldn’t get a hat if she tried, thought 
Bruce. No hat ever made would go on that 
head. For Anna LeChene was very proud of 
her hair, which was true gold, very thick, and 
hung to her knees. She braided it in thick 
cables, wound round her head. The effect was 
striking, though top-heavy. 

“At least I’m not wearing slacks,” 
said. “‘I’ve put on a dress, haven’t I?” 


he asked, 


she 


Yes, but what a dress! All right for a kid of 


thirteen. Nobody over twenty ought to wear these 
dirndls. Oh, I know all the grandmas do in 
Macedonia or wherever it is you got it. But this 
isn’t Macedonia. 

He stared venomously at Anna’s broad 
back as he followed her along Fore Street. He 
was a changeable young man. Not long ago he 
had admired Anna’s golden head and peasant 
embroideries. Now he was glad when he had 
got her out of the crowded street onto a flight 
of steps which led up the hill. 

At the top they passed an ugly little build- 
ing called Bethesda, whence the first hymn of 
the morning already resounded: 


“Oh that will be 
Glory for me! 
Glory for me! 
Glory for me!” 


He reflected that he ought to be grateful 
to Anna for not taking him there, unaware 
that Nancibel was inside with her family. He 
still hoped to find her among the flock at St. 
Sody’s and pressed on toward that tall square 
tower. 

What will she think? he pondered, as the 
great pure curve of the sea came once more 
into view. What will she think about me and 
Anna? Nothing. Why should she think any- 
thing? If I meet her again, and she asks, 
I shail tell her, ““That’s Mrs. EeChene. 
My boss. She’s a very well-known writer. She 
got a publisher to iake my novel. She's very kind 
to young writers.... Yes, Mrs. LeChene.... 
No—well, I believe she’s divorced. I type her 
novels and drive her car. Secretary-chauffeur.” 

““Pretty up here,” he said craftily. ““I think 
I'll take a stroll after church and look at 
the cliffs.” 

Anna turned and said sharply, “I don’t 
think so. After church you’ll get back to the 
hotel and type out those three chapters of 


October, 1949 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


the B. B. ’’The B. B. was The Bleeding 
Branch, a novel based on the life of Emily 
Bronté upon which Anna was engaged. 

“T’m out of carbons,” said Bruce. 

“You're always out of carbons. I never 
knew such a boy. Get some more.” 

“T can’t on Sunday. Shop’s shut.” 

A full peal of bells rang out from the tower, 
over the fields and over the flat blue floor of 
the sea. In the distance a procession of people 
was coming by a narrow path through a 
cornfield. Gerry Siddal led it and after him 
came Duff, Robin, Canon Wraxton, Evange- 
line Wraxton, Mrs. Cove, Maud, Beatrix, 
Blanche, Michael, Luke, Hebe, Sir Henry 
Gifford, Caroline, a considerable gap, Mr. 
Paley, Mrs. Paley. 

“There’s a little hotel down there in the 
cove,” Anna said. ‘“‘I was thinking of going 
there when we leave the Marine Parade. But 
I’m not sure I like the look of the inmates, if 
these are they.” 

The Pendizack party climbed a stile into 
the churchyard. When Anna and Bruce 
reached the building they were all inside. The 
Siddal boys had gone round to the vestry, for 
Duff and Robin sang in the choir and Gerry 
was serving at the Mass. The rest found seats 
in the great empty nave. 

Anna and Bruce took seats in a pew just 
behind the Wraxtons. A faint smell of decay- 
ing wood mingled with a reek of incense. The 
great church was rapidly falling to pieces and 
poor Father Bott could not collect enough 
money even to repair the pews. 

“A bit niffy,”’ commented Anna loudly. 
“Who on earth is that supposed to be?”’ She 
pointed to a banner of St. Sody, used in pro- 
cessions. 


**Abstinence,”’ said Dennis, “‘is a 
good thing. But it should always 
be practiced in moderation.”’ 


“T wouldn’t know,”’ muttered Bruce. 

“Tt’s rather good,” she declared. “I expect 
one of the artists in Porthmerryn designed it 
for them.” 

She became aware of the inflamed counte- 
nance of Canon Wraxton, who had turned 
round and was glaring at her. 

“Will you kindly make less noise?” he 
barked. 

Anna gaped at him. She disliked parsons 
and was habitually rude to them. But it was 
not often that they were rude to her. ‘‘ You’re 
making a terrible noise yourself,” she re- 
torted. 

““Hush!”’ whispered Bruce, scandalized in 
spite of himself. 

“Why should I hush? This isn’t his 
church.” 

The canon was now surveying Bruce. “‘If 
you’ve any decency,” he said, ‘‘you’ll go and 
induce your mother to go with you.” 

Nothing could have silenced Anna more 
effectively. She could, for some seconds, 
think of no retort. And the appearance of 
Gerry in the chancel, carrying a taper, cre- 
ated a diversion. Candle after candle was 
lighted. The canon, looking like a bull in a 
field, turned to survey this fresh enormity. 
Anna giggled, but did not venture to speak 
again. The congregation had left off staring 
before the cross preceding the choir appeared, 
and Father Bott, surrounded by servers and 
acolytes, emerged from the vestry. 


EvanceELIneE Wraxton’s sick feelings were 
beginning to subside. Nothing dreadful was 
going to happen. That little disturbance be- 
fore the service started had been nothing. 
The thing she most dreaded had not befallen, 
in spite of the incense and the genuflections 
and the candles. 

Her father took, it was true, no part in the 
service. He sat with folded arms, looking on 
with an expression of grim amusement. 
People stared when he did not stand up for 
the Creed, but she was used to staring people 
and if he would only keep quiet she would 
believe that God did really listen to prayer. 
She would show her gratitude. She would 
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Perhaps it was a waste of time to grind up 
glass with a nail file, but surely nothing 
worse? Because she would never use it, she 
would never do anything wicked with it. 
And that little pillbox full of powdered glass 
was such a relief to possess. They said it 
could never be detected in a person’s food. 
If she were a wicked woman it could free her 
from this martyrdom. It was a very powerful 
little treasure, that box. But if God kept the 
canon quiet, then God was really there and 
she would placate Him by throwing the box 
into the sea. 


The Lord’s Supper! thought Beatrix Cove. 
I am at the Lord’s Supper with Hebe and all 
the people. Her heart swelled with ecstasy. 
She lifted her head and looked at the dazzling 
candlelight, half expecting to see a long table 
with all the disciples round it and the Divine 
Presence in the midst. But she saw only 

Father Bott and Gerry Siddal. It had been 
so nice when young Mr. Siddal waved the 
incense at all the people and bowed and all 
the people bowed back politely. 

These gracious courtesies were the very 
essence of a feast. She looked round to see 
if Blanche was as happy as she was. But 
Blanche, white and rigid, had tears on her 
cheeks, not of bliss but of pain. Kneeling had 
brought on the agonizing ache in her back 
and she was concentrated upon enduring it. 

“Evermore praising 
Thee and sa-a-ay-ing 
” Duff and Robin 





fixed their eyes upon * Women have served all these cen- 

turies as looking glasses possess- 
ing the magic and delicious power of 
reflecting the figure of man at twice 
Without that power 
earth would still be 


their parts in the Sanc- 
tus and drew deep 
breaths. 

“Holy ! Holy! Holy!” 
sang the choir. 

Father Bott was 
speaking in a whisper, 
and when he paused 
three soft, clear notes 
from a bell filled up 
the silence, just before 
the incredible horror 
fell upon them. A kind 
of bellow rose up from 
the nave. A great voice 
was howling: 

“T denounce this mummery! 

The shock was so great that everyone re- 
coiled, as though struck. Still upon their 
knees, they turned to see the canon coming 
out of his pew. 

“This is a Protestant church ——” he 
began. 

He was interrupted by an excruciating 
scream from his daughter. Evangeline’s 
nerves had snapped. She was not only shriek- 
ing, she was banging her prayer book on the 
ledge of the pew. 

“No!” she yelled. ‘“‘ No—no—no! I can’t 
bear it. I can’t! Ahoo! Ahoo! Ahoo!”’ 

This attack from the rear seemed to con- 
fuse the canon. He had meant to march up 
to the altar and attack Father Bott. But he 
now turned round and ordered the girl to 
be quiet. She only screamed louder. He 
seized her arm, whereat she laughed and hit 
him with her prayer book. 

“Help me, somebody,” he said almost 
humbly. 

The paralyzed congregation bestirred it- 
self. Bruce and Sir Henry went to help him, 
and between them they carried the laughing, 
screaming girl out of church. It was some 
minutes before Father Bott was able to 
finish the Consecration. 


its natural size. 
probably the 


lives, 


” 


‘Bur you’ve no idea,” said Gerry, “how 
utterly disgusting it was. We can’t keep 
them. I told Father Bott—I said we’ll turn 
them out immediately.” 

“We can’t make them go,” sighed Mrs. 
Siddal. ‘I spoke to Canon Wraxton. He 
simply said he’d paid for a week and should 
stay for a week.” 

“What about the girl? She was worse than 
he was.” 

“T don’t know where she is. She wasn’t at 
lunch and she’s not in her room.” 

“Would father ——” 

“Gerry, you know he wouldn’t.” 

“Very well, then. I must. Give me the 
money they paid and I’ll return it.” 


swamp and jungle. 
on giving judgment, civilizing na- 
making laws, 
dressing up and speechifying at ban- 
quets, unless he can see himself at 
breakfast and at dinner at 
twice the size he really is? 


(Harcourt, Brace & Company.) 


October, 1949 


Gerry marched upstairs. He did not re- 
alize that Evangeline’s laughter proceeded 
from hysteria, not from mockery, and he be- 
lieved that the interruption had been delib- 
erately planned by both the offenders. 

The canon was lying on his bed, But when 
Gerry came in he sat up. “Well?” he de- 
manded. “And what can I do for you?” 

Gerry put twelve guineas on the bedside 
table. “You must go, please. At once. Here 
is the money you paid.” 

“Are you the proprietor of this hotel?” 

“No. I’m speaking for my mother.” 

““Why doesn’t she speak for herself?” 

“Because you won't listen to her.” 

“T listened to her. I told her that if she 
wants me out she'll have to send for the police 
to put me out. I also told her that, if I’m put 
out, I shall sue her for breach of contract.” 


“No hotel is expected to keep people who 
cause a public scandal,’’ said Gerry. 

““No scandal, as you call it, occurred on 
your mother’s premises. But if she wants a 
fight she can have it. If I’m turned out of this 
hotel for doing my duty as a minister of the 
Church of England I shall write to every 
newspaper in the country.” 

“You must do as you please about that,” 
said Gerry. ‘‘As long as you go.” 

“I'll go if I’m flung out by force,” the 
canon told him, ‘Not otherwise.” 

Gerry went off to 
find his mother, but 
could not persuade her 
to send for the police. 
She said that she would 
rather put up with the 
canon for a week. In 
despair, Gerry took an 
unusual step. He de- 
cided to consult his 
father. Dick Siddal, too, 
was taking a nap in the 
boot hole strewn with 
Sunday newspapers. 
He opened one eye and 
looked at his son good- 
humoredly. 

“Well?” he asked. 
““How’s Martin Lu- 
ther?”’ 

“He won’t go,” Gerry told him. 

“Why should he go?”’ 

““We can’t have people of that sort here.’’ 

“Then why did you take them?” 

“We didn’t know what they were like.’”’ 

“Do you never read the newspapers? He’s 
always doing this sort of thing; his name’s a 
household word. Only last month he started 
a free fight in Dorset. He’s been suspended, 
or whatever it is they do to parsons who 
won’t behave, but he goes on doing it.”’ 

Gerry gaped at his father. “‘ Did you know 
all about him yesterday?” 

“Naturally. When I heard we’d got a 
Canon Wraxton I supposed it must be the 
Canon Wraxton.” 

“But why didn’t you tell us?” 

“T wasn’t asked.” 

“Then you knew—when we all went to 
church—you knew all this would probably 
happen?” 

“T thought it likely. And when I saw you 
all coming back I knew I was right. I’ve 
never laughed so much since your mother 
opened this hotel. I wish you could have seen 
yourselves.” 

No help was coming from this quarter, so 
Gerry climbed the hill in search of Father 
Bott, hoping to be told that it was his duty, 
as a good churchman, to use physical violence 
on the canon. But the rector was discourag- 
ing. 

“Oh, leave it,’’ said Father Bott. ‘‘He 
can’t do more harm than he’s done already. 
If he tries to get into my church again, J’/l 
deal with him.” 

“But for us to harbor such people!” 
Gerry. ‘“‘I won’t have it.” 

““My dear boy, that’s for your parents to 
decide. It’s their hotel, not yours. Now ex- 
cuse me—I have to take a children’s serv- 
ice.” He turned and strode across the grass, 
his old cassock flapping about his thin legs. 

Baffled, Gerry returned to Pendizack. The 
Wraxtons were not entirely responsible for 

(Continued on Page 94) 


How is he to go 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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(Continued from Page 90) 
his frame of mind; the long trial to his pa- 
tience, his father’s spite, his mother’s par- 
tiality and his own frustrated existence were 
getting to be more than he could bear. 

On the doorstep, unfortunately, he en- 
countered Evangeline. She had been hiding 
on the cliffs, unable to endure her disgrace, 
and was hoping to creep back to her room un- 
noticed. Gerry stood aside to let her pass. 

‘Please go in,” he said with freezing po- 
liteness. 

She gulped and began to mutter. He 
caught the words: ‘‘So very sorry .. . apolo- 
gize.”” 

“Don’t speak of it,” he said. “‘If you were 
really sorry you wouldn’t insist on staying 
here when we’ve asked you to go.” 

He watched her cross the lobby and crawl 
up the stairs. It should have been a satisfac- 
tion to see her so brought down. But it was 
not and he felt more miserable than ever. He 
had never spoken so unkindly to anyone. 


The hideous scene in church weighed upon 
the spirits of all who had been there, and 
there was a tendency among the adults to sit 
alone in their rooms. 

The children vanished, rising up like a 
flock of starlings immediately after luncheon 
and betaking themselves to some hidden 
place. At suppertime they reappeared and, as 
one child, refused the dessert of loganberries 
and ice cream with which Mrs. Siddal had 
hoped to cheer them. The Giffords waved it 
away grimly. The Coves declined it with a 
devotional enthusiasm. Fred brought a whole 
dish back into the kitchen, and Siddal con- 
soled his wife by suggesting that Duff could 
eat it. 

“Tt will melt unless he comes in soon,”’ she 
said. ‘He and Robin went over to Porth- 
merryn. I’ll put it in the larder.” 

“Yes, do,” said Siddal. “‘Gerry and I don’t 
want any either.” 

Blushing a little, she exclaimed, ‘‘Oh... I 
meant after you’d had some.” 

Gerry tactfully diverted his father’s at- 
tention by passing him a piece of paper. “‘I 
picked this up in the hall,” he said. “It looks 
like a cipher.” 

On a page torn from an exercise book a 
message was printed in capitals: BMM 
TQBSUBOT XJMM SFGVTF EFTFSU 
UPOJHIU CZ PSEFS. Siddal, who liked 
puzzles, took it and put on his spectacles. 
When Duff and Robin came in he was so in- 
tent that he hardly looked up. 

It was at once apparent to Mrs. Siddal 
that Duff had been up to something. He was 
flushed, excited and unusually silent. 

Robin, however, had no wish to conceal his 
condition. ‘‘We’ve been drinking!” he an- 
nounced. “‘We’ve been drinking old-fash- 
ioneds in the bar of the M. P.” 

“Robin!”’ cried Mrs. Siddal. 

“Who paid?” asked Gerry. 

“A strange lady,” said Robin. “‘So what? 
We met her on the parade. She couldn’t make 
her cigarette lighter work. So Duff gave her 
a light. And we talked a bit and she asked us 
into the M.P. for a drink. She’s staying 
there.” 

“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Siddal unhappily, “I 
suppose girls do that sort of thing nowa- 
days.” 

“She wasn’t a girl,” said Robin. ‘‘She was 
older than you, I should think, wouldn’t you, 
Duff?” 

“No,” said Duff. “A bit younger than 
mother.” 

“It’s quite easy,” said Siddal. “It reads, 
“All Spartans will refuse desert tonight by 
order.’ I think ‘desert’ means dessert.” 

“So that explains it,” said Mrs. Siddal. 
““Some game of the children’s.” 

“She’s a lady authoress,” said Robin. 
““She says she knows father.” 

“What’s that?” asked Siddal. 

““A lady we met in Porthmerryn. Her name 
is Mrs. LeChene.” 

Siddal gave a joyous squeak. “‘Anna! You 
don’t mean to say she’s still above ground?” 

““Of course she is,”’ said Mrs. Siddal, who 
did not look pleased at the news. “‘She’s al- 
ways writing books.” 

““She’s staying at the M. P.,” said Robin. 

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Duff and Robin looked at each other. 
“She didn’t say,” said Duff. ‘‘We thought 
she was alone there. Is she a good writer?” 

“She writes well. Everybody does nowa- 
ays. She writes this biographical fiction, or 
ctional biography, whichever you like to 
call it. She takes some juicy scandal from the 
life of a famous person, and writes a novel 
around it.” 

“‘T only read one of Anna’s books,” put in 
Mrs. Siddal. ‘‘The Lost Pleiad. I couldn’t 
bear it.” 

“Oh, yes—the one about Augusta Leigh. 


' That made her name. A huge success. What’s 


she like to look at now? I haven’t seen her 
for . . . it must be at least ten years.” 

“‘She’s fat and rather pale,” said Robin. 
“And she doesn’t look as if she makes up, 
except for her hair which is peroxide.” 

“Oh, no, it’s not. It’s true Teutonic gold 
and she’s very proud of it.” 

“She wants to come here,” said Robin. 
“‘She asked if we had room.” 

““Oh, no—we haven’t!”’ 

“Why, mother? We’ve got the garden 
room still unlet.” 

“TI couldn’t possibly have Anna here. The 
Wraxtons are bad enough.” 

“Well, she might upset people,” agreed 
Robin. ‘‘She doesn’t seem to mind what she 
says, does she, Duff?” 

Duff made a noncommittal noise. He did 
not know whether he wanted Anna to come 
or not. She had upset him. He had been quite 
ashamed of the ideas which she managed to 
put into his head; and then she had stared at 
him, smiling, as though perfectly aware of 
what she was doing. 


“Durr,” said Mr. Siddal, “had better be 
careful. She eats a young man every morning 
for breakfast. Her ash can is full of skulls 
and bones.”’ 

“Not now, surely!” said Robin. 

“‘Oh, yes. Every word she says, every look 
she gives, is a most powerful aphrodisiac; 
after a sufficient dose of it they don’t know 
that she’s fat and old and an ogress. They 
think she’s going to teach them some won- 
derful secret.” 

“And does she?”’ asked Duff. 

“That,” confessed Siddal, ‘I don’t know. 
I, whatever my faults, have never looked at 
any other woman since I married your 
mother.” 


The hotel got its first glimpse of Lady 
Gifford at Sunday supper, for she had kept 
her bed since her arrival the evening before. 





**Let’s charge them—and when we get home we can 
ask vur mothers what we should say to our fathers! 


JENNIFER 


95 


Her pallor, her emaciation bore witness to 
her ill health and nobody felt able to protest 
when she asked fora fire in the lounge, though 
the night was warm. Gerry took up logs and 
she sat close to the blaze, warming her deli- 
cate hands and looking round her with a 
faint, triumphant smile, as if expecting to 
be congratulated upon her gallantry in get- 
ting downstairs at all. 





Burt nobody said the right things except 
Dick Siddal, whose custom it was to clean 
up and join his guests in the lounge in the 
evenings. Even he found the heat of the fire 
intolerable. He was obliged to sit at the 
other end of the room. Sir Henry was writing 
letters at a desk in the bay window. The 
Paleys sat side by side on a sofa, reading the 
Sunday papers. Upon another sofa sat Miss 
Ellis, who was not supposed to use the 
lounge. Nobody else sat near the fire except 
Mrs. Cove, who had left her knitting in the 
most comfortable chair before supper and 
chose to stay there in spite of its subse- 
quent disadvantages. 

Between these two ladies a desultory con- 
versation sprang up. Lady Gifford whispered 
questions to which Mrs. Cove gave terse re- 
plies in a singularly disagreeable voice. She 
said that she was taking this holiday because 
she had recently sold her “‘haouse”’ in the 
south of London. It had doubled in value 
since she bought it, for the flying bombs had 
created a scarcity in that district. 

“Oh, terrible!”’ agreed Lady Gifford. ““So 
much worse than the blitz! More of a nervous 
strain, weren’t they?” 

““Were you in London through the blitz, 
Lady Gifford?’’ This was from Miss Ellis. 

“No,” breathed Lady Gifford. ‘Actually 
I was there very little. But my husband was 
all through the worst of it. And naturally I 
was very anxious. I felt I had to be with 
the children. Where,”’ she asked Mrs. Cove, | 
“‘did you send yours?” 

“‘Nowhere,”’ snapped Mrs. Cove. ““We 
stayed in London. We had an Anderson shel- 
ter. I wasn’t nervous.” 

“Weren’t they?” asked Lady Gifford. 

“No.” 

“How lucky. Mine would have been shat- 
tered. They’re all so highly strung. I’m | 
thankful to say not one of them ever heard 
a bomb.” 

“In America, weren’t you, Lady Gifford?”’ 
suggested Miss Ellis. 

Lady Gifford ignored her and continued 
to address Mrs. Cove. “‘ We had a kind invi- 

(Continued on Page 97) 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL October, 1949 








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(Continued from Page 95) 
tion from a friend in Massachusetts. But 
didn’t, naturally, want them to become 
ericanized. So I felt I must go with them.” 
“Why?” asked Mrs. Cove, looking up 
m her knitting. ““Don’t you like Amer- 
ms?” 
“Oh, yes, I love them. So wonderfully 
nd and hospitable.” 
“Then why didn’t you want your children 
be Americanized ?”’ 
“Oh, well ” Lady Gifford made a 
Ipless little gesture. ““One does want them 
be British, doesn’t one?” 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Canon Wraxton drew circles on his blotting 
paper. Miss Ellis seemed to be examining a 
hole in the carpet. Each had retired, as an 
animal retires with a bone to the back of its 
cage, to chew over some single obsession. 
And this frightened her. She could no longer 
bear to be shut up in this murky den of 
strange beasts. She rose and slipped out of 
the room. 

Her panic did not subside till she was 
across the sands and halfway up to the head- 
land. She mastered it, only to discover that 
her misery had returned. Despair broke over 
her so irresistibly that she wondered how 


) ; “Yes,” agreed Mrs. Cove. “Which is why she could still observe the pure peace and 
~) § kept mine in Britain.” beauty of the scene. But her senses contin- 
w/ Lady Gifford flushed slightly. She said, ued to tell her that the sky, sea, cliffs and 
Personally, I think we owed it to our chil- sands were lovely, that there was music in 
ren to put them in safety, whatever the the murmur of the waves, and that the eve- 
crifice. I don’t think innocent little chil- ning airs smelled of gorse blossom. To that 
ren ought to suffer. I always say that. The message her mind replied, No good any more. 
mocent oughtn’t to suffer.” It might have helped me once. For she loved 
“They invariably do,” said Mr. Siddal. natural beauty, and in the earlier stages of 
Perhaps the sufferings of the innocent are _ her struggle had often found consolation in a 
seful. That idea first occurred to me when country walk. Now she merely felt a clearer 
ne of my children said how unkind it was conviction that life was over for her. If this 
f Lot to leave Sodom, since, as long as he fair prospect could not tempt her to stay, 
yed there, the city was safe. The presence then nothing could and she might go when 
f one righteous man preserved it. Ishouldn’t she pleased. 
onder if the entire human race isn’t toler- 
x ted simply for its innocent minority.” Sue went to the end of the headland and 
“What a sweet idea,”’ said Lady Gifford. sat onarock looking out to sea. On her right, 
He lowered his eyes for a moment and over Pendizack Cove, fell the shadow of ad- 
| ve her a look. She was an intolerably vancing night. She thought that she would 
tupid woman and could not understand a_rest for a little while and then go back to the 
ord he said. But he enjoyed the sound of sand. She would wade out into that warm, 
is Own voice and nobody flat sea as far as she could 
slikelytointerrupthn === od then swim. It was 
“T dare say,’’ he said, years since she had swum, 
‘that mankind is pro- Our civilization is not even but she supposed she still 
ected and sustained by skin-deep; it reaches no could, for how far she did 
andeserved suffering; by lower than our clothes. Hu- not know, but far enough. 
all those millions of help- ae... is still essentially = She would swim straight 
‘ess people who pay for so ARAN INGE: out toward that thin blue 
e evil we do and who (Putnam & Ge a): line of the horizon, on and 
ield us simply by being on, until the end. A time 
there, as Lot was in the || come when she 
doomed city.’’ He ad- could swim no more. And 
dressed his remarks to Paley, who might be no one would be hurt by it, for she had 
able to follow them: “It’s the innocent who given up all hope of helping Paul. Her life 
integrate the whole concern. Their agony is_ was useless and a burden. 
dreadful, but: A faint wind sighed in the dead thrift be- 
side the rock and a longer wave than usual 
; Their shoulders hold the sky suspended. . fell upon the beach below her. Decision had 
They stand, and earth's foundations slay. »relaxed her nerves. She leaned her back 
against the rock and closed her eyes. Sud- 
“Why didn’t the earth open to swallow denly and vividly she saw a deep pit from 
Belsen? Even in the bunkers of the Berlin which many faces peered up at her. It came 
Chancellery you might find the innocent and went so quickly that she could recog- 
children of Doctor Goebbels. Where you nize none of them, although she was sure 
have the suffering innocent, the crucified that some were familiar: a girl’s face and 
victim, there you have the redeemer who three pale children distinct among millions 
secures us all a continual reprieve. The and seen by a lightning flash. At the same 
Oppressed preserve the oppressors. If the in- time a voice said in her ear, Their shoulders 
nocent did not suffer we should all go pop.”’ hold the sky suspended. They stand, and earth’ s 
Lady Gifford looked a little bewildered. foundations stay. 
S, | “Really?” Mr. Siddal had said that. Mr. Siddal had 


The door opened and Canon Wraxton 
stood upon the threshold. “It’s insufferably 
hot in here,”’ he announced. 

“I’m afraid that’s on my account,” sighed 
Lady Gifford. ‘‘I have to be very careful not 
to catch a chill.”’ 

“To roast yourself will be the surest way 
to do it, madam. If I’m to sit in here I must 
ask for some of the windows to be opened.” 

“Then I can’t sit here,”’ she pointed out. 

“You must judge for yourself about that,” 
said the canon. He made a tour of the win- 
dows, opening them all, before he sat down 
at the other desk to write a letter. Lady Gif- 
ford departed on the arm of her husband. 





The murmur of the sea came in through 
the opened windows. A breath of cool air 

ned Christina Paley’s cheek. The heat 

id the darkness of the room were stifling 

. She glanced at her husband. He was not 
reading. She was sure that when he sat hud- 
died up like this he was not thinking of any- 
thing at all; he was simply existing inside his 
shell. Of late he had seemed to shrink, as if 
the brain behind his skull were shriveling. 

She wished that somebody would say 
something, and peered through the stifling 
dusk at her companions. There were only 
four of them now. Mrs. Cove knitted in the 
firelight. Mr. Siddal stared at the chandelier. 


—_—_— CCU SS a owe 


said some very strange things. She was not 
sure that she understood them. He had said 
that the innocent save the world and that 
their suffering is necessary. She could not 
remember his words exactly. But she had felt 
very strange for a moment, while he was 
talking, as though she might be on the verge 
of some enormous discovery. Crucified, he 
had said. The Lord was crucified. He was 
innocent and He redeemed mankind. But 
Mr. Siddal said redeems, as if it were all still 
going on. 

Did he mean that we are all—all the op- 
pressed, and the poor people in China, and the 
homeless, the poor little Jewish babies born in 
ships ... no home, no country, turned away 
everywhere... oh, I do think that is the worst of 
all, for a poor baby to be born with no country 
even—but did he mean that we are all one per- 
son, innocent and crucified and redeeming the 
world ... always? Is that what he meant? 

Another wave fell on the beach, and be- 
fore its reverberation had died away she 
knew that, whatever Mr. Siddal had meant, 
she herself had arrived at a certainty. She 
had made her discovery and knew that she 
was no longer alone. The chain of her solitude 
had been broken, that solitude forced upon 
her by Paul’s cruelty, which she had been 
unable to endure. 

(Continued on Page 99) 


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FEEL its caressable softness, THRILL to its 
glorious natural beauty. Yes, tonight... if you 
use Lustre-Creme Shampoo today! 


Only Lustre-Creme has Kay Daumit’s magic 
blend of secret ingredients plus gentle lanolin. 
This glamorizing shampoo lathers in hardest 
water. Leaves hair fragrantly clean, shining, free 
of loose dandruff and so soft, so manageable! 


Famous hairdressers use and recommend it for 
shimmering beauty in all ‘‘hair-dos” and perma- 
nents. Beauty-wise women made it America’s 
favorite cream shampoo, Try Lustre-Creme! 
The man in your life—and you—will love the 
loveliness results in your hair. 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL October, 1949 


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aT Mi hae Pellet]: ey 
Corn Flakes! Crisp, daisy- 
fresh! Nourishing for break- 
fast! Swell for snack-time! 
aa eed ha 
Regular or Family Size! 


every time 


10 packages... 7 favorites! 


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Grins win! Groans lose. Everybody’s cheered up 

by Kellogg’s VARIETY PACKAGE. Choosing’s fun. 

And what choice!...7 favorite cereals in 10 
generous boxes... delicious wheat, rice, corn, 
soya... flaked, shredded, popped. All crisp, all 
Kellogg-fresh. Real nourishment you really enjoy! 

Great for lunches and supper-snacks, too. ““Noth- 4 
. . ~ 
ing like VARIETY!” .. . ask all the mothers Ye. 


Choose the one you love the best! | Who know. It’s the favorite, because. . . 
Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, Pep, 
Rice Krispies, Shredded Wheat, 
Corn-Soya, Bran Flakes, Krumbles— 


All made by Kellogg’s of Battle Creek. Legon ~J 


Mother Knows , Best! 


wae? 7s 

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(Continued from Page 97) 

They endure for me and I for them, she 
thought, and strove to summon before her 
inward eye those pale faces peering from the 
pit. But the glimpse was gone and she could 
not bring it back. She could only speculate 
upon their familiarity and wonder if the girl 
she saw had not been Evangeline Wraxton, 
who was shut up now, somewhere in the 
hotel, among those wild beasts in their dens. 
And who must be brought out before she 
sank. 

“At once! Immediately !”’ exclaimed Mrs. 
Paley aloud, as she sprang to her feet. ‘Not 
a minute to be lost.” She set off as fast as she 
could, down the path to the cove. 

Night had almost fallen when, half an 
hour later, she returned with Evangeline. 
She had marched into the girl’s room with- 
out any prepared plan and suggested a walk 
on the cliff as calmly as though it had been 
a very old habit. Evangeline had looked 
startled, but she rose obediently and put 
away in a drawer some objects on her dress- 
ing table: a piece of glass, a file and a little 
box. 

“Shall I need a coat?’’ she asked. 

“Better bring one,’’ advised Mrs. Paley, 
“and then we needn’t come back if it gets 
cold. We can stay as long as we like. My 
coat is downstairs. I’ll get it as we go out.” 

They had also got two cushions from the 
lobby settee, lest sitting about on rocks 
should give them rheumatism. 

“Because that hotel isn’t a nice place at 
all,”’ said Mrs. Paley. 

“No,” agreed Evangeline. “I can’t sleep 
there.” 

“T can’t either. With coats and cushions 
we can sleep on the cliff if we like.” 

They found a comfortable little hollow in 
some heather close to the shelter and lay 
upon their backs, side by side, watching the 
stars come out and discussing the best way 
to make the tea ration last. 

“I infuse,” said Mrs. Paley. ‘“‘I cover the 
leaves with boiling water and leave it for 
five minutes before I fill up the pot.” 

“You make me feel quite thirsty,” said 
Evangeline. 

“T’ve got a picnic basket and a kettle and 
spirit lamp. If we come up here tomorrow 
night we’ll make some.” 

“That will be nice,” said Evangeline. “I 
should like to come here every night till the 


ll lUmelUm ethlCUCUh hClUlUTlCETlUETrTrO 


IHE only time it is absolutely safe to 
criticize other people’s children is when 
your own are eighty. 


No woman is too pretty for words. 


The joys of eating are fleeting— 
The joys of fasting are lasting. 


If the incubator is taking the instinct to 
brood out of the hen, what will the baby- 
sitter do to the mother? 


An untidy man may look like a genius, but 
an untidy woman looks only like an untidy 
woman. 


Gossip: A few words begun and ended by 
several persons. 


One of the perils in learning to spell is the 
resultant tendency to write love letters. 


Definition of a rare book: One that comes 
back to its owner. 


The reward for bringing up your daughter 
to be a good influence on boys is that an- 
other woman’s daughter may be the same 
kind of influence on your boy. 


When it comes to keeping my family in 
socks, I’m like a dog running after a fast 
train. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


week is over. I wish I didn’t have to stay. 
They’ve asked us to go.” 

“They know it’s not your fault.” 

“Do they? Mr. Gerry Siddal ... . I tried to 
speak to him—to apologize—and he wouldn’t 
listen.” 

“Tl have a word with him tomorrow,” 
promised Mrs. Paley. “I dare say he didn’t 
understand. I expect you muttered at him.” 

“Yes, I did. I can’t help it. People frighten 
me. Do beg him not to be angry.” 

yal opie 

“Tf only people wouldn’t be angry . . . if 
only they wouldn’t,” sighed Evangeline. 

Very soon afterward she fell asleep. But 
Mrs. Paley lay for a long time staring at the 
stars. 


Nancibel followed Miss Ellis upstairs to 
the Coves’ dormitory. 

“Look at that!’ cried Miss Ellis in dis- 
gust. “Will you kindly look at their night- 
gowns? You’d think she’d be ashamed.” 

“Dressing three children costs money,” 
said Nancibel. 

“She can afford it. She’s got plenty. The 
stories I’ve heard about her! I thought I 
knew the name. Cove! But I couldn’t remem- 
ber till it came out that the children were 
called Maud and Blanche and Beatrix. Then 
it all came back to me. She had those three 
old aunts—well, great-aunts really—and of 
course she hoped for legacies ——” 

“Would you mind,” asked Nancibel, “‘sit- 
ting on a bed I’ve made? I want to turn this 
mattress.” 

Miss Ellis changed her seat and resumed. 
“Of course she wanted a son because of the 
title. And wasn’t she wild when she only had 
daughters! Then he died before his uncle did 
and the title and property went to another 
nephew. That’s how I came to know about 
her. They’ve a place in Dorsetshire—the 
baronet, I mean. The uncle. I lived near 
there for a while. And I got quite friendly 
with a Mrs.—oh, what was her name? Well, 
it doesn’t matter; she’d been a governess or 
something at the hall and the tales she told 
us about ‘iis Mrs. Cove, and her mean ways. 
The last straw was that all the money was 
left to those children. She’s only got a life 
interest. Unless they die, of course. She ex- 
pected to get a big fortune-and when she 
didn’t get it she went on as if she’d been left 

(Continued on Page 101) 


mae KK KKK KK KKK KK KKK 


Ask Any Woman 


BY MARCELENE COX 


No biologist has explained what every 
woman knows: that clothes hangers multiply 
faster than guinea pigs. 


Oh, son, who in a year 
Has grown to six feet two, 

If only, dear, your pair of pants 
Had grown along with you! 


Picture: Young girls, each giving a mano- 
logue of the night before. 


The antique clock is a perfect example of 
faith without works. 


Before marriage she’s demure, after mar- 
riage she demurs. 


Speed: That force exerted by a fourteen- 
year-old to change the radio program from 
classical to bebop. 


I have a predilection for women who dare 
to be themselves; even if it means slipping a 
shoe off at a tea because it hurts. 


“You see, mother, I won’t be able to do 
much work for you today; I have to rest up 
so I can baby-sit tonight.” 


Beginning a request to a husband with 
“dear” or “darling”’ is like using a thimble 
on the end of. a curtain rod to keep from 
tearing the material. 


Ct Sn a CoS ONL 





99 


Chase chills , 
everywhere = 


Arvin means 
instant heat 
—billows of il! 


ARVIN RADIANT HEATER 
THE PORTABLE ELECTRIC FIREPLACE 
Operates on either AC or DC, perfect for offices, 


ticket booths, trailers, as well as homes. 
ing element, corrugated reflector spread warmth over 


wide area. Beautifully finished. 
Underwriters’ listed. 


ARVIN ECONOMY 
FAN-FORCED HEATER 


Same heating and fan unit as in higher- 
priced models. Handsome pastel green 
hammerloid finish. Chrome grille and 
guard rails. Underwriters’ $995* 
listed. Operates on AC only. 


*Prices slightly higher in Zone 2 


NOBLITT-SPARKS INDUSTRIES, INC. 


Columbus, Indiana we 


eeee : Li Eee @ @ 





Exelusive Arvin - 


SAFE-GUARO 
Feature. 


Chilly fall mornings call for the quick 
comfort of Arvin Fan-Forced Electric 
Heaters! Arvin, world’s largest maker of 
portable electric heaters, now brings you 
new beauty, new convenience, new 
safety! Only Arvin offers the exclusive 
Safe-Guard—which shuts off current in- 
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Deliver 42 cubic feet of warm air per 
minute. Starts heating instantly. Handy 
toe switch. Choice of three colors. Under- 


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Also makers of Arvin Performance Tested Radios 











ne ce eet a eee eee aed 


UF 


et tt a el 


we first began in your local paper in 1941 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 






Jk introduce this column to Journal readers by unceremoniously shouting “Hello!” may lack dignity . .. yet where’s 


the need for formality between friends? And I’m sure that many of you are old-time acquaintances of mine 


October, 1919 


Oo 


+ $ 


—s 





a 


AN ADVERTISING PAGE 


for 


we must have met, time and again, through the BUY-LINES newspaper columns, Maybe you even remember when 


and can join with us in celebrating BUY-LINES’ 8th Birthday as we 


make our “debut” on the pages of the Journal and in the October 15th issue of The Saturday Evening Post. Our objective is the same 


as always. . 


a Personally Yours aw 


THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH isn’t just a legend 


in a Florida resort commemorating the romantic pilgrim- 


it flows 


age of Ponce de Leén. And today, thousands of people UA _ 

still visit it hoping to find the ‘“‘charm” to eternal a” 
youth as they drink from its waters. That’s why I know re 
you'll love this novel OFFER . . . a charming, jeweler-type eld 
perfume bottle filled with water from the legendary Foun- —~ 





tain of Youth! Encased in gold-flashed filigree, its flower 
design stopper is set with a simulated pearl . . . and the water is enchantingly scented 
with a provocative perfume from a famous Fifth Avenue Salon. It’s a perfect size to 


carry in your purse, or can be worn suspended from a charm bracelet or necklace . . . so 
send for several today! Just mail a label from either BAB-O or GLIM and 25e for 
each . . . addressing Nancy Sasser, 271 Madison Ave., New York 16, N. Y. 


“POEMS OF PRAISE” written by BUY-LINES newspaper column 
readers prove that I can’t be too enthusiastic about recom- 
mending the Spin Curlers developed by the TONI 
people .. . yet words fail to tell a-l-l! For instance, women write 
that they can now wind up all their curls in half the time . 
TONI Spin Curlers hold more hair than old-fashioned curlers so 
that they’ve fewer curls to wind. No rubber bands to tangle in 
hair .. . for Spin Curlers simply snap shut. All in all, winding up 
curls is twice as easy as ever before! And now ‘TONI waves hair 
in as little as 30 minutes, too . . . so it’s twice as easy, twice as fast 
to have a beautiful TONI! Ask for Special Combination Kit . . . including TONI 
Home Permanent Refill and new TONI Spin Curlers. A $3 value for just $2.29! 


new 


. . for 





IN ANCIENT GREECE they’d have shouted “Eureka! Eureka!” . . . in 
the IODENT Company’s 20th Century laboratory a dentist meant 
the same thing when he cried, “I’ve found it!” in English. After 
months of research, he’d discovered how to use Ammonium Com- 
pounds that fight decay . . . in a toothpaste with all the cleansing 
qualities we demand from a quality toothpaste. This made IODENT 
the first famous brand to offer this “boon” . . . for heretofore, these 
decay-fighting compounds had been successful in toothpowder only 
pastes that lacked cleansing and brightening qualities. This new “plus-ammonium” 
factor in IODENT has amazingly rapid and complete killing action against germs 
which science believes cause tooth decay . . . and yet new IODENT No. 1-plus-A for 
teeth ‘“‘easy-to-bryten” and new IODENT No. 2-plus-A for teeth “hard-to-bryten” 
have the superior cleansing quality of Regular IODENT Toothpaste. 


or in 


THE OSTRICH technique is not practical . and it’s useless “to 
bury your head in the sand” in order to hide hair that’s drab- 
looking and brittle from using drying shampoos. So why not 
go to the root of the trouble? Use a shampoo that has a natural 
oil base... such as KREML Shampoo! Then watch how won- 
derful it is for dry, brittle ends. Unlike shampoos with drying 
ingredients, the natural oil base of KREML Shampoo is tender 

. leaves them softly aglow with natural, glossy sheen. There’s 





to delicate hair strands. . 
another reason I recommend KREML Shampoo to you: a new ingredient called 
“Folisan”’ (®) makes it clean more thoroughly and gently . . . leaving the hair more 
“coaxable”’ to any new hair-do. This is especially important during October’s “bright 
blue days” when gala football parties are on the calendar . . . and your hair is under 
out-of-door inspection! Ask at your favorite Drug Counter! 


PILLOW YOUR FEET on a miracle of comfort . . . and your smile 
will be brighter, your mood will be gayer and your feet will 
bless you every minute this Fall! How? Simply by investing 60c for 
a pair of Dr. Scholl’s AIR-PILLO INSOLES to slip into your 
shoes. They’re made of Latex Foam (millions of tiny air cells) and 
are insulated and air-ventilated “‘air-cushions” that pillow your 
feet from toe to heel . . . relieving pain, callouses, tenderness and 
burning feeling. You'll thank them particularly for the soft bed 
they offer your feet . . . for the way they tenderly cushion sore heels and ease pressure on 
nerves on bottom of feet. Dr. Scholl’s AIR-PILLO INSOLES come in white, red, 
black, brown, gray and green to harmonize with shoes of all styles . . . also in all sizes 
for men and women. Try these different insoles and you’ll never be without them! 





- 





_ to offer information on advertised Brand Name products that will prove budget-wise and profitable shopping “buy-lines’ 


; 


toyou..., 


~ Fronemaking Prints ~ 


SLEEPING BEAUTIES! Sheets as lovely to see 
and luxurious to touch as they are budget- 
wise and strong in long wear! They're 
exquisitely textured PEPPERELL Lux- 


ury Muslins with 140 threads per 


square inch. This means you’re getting 
. and, of 


the finest grade muslin there is. . 
the 
“muslin” is practi- 


course, word 


cally a synonym 
for “‘wear” when 
applied to sheets. 
The advantages 
of PEPPERELL 
Luxury Muslins, 
however, are three- 
fold 
ideally combine smooth beauty of tex- 





for they 


ture with longer wear and strength at 
l-e-s-s cost! That’s why I highly recom- 
mend them to you as today’s very best 
value in sheets... getting sleeker and softer 
at each laundering. I particularly love 
their “personality colors”... Aqua, Misty 
Yellow, Hyacinth Blue, Ashes of Roses 
and Peachbloom. Ideal for guest rooms, 
for teen-agers and to vary the “routine” 
of snowy whites in your-own bedroom. 


“STORAGE WITH STYLE” is the best way 
I can describe CAVALIER Cedar 
. for while Aromatic Red Cedar 
assures safe-'n’-sure moth protection in- 
side, the roomy storage chests are out- 
wardly designed as distinctive furniture 
pieces. The stunning mahogany lowboy 
illustrated is perfect for hall, living 
or din- 
ing room 


Chests. . 


room 


and there are 
modern console 
three 
finishes with two 
convenient full- 
length drawers. 
All are wonderful for planned storage, 
plus being handsome furniture accents in 
anyroom. Another CAVALIER Cedar 
Chest, holding 30% more than average 
has a new textured finish 
called Corded Cordovan superb 
with the rough-textured surfaces and 
functional lines of modern furniture. So 
insis. on CAVALIER for traditional 
Hope Chest gifts or for your home . . . 
assuring “‘storage with style” that matches 
any kind of furniture! 


chests in 





size chests, 


“ICEBERG BLUE” is the exciting JU——~_ “skin-deep” ... for there’s room 
trim inside FRIGIDAIRE’S . for 45 lbs. of frozen foods in its 
model DL-86 De Luxe Refrig- © B-I-G full-width Super-Freezer 
erator disproving the say- Chest and its huge Hydrator 
ing, “‘nothing new under the keeps vegetables really fresh and 
sun”! It’s not enamel, not a fin- crisp for days. Shelves are tip- 
ish —— the metal itself is a heav- proof, rust-proof .. . and edged 


enly shade of blue that adds to the 
clean, cold-looking beauty of this 
favorite “‘food-keeper.” I 
you that the new beauty of this De Luxe 


model FRIGIDAIRE is far more than 


assure 


Z oY 
ookle A SONG IN THE HOME, 


a golden playmate 
and a glad-hearted 
companion 

these are the joys 
that millions of ca- 
Nary Owners treas- 
ure! Isn’t it natural, 
then, that they’ve 
made FRENCH’S Bird Seed, with Bird 
Biscuit enclosed in each package, Amer- 
ica’s “best seller’ among canary diets? 
Experience shows it provides the well- 
balanced nourishment that keeps their 
pets happier, healthier and, therefore, 
wealthier in sweetest song! For “‘the last 
word” on canary care discovered by mod- 
ern laboratory and aviary research, get a 
FREE copy of “Your Canary. . . Its Care 
and Treatment.” This charming 76-page 
book answers canary “problems” . . . has 
chapters on parakeets, parrots, goldfish, 
and tropical fish. Contains 12 pages of 
colorful bird pictures you'll wish to frame! 
For FREE copy, write Nancy Sasser, 
271 Madison Ave., New York 16, N. Y. 





94 


in wonderful “Iceberg Blue”! 
Do see it for yourself at your 
Frigidaire Dealer’s . as well 
as other major appliance “‘buy-lines”’ to 
make housekeeping easier. 


CO. et 
HOUSE as trim @ 
and tidy as a PH 
ship captain’s ze 
cabin is easy... 
once you've the 
know-how. The 
“know,” for instance, on “how” to polish 
up floors and furniture is SIMONIZ.. . 
the one and only SIMONIZ which smart 
car owners use to “glamorize”’ their cars! 
Use self-polishing SIMONIZ for your 
floors by simply spreading it on with a 
cloth or mop applicator. As it dries, floors 
acquire a smooth, satiny shine . . . with- 
out buffing or rubbing! For your furni- 
ture, use Household SIMONIZ in the 
color that matches... Mahogany, Maple, 
Walnut or Neutral. I promise you a nice 
surprise . . . for SIMONIZ smooths out 
scratches and mars, brings out richness and 
color, provides long-lasting protection. 
Dries hard . . . leaving no oily, sticky film 
to “attract” dust and dirt! I recommend 
these 2 SIMONIZ products as invaluable 
“‘tricks of the trade”’ for any homemaker. 


TO KEEP YOUR 








dL 























‘} all the world! There, assembled, is the edible wealth of the 
‘} earth and the sea... with shelves and bins and cases of foods 








ood markets and stores are the most romantic places in 


reminding you of the far and exotic places from which they 


_ came and of their glamorous history. Most magical, though, 


are those modern food developments that offer you .. . 


a “Sun with foods ~ 


ADD A FESTIVE PRELUDE to a dinner menu. . . with steam- 
ing cups of LIBBY’S sunny-ripe Tomato Juice into which 
you’ve stuck a “stirring spoon”’ of crisp celery! 

Empty can of Tomato Juice into saucepan and heat. Avoid 
boiling in order to protect LIBBY’S precious Vitamins A, Bi, 
B», and C. Pour into pottery mugs or bouillon cups and add the 
decorative flourish of a short, green-topped stalk of celery. 
I advise you to use LIBBY’S Tomato Juice . . . for it’s 
““Twice-Rich”! Rich in luscious-ripe tomato flavor and rich in good-for- 
you vitamins! So serve it often . . . for warmed or chilled, it’s good to your 
taste and good for your health at breakfast, lunch, dinner, or ’tween meals! 


DID YOU KNOW that 
DUFPF’S originated Hot 
Roll Mixes? For that 
reason, alone, you’d nat- 
urally expect DUFF’S 
to be best because they’ve 
had more experience . . 


sayer the 
sensational new “‘quick-rise” yeast 
they’ve discovered for their Hot Roll 
Mix makes it even better still! Be- 
cause the “quick-rise”’ yeast is livelier 
and more active (and in an improved 
“keep-fresh”? package), DUFF’S 








makes rolls rise faster 
and fluffer . . . so that 
rising time is cut one- 
half! Result is lighter, 
tastier and ‘‘hand- 
somer”’ rolls . . . ready 
to serve in a jiffy. Possibilities with 
DUFF’S Hot Roll Mix are endless: 
Pan Rolls Parker House Rolls 
Tea Rings Cinnamon Rolls 
Coffee Rings Buttercrunch Rolls 
Sweet Rolls Cloverleaf Rolls 
Orange Nut Bread 


PLAN A PARTY DISH... by following my new trick with 
KNOX and vegetables! Makes a marvelous salad at 
real budget economy! 

CRISP VEGETABLE SALAD 
Soften 1 envelope KNOX Gelatine in 14 cup cold water. 


Add 1 cup hot water, 14 Tsp. salt, 14 cup mild vinegar, 1 


Tbs. lemon juice and 14 cup sugar. Stir until Gelatine and sugar are dissolved. 
Chill until mixture is consistency of unbeaten egg whites. Stir in 14 cup diced 
cucumber, 34 cup diced celery, 14 cup finely shredded carrot, 2 Tsp. grated 
onion and 2 Tbs. minced green pepper. Turn mixture into large or individual 
molds; chill until firm. Unmold onto crisp greens. Serve with French dressing. 
And let me remind you of something I learned years ago . . . KNOX gives 
best results for all gelatine “‘masterpieces” . . . salads, desserts, main dishes. 
Reason is this . . . KNOX is the real Gelatine, pure and unflavored. It is 
all protein, no sugar, and goes 4 times further than factory-flavored brands. 


TO BAKE A DEVIL'S FOOD 
CAKE in “blue ribbon win- 
ner” style is child’s play! 
1 package DUFF’S 
Devil’s Food Mix 
1 cup water 
Just stir and bake! No “hid- 


So rich and chocolatey good 
you'll believe your DUFF’S 
Mix box is like Aladdin’s 
lamp... magically grant- 
ing your wish for THE per- 
fect cake. And since it’s 
DUFF’S, it’s bound to be 





den” extra costs. Eggs and milk— 
everything in it . . . including the 
finest custom-milled cake flour, 
creamy shortening, rich, chocolatey 
cocoa, sugar and salt . . . all skillfully 
blended for you in one handy package. 


better . . . because you can depend 
on their long-time ‘‘mix-making”’ 
experience! Unlike many cake mixes, 
DUFF’S is a complete mix ... in 
White Cake and Spice Cake, too! 


FROST YOUR CAKE ON THE Q-T! Yes, that’s a pun... . for Q-T is the smooth, 
creamy, “never-fail” Instant Frosting that adds luscious flavor and colorful 
beauty to any cake! Comes in Chocolate, Vanilla, Strawberry and new 
Lime . . . each now in a larger package that makes enough frosting for a 
9-inch layer, top and sides! Whether you use quick- 
mixes, prepared layers or your own recipe, remem- 
ber that your favorite cake deserves the finest frost- 
ing! Q-T is “quick-’n’-easy” . . . add water, stir and 
in less than 2 minutes the “‘best-ever” frosting is 
ready. Wonderful for cakes, cupcakes, cookies, 
sauces and candies . . . so send for the FREE folder, 
“50 Quick Tricks with Q-T Frosting” ! Address Nancy 
Sasser. 271 Madison Ave., New York 16, N. Y. 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 99) 

without a penny. All this scrimping is just 
because she wants to make a purse for her- 
self before those children grow up... . Where 
are you off to?” 

“T’ve done all these beds,” said Nancibel. 
“T’m going to the little boys’ room.” 

Luke and Michael slept next to the Coves 
and their sheets were scarcely turned back. 

“What’s the idea,”’ said Miss Ellis, when 
she joined Nancibel, “giving us all the trou- 
ble of stripping the beds as well as making 
them? I never knew a family give so much 
trouble. Have you heard the latest? Lady 
Guzzle’s got to have coffee with an egg 
beaten up in it, in the middle of the morn- 
ing!” 

“T can’t think,” said Nancibel, “‘how she 


‘| can eat all she does and stay so thin.” 


“Ah! I’ve my own ideas about that. I 
shouldn’t wonder if she didn’t put on a lot 
of weight, one time, and got it off the Holly- 
wood way. You know. Like the film stars 
do!” 

“No,” said Nancibel. “I don’t know. 
What?” 

She regretted the question a moment 
later, for she saw by her companion’s ex- 
pression that the answer would be unsavory. 
But she was not to be spared. Miss Ellis 
whispered two words in her ear. 

“No!” cried Nancibel, turning pale. “No! 
I don’t believe it. How awful!” 

“They do,” said Miss Ellis. “I worked 
once with a girl who’d been a dresser in one 
of these studios and she told me a lot.” 

“T don’t believe it,” repeated Nancibel. 

“When you’ve seen all 
I’ve seen of the seamy side 
of life,” said Miss Ellis, 


“you won’t be so easily % It is a mark of intelligence, 

no matter what you are 
doing, to have a good time do- 
—BESS WHITE COCHRAN: 


upset.” 

They finished Michael’s @0!™ 
bed in silence. Then Nan- 48 #*- 
cibel exclaimed, “It’s a 
pity you can’t say any- 
thing about anybody but 
only what’s disgusting.” 

“Are you speaking to me, Nancibel 
Thomas?” 

“Certainly I’m speaking to you, Miss 
Ellis.” 

“Then you’re a very impertinent girl.” 

Nancibel turned and stalked off to Hebe 
and Caroline’s bedroom, which was next 
down the passage. She did not like quarrel- 
ing and made no answer when the house- 
keeper came to offer a piece of her mind. 


oT NEVER expected to have to work,” said 
Miss Ellis, standing in the doorway. “My 
father was a wealthy man. And it’s the bit- 
terest of all to me, now, that I have to mix 
with low, common people who think they 
can insult me because I have had misfor- 
tunes and nobody to protect me.” 

Nancibel picked up Hebe’s dressing gown 
and took it to the wardrobe. Her gasp of sur- 
prise, when she opened the door, checked the 
stream of Miss Ellis’ indignation. 

“What is it?”’ asked Miss Ellis, hastening 
to look. 

Inside the door a large notice was fastened 
with drawing pins. It was printed in capitals 
on a sheet of poster paper, and it read: 


THE NOBLE COVENANT OF SPARTANS 
oBjicT. To raise up a band of Spartans to rule 
England and eventually to rule the 
world. 
Motto Everything nice is Bad. 
Everything nasty is Good. 


RULES. 

(1) Always obey the Leader. 

(2) Never give away Spartan secrets. 

(3) Never flinch from hardship. 

(4) Never endulge yourself. 

(5) Never eat your sweet ration. 

(6) Never kiss anybody. If somebody kisses 
you and you cannot help it mutter the 
following silent curse: Cursed be thy flesh 
and bones marrow liver and lights for that 
thou kissest me against my will. 

(7) Never praise except ironicly. 

(8) If they make you utter non-Spartan ideas 
say “‘not”’ under your breth. 

(9) A new Leader is ellected every week. 
Everyone is to have their turn. 

(10) When a Spartan has done a daring thing 
for the benefit of all Spartans even if he is 





| Sire 


101 


not Leader that week everyone else must 
back him up. 


Tests for New Spartans 
(1) Fear. Do something that frightens you. 
(2) Food. (a) Eat something that makes you 
sick (eg. chocolat eclare and sardine) and 
not be sick. 
(b) Eat nothing for 24 hours. 
(3) Smell. Smell a bad smell for 10 minutes. 
(4) Sight. Look at the annatomy pictures. 
(5) Hearing. A squeaky slate pencil, if you 
don’t like it. 
(6) Cold. Sleep one week on the floor without 
any blanket. 
(7) Touch. Lie still and let yourself be tickled. 
(8) Pain. Little finger pinched. 
(9) A specially brave deed to be chosen by 
the Leader. Really dangerous. 


When Junior Spartans have passed all nine 
tests they get their membership card and can 
be leaders. While they are passing they can at- 
tend meetings but not vote and use all the 
privylege of the society including the Spartan 
code. But they must obey all rules. 


This manifesto so astonished Miss Ellis 
and Nancibel that they buried the hatchet 
for a while. 


““ 

Portumerryn is such a little place,”’ said 
Mrs. Cove, as she hurried her family over the 
cliffs, “if we don’t get in first with our points 
all the best sweets will be gone. Blanche, 
can’t you walk faster?” 

Blanche broke into a lopsided trot, helped 
along by her sisters. Their errand did not 
interest them, for it was unlikely that they 
would eat any of the sweets thus secured. 
Their mother had a habit 
of saving such things 
for a rainy day which 
never dawned. But they 
knew how important it was 
to possess goods which 
other people would be 
likely to want, since value 
depends upon scarcity. 

At the top of the hill 
Mrs. Cove paused to give , 
final instructions: “If we all go into the 
same shop they might see we are one family 
and make us take a mixed selection. Blanche, 
you go along Marine Parade. Beatrix can do 
Church Street. I’ll do Fore Street. Maud can 
do Market Street. Here is half a crown for 
each of you, in case you can get Turkish de- 
light. Go for that if you can; it’s very scarce. 
If not, get marshmallows or fudge. We’l 
meet outside the post office in half an hour.” 

They separated and Mrs. Cove hurried 
down to Fore Street. There was a consider- 
able queue in the largest confectioner’s. She 
joined it just behind Robin, Duff and Sir 
Henry Gifford. 

“You're early,” she said sourly, when 
they greeted her. 

“T’m after marshmallows,” said Gifford. 
““My wife charged me to get her some before 
they all disappear. They’ve got some here, I 
see.” 

“TI want butterscotch,” said Robin. 
“‘There’s none on the parade. I saw Blanche 
there, Mrs. Cove, and she wants to know if 
she and the other girls can come with me to 
see a ship in a bottle that I told her about. I 
said if I saw you I’d ask.” 

“Where is it?”’ asked Mrs. Cove. 

“Tn a cottage just off the harbor,’’ Robin 
told her. ‘‘It’s Nancibel’s great-grand- 
mother’s. She’s got a lot of interesting old 
things.” 

Mrs. Cove said that the girls might go if 
they liked; but they must be back at Pendi- 
zack by lunchtime. 

“She’s a very old woman,’’ said Robin, 
turning to Sir Henry, “and almost blind, and 
they think she ought to go to the work- 
house. She’s awfully upset about it. I can’t 
help wondering if some of her old things 
mightn’t bring in a bit—enough to keep her 
more comfortably. Do you, sir, by any 
chance know anything about black amber?” 

“T know a little about it,” said Sir Henry 
cautiously. “It’s very rare.” 

“I think she has a piece. Her sailor son 
brought it home, ages ago. A little carved 
figure, so big.” Robin held his fingers about 
four inches apart. ‘It looks and feels like 
amber to me.” 


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“But that would be worth at least a thou- 
sand pounds!”’ 

“T know black amber is valuable. If it was, 
she needn’t go to the workhouse.”’ 

The queue moved up, but neither Robin 
nor Sir Henry noticed this. Mrs. Cove waited 
a few seconds and then took the vacant place 
in front of them. 

“TI could look at it,” volunteered Sir 
Henry. ‘If that would be any help.” 

“Oh, would you?” 

The queue moved again and Mrs. Cove 
took her place at the counter. ‘* Marshmal- 
lows,”’ she said firmly. 

Sir Henry and Robin looked round, sur- 
prised, wondering how she could have got in 
front of them. But they realized that it 
had been their own fault. 

’ “And if, by any chance, you’re right,” 
said Sir Henry, “I could help her sell it and 
see that she got a fair price.” 

“T say, that’s frightfully good of you. I’m 
going there this morning. Could you come?” 

“No. My wife expects me back. But I'll 
go with you some other day if you like.” 

The queue moved again and it was Sir 
Henry’s turn. But he could not get marsh- 
mallows, for Mrs. Cove 
had just bought the last. 
He bought nougat, and 
Robin got his butter- 
scotch. 

“That was a mean 
trick,” said Robin, as 
they went out of the 
shop. “She pushed in 


front of us. Did you 
see?” 
“We let her. You 


For Sober, 
Dining 


By Marjorie Lederer Lee 


see written in the bottle. If you look close 
you'll see a name: Phineas Pearce. Which is 
the name of my old grandfather. And after 
the name you'll see figures: seventeen hun- 
dred and ninety-five, which is the year the 
ship was made.” 

Robin had heard this recital many times 
and he strolled away to the dresser to 
have another look at the piece of black am- 
ber. He had seen it last on the second shelf, 
standing next to the bottle of ink. But it was 
not there now. 


“Mrs. PEARCE,” he broke in, “where’s the 
little black figure? The one that stood on the 
dresser ?”’ 

“Inside the tureen,”’ said Mrs. Pearce. “I 
put un there for safety, when I were dust- 
ing.” 

He looked in the tureen and found it. 

“Why,” she went on, “I saw the railway 
come. I saw the first train that come to our 
town and the flags and the cheers and the 
band so sweetly playing. It was a feast that 
day in our Church Town. A feast for one 
and all.” 


A thrill ran through the Coves. Maud 


asked if all the people 
came, and who had given 
the feast. 

“All gave it and all 
came,” said Mrs. Pearce. 
“Every man, woman 
and child in the town 
was there. And the bands 
they struck up and one 
and all we sang Old 
Hundred.” 

“How lovely!” cried 


know, if I were you I 
shouldn’t talk about that 
piece of black amber, if 
it is black amber, quite 
so publicly. Anybody 
might hear. And the 
sooner it’s put away 
safely, the better. Can’t 
you drop her just a hint 
to look after it care- 


(| fully?” 


“T don’t want to dis- 
appoint her, in case I’m 
mistaken.” 

“Tell her it might be 
worth five pounds. It 
would probably fetch 
that, whatever it is. And 


This is the tintfe, 
This is the place 
Where etiquette 
Sits in disgrace, 
Where no one ever 
Heard of tools 
Like knives and forks, 
Or table rules. 


O, beaten bean, 
O, battered beet, 
Who says that you 
Were meant to eat? 
It’s hard to fathom 
Where there’s more: 
In Robert’s mouth— 
Or on the floor! 


* Maud. 


They took their leave 
reluctantly, with wistful 
glances at the little ship 
as it went back onto its 
shelf. Robin, as he 
thanked her, ventured a 
word of caution to Mrs. 
Pearce about the amber, 
hinting that it might be 
valuable. 

“It’s worth more than 
a pound, I b’lieve,”’ 
agreed the old woman. 

“‘More like five 
pounds, Mrs. Pearce, so 
keep it safe.” 

“It’s safe enough in 


get her to put it away.” 

Robin agreed to do 
this and they parted. He 
did a few errands for his 
mother and then went to the post office, 
where the three little girls were waiting. 

“Come along,” said Robin. “Have some 
butterscotch.” 

He proffered a paper bag. But they all 
shook their heads, explaining, as usual, that 
they had none to give him back. 

“None?” he exclaimed. “‘But you’ve all 
been buying sweets, haven’t you?” 

“Our mother has them now,” explained 
Beatrix. 

“Oh. Well, have some of mine, anyway.” 

Eventually they each accepted a small 
piece. 


Rossy conducted them toward the harbor 
by a side street. ‘This boat,” he told them, 
“was made by Mrs. Pearce’s grandfather. 
It’s a five-masted schooner and it’s in a long, 
thin bottle, not a fat one like the imitation 
ones. Here we are. Up these steps.” 

Robin knocked at the door, and ushered 
them into a room full of furniture, potted 
ferns and cats. Nancibel’s great-grandmother, 
a tiny old woman, was rustling and poking 
about on the hearth. She turned to look at 
them, rubbing her bleared eyes. 

“Tt’s Robin Siddal,” he shouted. ‘‘I’ve 
brought three young ladies to look at your 
ship, Mrs. Pearce. May they see it?” 

““My ship? Oh, my dear soul, yes. The 
maids shall see it. You know where it is? 
Over the slab?” 

He gave it to her and she held it out for 
them to admire. 

“This little ship,”’ she told them, “have 
been on that very shelf since the time you 


the tureen. Good-by, 
m’dears. Any time you 
like to come in you'll be 
very welcome.” 

Robin had to go round by the road with a 
message, so the three girls walked home alone 
over the cliffs. They went slowly, for Blanche 
was tired and they had to drag her up the 
hill. Their heads were so full of feasts, trains 
and ships that they said very little. 

This trip to Pendizack was the supreme 
adventure of their lives. They were all a 
little stunned by it. A week ago they would 
have thought it impossible that they should 
ever have friends like the Giffords. Now the 
barrier between possible and impossible 
things seemed to have disappeared. 

“Hebe will give us our specially brave 
thing tomorrow,” said Beatrix. ““I wonder 
what she will decide.” 

““We’ve not done half the tests yet,” said 
Maud. “We haven’t smelled a smell or slept 
on the floor.” 

“She says those can wait,” said Beatrix. 
“T explained we couldn’t sleep on the floor 
here because mummy is in the room.” 

“T hope it won’t be a train,”’ said Blanche 
nervously. ‘‘Lying between the rails and 
letting a train go over us. I should be too 
frightened. I don’t think I could.” 

“T don’t think it will be a train,” said 
Beatrix. ‘Caroline says she thinks it will be 
swimming.” 

“But wecan’t swim!” protested the others. 

“T know. But Hebe says the Spartan way 
is to learn by jumping into deep water.” 

“But supposing we didn’t learn?” asked 
Maud. 

““That’s what Caroline said. She told me 
that if Hebe makes us swim she will stop it. 

(Continued on Page 104) 





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(Continued from Page 102) 
She said the Spartans is only a game and we 
mustn’t take it too seriously. She said she 
didn’t doa brave thing. She only pretended.” 
“How very disloyal!” said Blanche. 


Nancibel, going to the garden to get some 
mint, thought she saw a stranger hiding 
among the loganberries. ‘‘ Who's that?’’ she 
called. 

He straightened up and came toward her, 
smiling. 

“Why, Bruce! Whatever are 
here?” 

“I’m looking for the stables. 
you doing here?” 

“T work here. I’m housemaid.” 

“But I thought you lived up the cliff.” 

“T come in daily.” 


you doing 


What 


are 


“Oh? I see.”’ He looked relieved, and 
picked up a suitcase which was left on the 
path, adding, ‘‘Do you know where the 


stables are?” 

“Through the door in the wall. Why?” 

“T’m to sleep in them.” 

“Oh! Your people are stopping here?” 

“That’s right.” 

“Funny! Mrs. Siddal never said anything 
about a new party coming.” 

“T don’t expect she knows. She was out 
when we came. The old man let us the rooms. 
He’s an old friend of my So we 
asked for him. He let the garden room to my 
boss. But there was no room for me in the 
inn and so ——”’ 

“Don’t be irreverent. 
small loft, I expect. The 
Fred have the other two.” 

‘Lead me to it, then. 
path.” 

“‘Lead yourself,” said Nancibel. “It’s only 
through that door. You can’t miss it.” 


. boss. 


You'll be in the 
Siddal boys and 


Up the garden 


Sue ran off, hoping that she had not be- 
trayed her pleasure in seeing him again. For 
she had thought a lot about him since Satur- 
day night and had decided that he must 
really be very nice, in spite of his silly ways. 
Not every boy would take a telling off as 
good-humoredly as he had. And it would be 
amusing to have somebody young about the 
place—somebody lively. 

She pranced into the house with the light 
step and bright eye of a successful girl. J’/] 
see you again, she caroled at the sink, when- 
ever the spring breaks through again! 

Miss Ellis came into the scullery, 
important. ‘‘There’s a new party come,” 
announced. ‘‘With a chauffeur. He'll be 
sleeping in the stables. You’d better take out 
sheets and make up his bed, Nancibel.”’ 

“Yes, Miss Ellis.’ 

Bruce had found the small loft and was 
surveying it gloomily when she arrived with 
the sheets. It had wooden walls and ceiling, 
no rugs 
and a folding bed. 

“Austerity is our watchword,” 
“Am I allowed sheets on the bed?” 

“Yes. I’ve brought you some. And now 
listen! Don’t ever sit on that bed. If you do 
it shuts up with you in it, and it’s quite a job 
to get out. Fred had it at first and he got 
shut in it and if somebody hadn’t heard him 
yelling he’d be inside it still.” 

“How long was he there?” 

“Oh, two or three days,” said Nancibel 
solemnly, spreading the sheets on the bed. 

“But how do I get in?” asked Bruce, when 
they had both giggled a good deal. 

“You get in at the end and creep up it. 
You have to get out the same way.” 

He opened his suitcase and began to take 
out his possessions. “I’ve been thinking 
about you ever since Saturday,” he told her. 
“Wondering if I should see you again.” 

“What a lovely dressing gown,” exclaimed 
Nancibel. *“‘What’s all that typewriting?” 

“That’s part of my boss’ new book.” 

“Who is your boss?” 

“Mrs. LeChene. I told you. 
authoress.”’ 

Had he told her? Nancibel could not re- 
member. “‘How did you get that job?” she 
asked. 

Bruce hesitated, and remembered his vow 
to shoot no more lines. “I was Boots in a 
hotel where she ——’”’ 


he said. 


She’s an 


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105 


“Ch!” cried Nancibel. “Like in your 
book, you mean? That boy, he was Boots in 
a hotel, wasn’t he?” 

“You remember a lot about my book, 
considering you didn’t like it,” said Bruce 
crossly. 

“Well, it’s funny him being a Boots and 
you being a Boots.” 

“T don’t see. One has to use one’s own ex- 
perience.” 

“And this lady = 

“She’s nothing to do with the woman in 
the book. It’s not autobiographical.” 

“Pardon?” 

“It’s not the story of my life,” said Bruce 
hotly. “‘That’s all I mean.” 

“Well, I should hope not.’ 

Steps creaked on the loft ladder and a 
voice called sharply, ‘‘Bruce!” A woman ap- 
peared in the loft doorway and stood survey- 
ing them. Nancibel realized that this must 
be the lady authoress. An old friend of 
Mr. Siddal’s! Nothing surprising about that; 
boy and girl they must have been, sometime 
in the year dot. Authoress if you like, but no 
lady, poking her nose into the chauffeur’s 


H 4 t 
0 ni t Hl room and staring in that funny way. 
: Jia ’ The seconds passed and the stare became 
s aa : } | an insult. Nancibel lifted her eyes and looked 
fully at Anna, obscurely aware that it would 
not do to mutter ‘““Excuse me” and slip out. 


She must stand her ground and vindicate 
her right to be there. 

when you ma ke them of Bruce broke in nervously: “Miss Thomas 
brought my sheets. I—I’d better put the car 


: zn away, hadn’t I?” 
nner 2 “No hurry,” said Anna, “if you’ve got 
: ae & anything better to do.” 


“Nothing! I’ve nothing better to do.” 


7 0 Ul c h 1 A Pushing past Anna, he rushed downstairs. 
OWll 
erie OS a aa ed 


Too much courtesy is discourtesy. 


q a . 
N 0 n EB S f f ¥ n k Nancibel had finished making the bed, but 
i she thought it better to do one or two trifling 
tasks about the room before she left it, to 
emphasize the fact that it was her job to be 
y a l i in it. So she picked up the typewritten sheets 
which Bruce had spilled on the floor and put 
them on the window ledge. 
“T’m afraid I interrupted,” observed 
J : Anna. “Has Bruce been telling you the story 
for men, including of his life?” 
reat. pe een we of ’ “Oh, no,” said Nancibel, smiling. ‘He 
| ee told me that on Saturday.” 
JUST OUT! non-shrink, anti-stretch, “Saturday?” said Anna. She crossed the 
room to sit on the bed, meaning obviously 
to get the whole story. But Nancibel saw 
that the moment for a strategic retreat had 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“T’ve told you before, Eirene, that there’s 
nothing to stop your going to Guernsey if 
you want to.” 

“But it’s no good unless you come too, We 
can’t get off income tax unless we both go.” 

“T’ve told you I’m not going and I’ve told 
you why.” 

“You think it’s unpatriotic. You think 
patriotism matters more than your wife and 
family.” 

“Well... yes. I suppose I do.” 

“Then don’t pretend you're sorry for me. 
If you want to see me starve for the sake of 
a government you never voted for —— If 
the Conservatives had got in we shouldn’t 
have these shortages. Look, Harry! Perhaps 
Mrs. Cove might be willing to exchange. 
She might like some of my nougat instead.” 

“Tfshe’d wanted nougat she’d have bought 
it. There was plenty.” 

“You could tell her how ill 1am. But don’t 
worry. Just go on saying you're sorry and 
don’t make the slightest effort to help me.” 
She fell back upon her pillows again and her 
eyes filled with tears. 

Sir Henry hesitated and then stole out of 
the room. In a quarter of an hour he was 
back again with a bag of marshmallows 
which he put upon the table beside her bed. 

“Harry! Where did you get them?”’ She 
took one and tasted it critically, wrinkling 
up her nose. 

“Mrs. Cove.” 

“She exchanged them for mine?” 

“Er—no. She sold them to me.” 

‘Good heavens!”’ She tasted another and 
added, ‘‘ They aren’t very nice. Did she offer 
or did you ask?” 

“TI offered an exchange and she refused. 
Then she mentioned that her children don’t 
care much for sweets. She said they often 
sell their sweets to buy books. So I offered 
to buy their marshmallows.” 

**How much did you give?” 

“Eight and six.” 

“But Harry! That’s fantastic. More than 
three times what she gave.” 

“T thought it pretty stiff, but she said 
they couldn’t get a decent book for less. And 
I knew you wanted the sweets.” 

There was a tap on the door and Hebe ap- 
peared, also carrying a paper bag. 

“Why, darling,’”’ exclaimed Lady Gifford, 
“good morning! What have you been doing? 
Give me a kiss.” 

Hebe extended her cheek and, as she re- 
ceived the caress, her lips moved in the silent 
curse of the Spartans. ** We went into Porth- 
merryn for our sweets,” she said. ‘‘ These are 
marshmallows. I got them because I know 
you like them best.” 


October, | 


“Why, how darling of you! But I cz 
take them, you know. Not your sweet 
tion.” 

“You always do,” said Hebe coldly. 
don’t care for sweets.” She gave a h 
glance at the bag already in Lady Giffo 
hands and ran off. 

*Hebe’s austerity,” said Lady Gifford, 
really formidable.” 

“H’m,” said Sir Henry. The undisgui 
contempt in Hebe’s manner had shoe! 
him. “Is she often like that?” 

“Like what?” 

“So much—so very much with her n 
in the air?” . 

“She's very reserved, Sensitive child 
often are.” 

“She’s not our child, after all. One w 
ders if she’s all right . . . with us.” 

““My dear Harry! Where could she h 
got a better home? She has everythin 
child could want; or would have if we wer 
obliged to live in this God-forgotten co 
try.” 

Perceiving Guernsey once more upon 
map, he made his escape. Hebe’s express 
still disquieted him. It was not right t 
any child should look so at her mother 
speak so either. He supposed that they w 
all bound, as they grew older, to criti 
Eirene to a certain extent. He did so him: 
and faults which were apparent to him cc 
not be hidden from their sharp young e& 
But they must also learn, as he had, to to 
ate and excuse her, or life would become 
possible. 

He went downstairs and wandered ab 
the beach for a while. For nine years he | 
been resigned to the fact that his marri 
was a disaster and had tried to make 
best of a bad job. But he had thought of i 
a calamity which could affect only Eir 
and himself. He had never perceived tha 
might involve the children. 

On his way back from the beach he 
countered Hebe again. She was sitting 
the terrace parapet, her cat on her shoul 
“Hebe,”’ he said severely, “I want a w 
with you.” 

She lifted her lovely eyes to him ; 
waited. He took her to task for her man 
to her mother. Eirene, he reminded her, 
very ill and suffered a great deal. 

““What’s the matter with her?” as 
Hebe. 

“She .. . we aren’t quite sure. Unluck 
they can’t find out.” 

Hebe gave him a searching look and 
expression changed. He could have sw 
there was at least a touch of compassion i1 

(Continued on Page 108) 





“4nd please don’t start using reason! You 
know you always convince me that way!”’ 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


ns in vi 


real 
* = 


SY 
hee ¥ : 


It is also important to know that Ovaltine is 
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) 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 106) 
but he had the oddest impression that this 
pity was not for Eirene. 

“She’s loved you,” he said, “ever since 
you were a little baby. She’s done everything 
for you.” 

“Who was my real mother?” interrupted 
Hebe. 

“Eh—er—I don’t know her name, my 
dear.” 

“Don’t you know anything about her?” 
Hebe went on. 

“‘I—we know some of the circumstances. 
You'll know them someday . . . when you’re 
older.” 

“A child’s questions ought always to be 
answered honestly or else it gets a com- 
press.” 

“Complex. I am answering you honestly.” 

“Am I a bastard?” 

Sir Henry was startled, but after a mo- 
ment’s thought said, “‘ Yes. But that’s not a 
word you should use. Where did you learn 
hee 

“Shakespeare,” she told him. ‘“‘Are Luke 
and Michael——’” 

‘“What they are is none of your business.” 

“Just tell me one thing. Did I belong to 
poor people? Working people?”’ 

“No.” 

Her face fell. ‘I wish I had.” 

“Why?” 

“T think they’re nicer.” 

“Often they are,”’ he agreed. 

“But if I belonged to rich people, how did 
I come to be adopted?” 

“They didn’t want you. We did.” 

“Why didn’t they want me?” 

He hesitated again, but decided she had 
better have it. “You'd 
have been in their way.” 

mOn:” 

She looked down at 
the flagstones and kicked 
her bare heels against the 
wall. He felt sorry for her. 
She had asked for it, but 
she was only ten. < 


Evangeline Wraxton was coming on nicely. 
Her improvement was not apparent at meal- 
times; huddled into a chair opposite her 
father, she twitched and muttered as before. 
But she no longer sat in her room all day. 
She bathed with the Giffords and played 
rounders with them on the sand. 

After tea she walked with Mrs. Paley up 
to the post office to buy stamps. They had 
scarcely left the house before she burst into 
all those confidences which had been left un- 
spoken the night before. She poured out the 
story of her life with many exclamations 
and repetitions. When, for the tenth time, 
she announced that nobody would ever know 
how awful it all was, Mrs. Paley cut it short. 


“Don’t keep saying the same thing over 
and over, Angie. It’s a bad habit. And plenty 
of people can guess how awful it is. Now tell 
me: how did your father ever get to be a 
canon?” 

Evangeline had no ideas about this. But 
from her vague reminiscences it emerged 
that the canon had not always been so im- 
possible. His ill temper had grown on him. 
He had been a notable preacher and success- 
ful in any kind of controversy. The Low 
Church party had hoped to make use of him, 
and the old bishop, who gave him the living 
of Great Mossbury, had admired him. 

“But he quarreled with everyone,” she 
said. “And at last nobody came to church. 
For a whole year he read the services just 
to our family.” 

“How many were there in your family?” 
Mrs. Paley asked. 

“Oh, there were six of us; I’ve three broth- 
ers and two sisters. But he’s broken with all 
of them, so I never see them. Well, the parish- 
ioners asked the new bishop to get them an- 
other rector. But father wouldn’t resign. So 
the bishop sent for father one day, and father 
found he had resigned. He’d flown into such 
a rage he didn’t know what he was saying 
till he heard the bishop accepting his resigna- 
tion. He said it was a trap and he wouldn’t 
go, and he barricaded the rectory. It was in 
all the papers. And he never got another 


When you educate a man 
you educate an individual; 
when you educate a woman 
you educate a whole family. 
—Dr. CHARLES D. McIVER. 


October, 1949 


living. Luckily he had some money of . is 
own. But we’ve never had a home since 
Mossbury. Mother died three years ago. 
And when she was dying she asked me to 
promise never to leave father. | couldn't 
refuse.” 

“How could she condemn you to such a 
life?”’ 

“Well, she thought we are all born to 
suffer and the more we suffer now the less we 
shall hereafter.” 

“And you feel you must keep your prom- — 
ise?”’ 

“Oh, yes. Yes, I do.” 

“Even if you end by going crazy or mur- 
dering him?” 

“Mother said God would give me grace 
to endure it.” 

“And does He?” 

‘is. 

“T thought He didn’t. . . . Here’s the post 
office. Go in and ask for your stamps just 
once, not several times. But try to be audible. 
The postmistress does not eat human flesh. 
Say: ‘Four two-penny-halfpenny stamps, 
please.’”” 


Evanceine obeyed and returned in tri- 
umph. On the walk home she told the whole 
story over again while Mrs. Paley pondered 
upon schemes for freeing the girl from her 
rash vow. The most obvious would be that 
of the astute bishop. Canon Wraxton, if suffi- 
ciently enraged, might be maneuvered into 
dismissing his daughter of his own accord. 
But he must not do this until some refuge 
had been found for the girl. 

And she has no friends, reflected Mrs. 
Paley, except me. I must see to it. 

Her next task must be 
to tackle Gerry Siddal. He 
was nearly always to be 
found pumping water, be- 
tween tea and dinner. The 
pump was close to the 
drive, hidden in a clump © 
of rhododendrons. As she 
took the path between the 
bushes she heard a burst 
of laughter. Two people seemed to be pump- 
ing; two young voices, a tenor and a treble, 
were raised in song as the creaking was re- 
sumed. 

Peeping through the branches, she saw 
Nancibel with a very handsome young man. 
Mrs. Paley would have retreated if Nancibel 
had not turned and caught sight of her. She 
explained her errand, and Nancibel said: 

“T think Mr. Gerry is chopping wood, 
Mrs. Paley. In the stableyard. We offered 
to do the pumping tonight.” 

Mrs. Paley retraced her steps, glad to 
think that Nancibel had got such a well- 
favored boy. Poor Gerry, chopping wood in 
the stableyard, had no lovely girl to sing 
with him. He smiled when he saw Mrs. 
Paley, but he did not expect her to speak. 
He was quite astonished when she came up 
and asked if he would do her a favor. Might 
she borrow two beach pads from the gar- 
den shed for herself and Miss Wraxton? They 
were planning, she explained, to sleep out in 
the cliff shelter. 

“Of course,’”’ said Gerry. ‘‘I’ll take them 
up for you.” 

“Oh, no. You mustn’t trouble to do that,” 
said Mrs. Paley, who had every intention 
that he should. “We can carry them.” 

“They’re quite heavy,’”’ Gerry told her. 
“T’ll take them. Anything else you’d like? 
Rugs? Cushions?” 

“We've taken up rugs and cushions. Mr. 
Siddal, I think that Miss Wraxton is very 
worried about staying here. Naturally she 
wants to go, but she can’t when her father 
won't. I told her I was sure that you under- 
stood.” : 

Gerry looked sulky, for he had Evangeline 
on his conscience. ‘‘In her shoes, I should go, 
whatever my father did.” 

“She has no money. Only half a crown.” 

“Oh,” said Gerry. 

““She feels she ought not to have had hys- 
terics, but one can’t wonder, can one? The 
shock of her father’s behavior made a good 
many people behave . . . as they wouldn’t 
otherwise have done. Personally I think we 

(Continued on Page 110) 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 108) 
should be grateful to her, for she did get him 
out of church, even if she was noisy.” 

“You mean,” said Gerry, ‘‘she wasn’t 
laughing deliberately?” 

Mrs. Paley opened her eyes. ‘But of 
course not. You’re a doctor. You must know 
hysterics when you hear them.” 

“I didn’t realize,”’ he muttered. 

“You were some distance away. I was 
quite close.” 

“I’m afraid I was rude to her, yesterday 
afternoon.” 

“That doesn’t matter, as long as I can tell 
her that you—that you feel differently now.” 
“Oh, I do,” said Gerry. ‘‘ Indeed I do,” 

Mrs. Paley gave him her pinched smile 
and departed. 


The Pendizack booby trap shut up with a 
crash, and Bruce’s oaths rang across the 
stableyard. He had forgotten Nancibel’s 
warning. The noise woke the occupants of 
the big loft. Robin sat up with a start, to 
hear chuckles from Duff’s bed. 

“It’s the high-class chauffeur,” said Duff. 
“He didn’t know—or else he forgot.” 

“But what time is it?” asked Robin, look- 
ing at the luminous dial of his watch. “Why, 
it’s half past four! I say, where’s Gerry?” 

“Isn’t he here?” 

Robin flashed a torch on Gerry’s bed. It 
was empty. 

“‘T shouldn’t wonder,” said Duff, ‘if he’s 
cleared out. He had a row with mother.” 

“Gerry did?” 

“Mother gets a bit tired of advice from 
Gerry. He was trying to dictate about 
father’s law library. Mother got a letter from 
the people in his old chambers. It seems it’s 
still there, and they’ve been writing to know 
what he wants done with it. But you know 
he never even opens letters. So at last they 
wrote to her. Mother’s giving orders to have 
it stored. But Gerry wants to sell it. A good 
law library is worth about five hundred 
pounds. Somebody did offer to buy it, ap- 
parently, but that’s off, because father never 
answered the letters.” 

‘Five hundred pounds would be very use- 
ful,’’ said Robin. 

“Tf I go to the Bar I might like to have it 
myself. It’s no concern of Gerry’s. Mother 
told him she’s storing it for me and he pro- 
ceeded to go off the deep end. Just because 
he gives her fourpence halfpenny a week he 
thinks he’s got the right to boss the whole 
family. He said he’ll go to South Africa 
and never come back.” 

Robin considered this and then said, “We 
should be in quite a hole if he did.” 

But Duff was growing sleepy again and 
did not answer. 

“T don’t see why you should have five 
hundred pounds,” said Robin more loudly. 

‘“Wha-at?”’ said Duff, rousing. 

“Tf all this family has left is books worth 
five hundred pounds, I don’t see why you 
should get it all.” 

There were thumps on the wall from 
Bruce, who was trying to go to sleep. 

“Thump back,” said Duff indignantly. 

Robin thumped and yelled, “Shut up!” 
through the wood partition. 

“Shut up yourself,”’ came in an answering 
yell from Bruce. 


Rosin and Duff continued to talk in voices 
aggressively raised until Bruce, losing pa- 
tience, started to get out of his bed. There was 
another crash as it shut up. Yells of laughter 
came through the partition. Gerry, who was 
cautiously climbing the ladder, thought that 
everybody in the lofts must have gone mad. 
But the noise died down when he joined his 
brothers. Duff and Robin stopped laughing 
and stared at him. 

“What is all this?” he asked. 

Duff indicated the renewed bumps next 
door, as Bruce once more struggled into 
freedom. 

“He’s a restless sleeper, poor chap. Where 
have you been? Africa?” 

Gerry, who had switched on the light, sat 
down upon his bed ard began to take off 
his shoes. ‘I’ve been up on the cliff with 
Mrs. Paley and Angie.” 

“With who?” 


“Angie Wraxton. They wanted to sleep 
out and I took up mattresses for them and 
then they made tea, and we stayed talking 
for quite a long time.” 

“Angie Wraxton?”’ Duff said. “ You mean 
the maniac?” 

“She’s not a maniac. She’s a very intelli- 
gent girl.” 

“What in heaven’s name did you talk 
about?” 

“About Africa. I told them about the 
Kenya opening and they both thought it 
sounded marvelous. They couldn’t think why 
I didn’t jump at it.” 

Gerry pulled his shirt over his head with 
a well-satisfied expression. Never before had 
he been allowed to talk so much about him- 
self, and it had been pleasant to have two 
women fussing over him. 

“T told them I haven't finally turned it 
down,” he added. 

Robin and Duff became pensive. They 
both knew that the African post, that of 
medical officer in a big district, would not 
bring enough to pay their school fees, 
though it had good prospects of future ad- 
vancement. And for that reason the whole 
family had assumed that Gerry would cer- 
tainly refuse it. 


The garden room was on the ground floor 
and had French windows opening into a 
small rose garden. 

“That’s her typewriter,”’ said Miss Ellis, 
peering at it. “‘Supposed to write books or 
something, isn’t she?”’ 


» Sir John Lavery, the famous 
painter, tells of an old Scottish 
gardener who went one day to an 
exhibition of pictures in London. 
The old man intently surveyed one 
picture labeled “The Fall!” and re- 
mained staring until asked what he 
thought of it. 

“I think no great things of it,” 
was the reply. “Why, sir, Eve is 
tempting Adam wi’ an apple of a 
variety that wasna known till aboot 
twenty years ago.”” 


Nancibel said, ““She does write books. 
She’s a famous authoress.” 

Miss Ellis stared enviously at the type- 
writer. ‘““Some people have all the luck. 
Fancy her making thousands and thousands 
of pounds, just for writing nonsense. I’ve a 
good mind to write a book myself.” 

“Why don’t you?” 

“When do I get the time?” She turned 
away and picked up the ash tray from the 
bed table. After one glance at it she carried 
it to the window, scrutinized its contents 
and exclaimed, ‘Look at that!” She held it 
out to Nancibel, who saw only a lot of ciga- 
rette stubs. ‘“Haven’t you eyes, Nancibel? 
Don’t you see something funny about these 
stubs?” 

““Some’s yellow and some’s white.” 

“The yellow ones are her special brand of 
Egyptian. She never smokes anything else— 
she said so in the dining room last night. The 
white ones are Player’s Weights. Look, here’s 
one only half smoked!”’ 

There was a pause. Nancibel grew very 
pale. Miss Ellis continued: 

“TI emptied that tray last night, when I 
took round the hot-water cans. After ten 
o’clock. Somebody’s been in here for hours 
onend since then. Knowanybody who smokes 
Player’s Weights?” 

“Lots of people do.” 

“Not here. But I’m not surprised. I knew 
it when I saw them together at dinner. 
“Chauffeur!” I thought. ‘That’s very likely.’ 
Come along, we’ve all the upstairs beds to 
make.” 

“T haven’t,” said Nancibel. “‘I’ll make no 
more beds with you, Miss Ellis. I can’t stand 
your way of talking. I’m going to Mrs. Sid- 
dal.” 

“Tf anybody goes to Mrs. Siddal, I shall. 
There are limits ——” 

“There certainly are. I’m tired of hearing 
everybody scandalized behind their back. 
It burns me up.” 


October, 1949 


“Straight to Mrs. Siddal. I go straight to 
Mrs, Siddal. Either you leave this house or 
I do,” 

“O.K, Trot along and see which of us she 
can spare best.” 

Miss Ellis rushed out of the room. As soon 
as she had gone Nancibel burst into desolate 
tears. She knew who smoked Player's 
Weights. And she knew, now, what Anna 
had meant to convey by that long stare yes- 
terday. There had been so many little things 
which she had thought funny; now she un- 
derstood them all. Bruce was a bad lot. He 
was living on this horrible old woman. He 
had sold himself for a silk dressing gown and 
that walletful of notes which he brandished 
at the Harbor Café, 

There were all the upstairs bedrooms still 
to be done, but for the moment she could not 
face them. She ran out through the French 
windows into the garden and hid herself 
among the rhododendrons until she could 
control her tears, a little astonished at the 
immensity of her own bitterness. For she 
had not taken him very seriously; they had 
been acquainted for only three days, and she 
had begun by disliking him, But yesterday 
he had been so nice, helping with the pota- 
toes and the pumping. When she went off 
duty he had walked home with her, and her 
mother had asked him in for a cup of tea, 
His manner to her parents had been perfect — 
friendly and cheerful. 

Yet now she was crying as she had never 
cried in her life, even for Brian. She had al- 
ways known that she would in time recover 
from the pain that Brian had caused her. 
But this wound had poison in it. In getting 
used to the idea that Bruce was a bad lot 
she must become a harder, colder person. So 
she sobbed among the rhododendrons, not 
for him, but for the Nancibel of yesterday. 


Sir Henry kept his promise and went over 
to Porthmerryn with Robin immediately 
after breakfast to look at Mrs. Pearce’s 
carved figure. But a disappointment awaited 
them. The trinket had been sold. A lady had 
called and bought it Monday afternoon—a 
foreign lady, a Mrs. Smith, who said that 
she was passing through the town on her 
way to London and that another lady had 
told her of Mrs. Pearce’s curio. Only three 
guineas had she offered at first, but Mrs. 
Pearce had stood out for five pounds ten 
shillings. She was unable to describe the lady, 
not being able to see so well as she used. 

Robin’s lamentations broke out as soon as 
they had left the cottage. He was heart- 
broken. He would not console himself with 
the hope, suggested by Sir Henry, that the 
piece might not, after all, have been black 
amber. He was quite sure that it was and 
that Mrs. Pearce had lost a thousand pounds. 

“Do you think,” he asked, “that it would 
do any good to advertise? If this Mrs. Smith 
knew what it’s worth—she probably hasn’t 
the least idea ——” 

“‘T shouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Sir 
Henry. ‘Plenty of people heard you talking 
about it in the shop yesterday.” 

“‘T never said where she lived.” 

Sir Henry tried to remember who had been 
in the sweetshop, and a sudden suspicion 
flickered across his mind. But it shocked him 
so much that he hastily dismissed it and con- 
centrated upon other possibilities. He re- 
membered that Robin had taken the three 
little Coves to see Mrs. Pearce. It was pos- 
sible that they had talked about the carving. 
He suggested this to Robin, who said he 
would question them as soon as he got home. 

They walked back to Pendizack, each oc- 
cupied with his own thoughts. Robin medi- 
tated an inquiry at all the hotels in Porth- 
merryn for a Mrs. Smith, returned that day 
to London. He was determined to get the 
carving back. 

Sir Henry was trying not to think that 
Mrs. Cove probably had it. She had over- 
heard Robin in the sweetshop. She was a 
mean, grasping woman; the episode of the 
marshmallows proved that. But he felt that 
he had no business to suspect her of anything 
quite so outrageous. 

“There are the Coves,” said Robin sud- 
denly. He pointed to Pendizack sands, which 

(Continued on Page 112) 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Pillsburys BEST 


*100,000 


( 153,985 TOTAL VALUE AWARDS ) 


GRAND 
NATIONAL 


$50,000 FIRST PRIZE 


(when entry is sent with Pillsbury Token) 


109 CASH PRIZES IN ALL 
TOTAL VALUE AWARDS $153,985 


To the winners of the Recipe Contest 


Also—a trip to New York City and two-day stay at the Waldorf- 
Astoria Hotel (at Pillsbury expense) for each of the 100 winning 
entrants who will compete in the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf 
for the 9 Big Grand Prizes in the Grand National baking finals. 


To the 100 Baking Contest entrants 


300 additional prizes: 


100 GENERAL ELECTRIC STRATOLINER PUSH-BUTTON RANGES 
100 Hamilton Beach Electric Food Mixers 100 McCormick Spice Treasure Chests 


with Mixguides of spices and extracts 








RECIPE & BAKING CONTES! 


To bring to light the most treasured recipes 
of all America - of this and other generations 


MAGINE ONE OF YOUR RECIPES WINNING 
$50,000 and becoming famous with 
women all over America! That’s what can 
happen in Pillsbury’s Grand National 
Recipe and Baking Contest—the biggest 
and most exciting contest in baking history. 


Pillsbury is offering 409 awards —total 
value $153,985—for the 100 most treas- 
ured recipes of all America, of this and 
other generations. 


The fine recipes of today . . . old recipes 
handed down from your grandmother’s 
day ... favorite recipes of your church 
group ... foreign and novelty recipes... 
streamlined recipes that use easy, time- 
saving methods—all have a chance to win 
a big cash money prize. It’s really easy 


No fancy writing is necessary. All you do 
is send in one of your favorite recipes for 
breads, cakes, pies, cookies, entrees or 
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entire family, and are easy to prepare are 
especially desirable. One of the everyday 
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Get started today .. . look up that favor- 
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enter several recipes in the next few weeks 
and increase your chances of winning a big 
award. (Your grocer has entry blanks and 
rules.) 





To the winners of the Baking Contest: 


1st PRIZE $25,000 .... with token $50,000 
2nd,PRIZE 5,000....withtoken 10,000 


3rd PRIZE 


2,000 .... with token 


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BREADS $500... with token $1,000 
CAKES 500...with token 1,000 
PIES 500...with token 1,000 


COOKIES $500... with token $1,000 
ENTREES 
DESSERTS 500...with token 1,000 


500... with token 1,000 





and fun to enter. 


cakes, biscuits, etc. 


Follow these EASY RULES : 


1. Write your recipe clearly, us- 
ing one side of the paper only. Give all 
measurements in level (not scant or 
heaping) cups, tablespoons and tea- 
spoons, or in fractions (4, \, 4) of 
these measures. Specify the exact 
measurements of the pan to be used 
and the exact oven temperature for 
baking. Also specify the length of bak- 
ing time. Send recipe only. Do not 
send actual food. 


2. No recipes will be considered 
which call for intoxicating beverages, 
or for ingredients not usually available 
in grocery stores, or for less than one- 
half cup of Pillsbury’s Best Flour in a 
family size recipe. 

3. Print the name you have se- 
lected for your recipe at the top of 
each page. Print your name and ad- 
dress in the upper right-hand corner of 
edch page on which your recipe is 
written. At the end of your recipe, 
write where and when you learned of it. 


4. Enclose your recipe and the 
Pillsbury’s Best Food Products seal 
from the top of any size sack of Pills- 
bury’s Best Flour (also a PILLSBURY 
CONTEST TOKEN if your entry 1s 


to be eligible for a double cash award) 
in an envelope addressed to PILLS- 
BURY RECIPE CONTEST, P. O. 
Box 89, Evanston, Illinois. Entries 
must be postmarked before midnight, 
October 31, 1949. 


5. You may send in as many en- 
tries as you wish, but only one per 
envelope. No entrant will be eligible 
to receive more than one award in 
recipe contest. Anyone in the United 
States, Alaska, Hawaii or Puerto Rico 
may enter except practicing profes- 
sional home economists and employees 
of Pillsbury Mills, Inc. and its adver- 
tising agencies or members of their 
families. 


6. Each entry will be judged on 
the basis of compliance with these 
rules, aptness of name, ease and speed 
of preparation, novelty or unusual 
character, and general appeal. All 
recipes and entries will become the 
property of Pillsbury Mills, Inc. and 
will not be returned. The decision of 
the judges shall be final. In case of 
ties, duplicate awards will be made. 


7. Each of the winning contest- 
ants in the recipe contest will be 


awarded $100 in cash ($200 if entry is 
accompanied by PILLSBURY CON- 
TEST TOKEN), a trip to New York 
City and a two day stay at the Wal- 
dorf-Astoria Hotel as a guest of 
Pillsbury Mills, Inc. In the Grand Ball- 
room at the Waldorf these contestants 
will prepare their winning recipes and 
enter them in a baking contest limited 
to the recipe contest winners. General 
Electric Stratoliner Push-Button 
Ranges and all necessary equipment 
and ingredients for the baking contest 
will be supplied. All entries in the bak- 
ing contest will be judged on the basis 
of taste, appearance, general appeal, 
novelty or unusual character. 

No contestant winning one of the 
first three prizes will be eligible for the 
class prizes. In the event of a tie, 
duplicate prizes will be awarded. The 
decision of the judges shall be final. 

You may get a handy entry blank 
with these rules and a PILLSBURY 
CONTEST TOKEN from your gro- 
cer or by writing Ann Pillsbury, c/o 
Pillsbury Mills, Inc., Minneapolis, 
Minnesota. 

This contest is subject to all federal 
and local laws. 


6 BAKING CLASSIFICATIONS 


Breads—standard and quick 
methods for breads, rolls, coffee 


Cakes—standard cakes, quick- 
mix cakes, sponge and angel food 
cakes, miscellaneous-type cakes 


wate 






Pies—one-crust pies, two-crust 
pies, tarts, etc. } 
Cookies—drop, roll, refrigerator, ' 
foreign and novelty cookies, bars 

and squares 

Entrees— meat, vegetable, poul- 

try and fish pies; entrees with bis- 

cuit topping made with meat, 
vegetables, poultry or fish; dump- 
lings and miscellaneous 

Desserts— puddings, short- 
cakes, cobblers, meringues, jelly , > 
rolls, etc. 


iss sae Ae 


WYTH BILLS BURNS BEST 


NOM BRAL NOUR BEST 


This may help 





e ; 3 
Wil Get a free token like this 
you n from your grocer. Your 
prize money will be doubled 
$ 50 000 & if token accompanies a win- 
ning recipe. 
9 & Pp 
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came through t 
cautiously clim¥ 
everybody in tf 
But the noise d 
brothers. Duff <_ 
and stared at hi;; 
“What is all a 
Duff indicatef 
door, as Bruce 
freedom. 
“He’s a restle 
have you been? 
Gerry, who he pepy. 1, cincinnati 2, OH10 
down upon his ~ 
his shoes. “I’ve 
Mrs. Paley and . 
“With who?” 



















LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 110) 
had just come into view. Blanche, Maud and 
Beatrix were kneeling, intent upon some 
game. 

As they got nearer they saw that the girls 
were busy on a sand castle. It was not a mere 
mound, but an exquisitely finished little 
fairy-tale castle of a peculiar triangular 
shape, with tall, thin towers. They were 
carving a long causeway Over a moat with an 
old table knife, working swiftly and in com- 
plete silence. 

“How lovely!” said Sir Henry. 

The Coves, startled, sat back on their 
haunches and looked at him. Their castle 
was much more real to them than he was. 

“French, isn’t it?” 

“Poitiers,” said Blanche, nodding. “It’s 
in a book.” 

“The Very Rich Hours of the Duke of 
Berry,” said Maud. 

“Oh, yes, of course. You’re very fond of 
books, aren’t you?” Sir Henry said. 

The three fair heads nodded. 

“Have you got many?” 

They looked doubtful. ‘We have seven- 
teen books,” said Beatrix at last. 

“Do you often buy them?” 

They had no difficulty in answering this. 
They had never, they assured him, bought a 
book. 

“But we would if we had the money,” said 
Maud. 

“Your mother buys them for you?” 

No. They were quite sure that she did 
not. 

“When did you last get a new book?” 

“When we had measles,”’ said Blanche. 
“The doctor gave us Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” 

“It was when peace 
broke out,” said Maud. 
“We couldn’t go to the 
rejoicings because we had 
measles.”’ 

Two years! So much, he 


® Every one of us, whatever 
our speculative opinions, 
knows better than he prac- 
tices, and recognizes a better 


October, 1949 


“But it was one of the happiest days in 
our lives,” said Blanche, “because we got 
The Very Rich Hours.” 

The more I hear of that woman, thought 
Sir Henry, the less I like her. 

“We've just been to see old Mrs. Pearce,” 
he said. 

They all beamed at him and Blanche asked 
if he had seen the little ship. 

“Yes. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But I had 
very much wanted to see another treasure 
she had. A little black carved figure. Did you 
see it when you were there?” 

“The one she kept in the tureen?” asked 
Maud. 

“Yes. I wanted to see it,” Sir Henry said, 
“but I couldn't, because she sold it yester- 
day afternoon.” 

“It wasn’t as pretty as the ship,” said 
Blanche consolingly. 

“No. But I’m sorry she sold it, because it 
might have been very valuable and the per- 
son who bought it gave very little for it. Did 
you mention the ship or the little figure to 
anyone yesterday?” 


“Lots of people. But only the ship,’’ Maud 
said, ‘We forgot about the little figure.”’ 

“Yes,” said Blanche, ‘I only remembered 
that when you said about it. But we told 
everyone about the ship. Shall we tell every- 
one not to tell?” 

“No,” said Sir Henry. “‘ Don’t worry. But 
don’t mention it to anyone else.” He walked 
off, followed by Robin. ‘I think they were 
speaking the truth,” he said, as soon as they 
were out of earshot. 

“I’m sure they were,” said Robin. “You 
don’t think—could it possibly be Mrs. Cove 
herself?” 

“T think it’s more than 
likely,” said Sir Henry. 
“But I don’t see how in 
the world it’s ever going 
to be brought home to 


thought, for that woman’s Jaw than he obeys. —Froupe, Der.” 
story of selling sweets to 
buy books. Themean la! Half the morning went 


“We got The Very Rich 
Hours because of the flying bomb,” said 
Blanche. “‘An old gentleman gave it to us. 
He had a bookshop.” 

“Yes,” said Maud. ‘We were sent on a 
walk to the common and we heard it coming 
sO we ran into his shop and got under the 
counter. We heard it cut out and it came 
down just outside. And the next thing we 
were all buried under books. So we stayed all 
the afternoon helping him get it straight. 
And he gave us The Very Rich Hours be- 
cause the back was torn off.” 

“Oh, he was nice,’”’ said Blanche. “But 
the milkman told our mother we were dead. 
He was further down the road and saw us 
just before; and he flattened out when he 
heard it coming and didn’t see us run into 
the shop.” 


“He went off and told our mother we'd 
been blown to bits,” said Beatrix. “And of 
course we didn’t come home, because we 
stayed so late helping with the books; we 
didn’t realize how late it was. So she thought 
it was true and went in a taxi to the town 
hall. So it was a waste of three shillings.” 

Robin and Sir Henry were so stunned by 
this narrative that they almost forgot why 
they had come. “‘But wasn’t your mother 
frightfully upset?’’ asked Robin. 

“Oh, very!” said Maud. “‘You see, she 
was still out when we got back so we couldn’t 
get into the house. And the people next door 
saw us on,the doorstep. And the milkman 
had told them we were dead too. So they 
came rushing out and quite a crowd col- 
lected. And when she came back they saw 
her and started yelling, ‘It’s all right! 
They’re safe!’ And she doesn’t like the people 
next door; they’re very inquisitive. So she 
couldn’t get the door unlocked, because her 
key stuck. And a man took a photograph of 
her and sent it to the newspaper.” 

“And she said,”’ continued Beatrix,“ would 
they kindly go away and cease from tres- 
passing in her garden. So the people from 
next door started to be very rude. But just 
then another fly bomb came over and every- 
body did go away as fast as they could.” 


by and Nancibel did not 
appear in the stables to make Bruce’s bed. 
He had hung about in the yard, after 
he had washed the car, in the hope of a 
pleasant interlude. But she did not come and 
at last he went in search of her. He looked in 
at the kitchen window and saw her standing 
by the table, peeling potatoes. 

“When are you coming to do my room?” 
he asked. 

“Fred will do it,” she replied coldly. “The 
work has been rearranged.” 

““What’s the matter?” 

She did not answer. So he went round 
through the back door and planted himself 
in front of her. 

““What’s happened?” 

She gave him one brief glance before re- 
turning to the potatoes. 

“Oh,” he said, ‘‘I see.” 

There was a long silence which neither of 
them was willing to break. Nancibel dared 
not speak lest she should burst out crying 
again. Bruce found himself, unexpectedly, 
with very little to say. He had thought that 
he was prepared for this crisis, and he had 
already rehearsed his own defense. But he 
had expected a tirade of reproach, and this 
mournful silence was disconcerting. It stung 
him at last into saying the worst thing he 
could possibly have said. 

*‘ Jealous?” he inquired. 

He would have done anything to recall the 
word, as soon as it was out of his mouth. 
Only a thorough-paced rotter would have 
made such a suggestion. And his whole in- 
tention had been to convince her that he was 
not a rotter, but an artist getting experience. 

It galvanized Nancibel, however. “‘Please 
get out of this kitchen,” she commanded. 
“You’ve no business here and Mrs. Siddal 
wouldn’t like it.” 

“T’m a servant, aren’t I? The kitchen’s 
my place.” : 

“No. You eat in the dining room, so your 
place is in the lounge.” 

“You let me sit in here yesterday.” 

“T didn’t know you were that kind of 
boy. 

(Continued on Page 114) 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 








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(Continued from Page 112) 

“What kind of boy?” 

“You get off to the lounge and tell them 
how you rose up out of a slum, Ladies may 
stand for it. I don’t have to. I think you are 
disgusting.” 

“You've got very old-fashioned ideas, 
Nancibel.” 

“No, I haven’t. Some things don’t go out 
of fashion. Everybody has always despised 
a boy that lives off an old woman, and they 
always will.” 

“T drive her car.” 

“Very hard work, I’m sure. Well, if you 
drove a bus you could sit in this kitchen. 
There’s a shortage of bus drivers. I don’t 
wonder you were ashamed to say you came 
from a decent home.” 

“You don’t understand,”’ protested Bruce, 
“A writer has to have experience.” 

“T dare say. Well, you’re having one now. 
You’re getting the experience that a girl like 
me doesn’t have any use for a boy like you. 
If you didn’t know that before you've learned 
something useful and you can put it in a 
book.’”’ Nancibel took herself off, with her 
potatoes, to the scullery. 


A frieze of Gifford children appeared for a 
moment on the sky line. They were running 
across the cliffs which rose immediately be- 
hind the house, and 
this reminded Sir 
Henry of a question 
he had been meaning 
to ask ever since Sun- 
day. 

The cliffs, at the 


i RS 


x xwrkekt 


October, 1949 


he? ... Mrs. Paley? You're a fool, Evange- 
line, but you can’t be quite such a fool as to 
expect me to believe that.” 

Gerry abandoned the umbrella and began | 
to collect his tools. He felt that the terrace 
was unbearable. He scowled at Robin, who 
was listening with horrified attention. 

“.. Ask her? I certainly shall ask her. 
And I shall tell her what she ought to have 
seen for herself, I'd have thought it was only 
too apparent to everybody, after the exhibi- 
tion you made of yourself in church.” 

“T say, Gerry! He is an old ——” 

“Shut up and come away.” 

As they left the terrace the voice pursued 
them: 

“. . . Only one alternative—to put you 
under some kind of restraint.” 


Rosin went to the kitchen, where he found 
his mother and Duff. He began immediately 
to tell the story of the black amber and was 
in the middle of it when Gerry, who had 
gone to put away the tools, joined them ina 
belated fit of anxiety about the cracks on the 
cliffs. 

Mrs. Siddal said, “‘They’re all right. Sir 
Humphrey Beven heard about them and 
came to look at them,” 

“Did he say the cliff was safe?” 

“He'd surely have said if it wasn’t,” said 
Mrs. Siddal. “I wish 
you wouldn’t fuss 
about everything so, 
Gerry. I’ve got quite 
enough on my mind. 
Miss Ellis has gone 
on strike because I 


top, were covered 
with a mass Of black- 
thorn, bramble and 
gorse which had quite 
obliterated the old 
coast guards’ paths, so 
that walking there 
was not pleasant. 
But Sir Henry had 
gone there in order 
to escape from the at- 
mosphere of catastro- 
phe which had envel- 
oped Pendizack on 
Sunday afternoon. 


CG C 
Li , Yong 


BY LOUISE MeNEILL 


This is the threnody of summer. 

This is the music still and lost 

That comes to the sedge when the 
leaves are drying, 

That comes to the field when the hay 
is tossed, 

That comes to my heart, for I know 
the meaning — 

The crickets are crying, “Six weeks 
ill frost.” 


kk &  % Ke Rie ae 


won’tsack Nancibel.” 

Gerry shrugged his 
shoulders and went 
out to oil the engine 
of the boat. This was 
kept at the top of a 
slipway cut in the 
rocks above the creek 
at the back of the 
house, and it could be 
launched when the 
tide was high. 

Gerry pulled the 
boat out from under 
its little tarpaulin 


While he was fighting 
his way through the 
gorse, he came upon 
some curious cracks and fissures in the 
ground. They were quite far inland, but they 


had raised in his mind a doubt as to the | 


safety of the whole area, and he now asked 
Robin about it. 

Robin said that they had been there since 
the mine exploded, the mine which had been 
washed up into the cave at the end of the 
creek, just before Christmas. He fancied 
that somebody had been to inspect them. 
He did not know what the verdict had been, 
and when they reached the terrace he asked 
Gerry, who was mending a striped umbrella. 

“What cracks?” asked Gerry, lifting a 
crimson face from his task. 

The cause of his embarrassment was obvi- 
ous, for an angry roar, proceeding from an 
open window on the first floor, made con- 
versation on the terrace difficult: 

“*... Do you realize that I’ve been waiting 
for you all the morning? Where have you 
been? Oh, for heaven’s sake, speak up! 
Where have you been?” 


You know!” shouted Robin. ““The mine 
cracks. On the Other Cliffs. Didn’t mother 
write about them? We found them at Easter. 
Long cracks about six inches wide.” 

“Six inches?” put in Sir Henry. “‘Why, 
the ones I saw were a yard wide or more. 
And seemed to go very deep.” 

“Then they must have grown,” said 
Robin. “I’ve not been up there since Easter.” 

“.. Well, never mind! You’re back now. 
And you’ll oblige me by a prompt answer to 
this question: Where did you sleep last night?” 

Gerry began to look quite agonized and 
made no further attempt to understand 
about the cracks. ‘“‘Ask mother,” he said. “I 
know nothing about it.” 

“... Been at it again, have you? I thought 
I’d put a stop to that sort of thing. Who is 


roof. Then the door 
from the house flew 
open and Evangeline 
Wraxton came running down the steps to 
the creek. 

“Had he not known the cause of her dis- 
tress, he must have thought her crazy, for 
she was grimacing and muttering to herself 
like a lunatic. She did not see him until she 
was halfway down the steps; when she did 
she turned and started to run up again. But 
he called to her to stop. He did not want her 
to go rushing about the house in this manner. 

“Stay here,” he commanded. “Sit on the 
doorstep where it’s sunny. I’m only oiling 
the boat. I shan’t be a minute. And then you 
can have the place to yourself.” 

She obeyed him. He turned his back and 
busied himself with his oilcan, but he could 
feel that her agitation was subsiding. 

Presently she sighed and said, “I didn’t 
know the boat had an engine.” 

She pronounced it ingine, like a little girl, 
and Gerry smiled. He had already been 
aware of a touchingly childish quality that 
she had; he had felt it during the tea party 
in the shelter last night on the cliffs. Encour- 
aged by Mrs. Paley, she had been happy and 
at ease. She talked and laughed freely. She 
was like a very charming little girl. 

“TI thought you were on the terrace,’’ she 
said presently. 

“T was,” he agreed. “I couldn’t help hear- 
ing some of what your father was saying. 
I’m very sorry.” 

She made a variety of grimaces before she 
could reply. But at last she burst out, “‘It’s 
not true! I used to sleep badly, and I felt 
better if I got up and went for a walk. He 
found out and thought I was going out tomeet 
some—some man. But it’s not true. I—I 
don’t know any men.” 

‘Has he forbidden you to go out with 
Mrs. Paley again?” 

(Continued on Page 117) 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL October, 1949 


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(Continued from Page 114) 

“Oh, yes. He says he’ll shut me up in an 
asylum if I do.” 

“That’s rot. He can’t, without a doctor’s 
certificate.” 

“He might get one. If he brought a doctor 
I should be so frightened I should be sure to 
do something silly.” 

“You should get away. Why do you stay 
with him?” 

Evangeline explained her rash vow. He 
argued with her until the luncheon gong 
roared inside the house. Evangeline grew 
very white. 

“T can’t go in,”’ she whispered. “I can’t 
go into the dining room. Everybody heard. 
I’m sure they did.” 

Gerry stood up and wiped his oily hands 
on a piece of rag. “‘I’ll bring you some lunch 
out here.” 

He ran up into the house. In a few min- 
utes he was back with a tray. He had 
snatched up from the kitchen table two 
plates of cold tongue and salad, two rolls 
and four large plums. 

“We can eat our lunch here,” he said, sit- 
ting down beside her on the sunny step. 
“And then we'll go fishing. Would you like 
to go fishing?” 

Evangeline’s heart leaped with pleasure 
and then sank to extreme depths, as she be- 
came convinced that he had asked her only 
because he was sorry for her. She said mourn- 
fully that she would like to go fishing very 
much indeed. Gerry’s heart sank, too, for he 
regretted the invitation even as he gave it. 
He had meant to get an afternoon in the 
boat, all by himself, away from his exasper- 
ating family; and now he had saddled him- 
self with this depressing 
girl He was extremely 
sorry for her, but he had, 
after all, troubles enough 
of his own. 

He grew more and more 
morose as the meal pro- 
ceeded. Evangeline’s timid 
little attempts at gaiety 
were not encouraged. As they finished their 
plums she said: 

“TI think that I won’t come after all. 
Thank you for asking me. The sun—the sun 
on the water might make my head ache.” 

Gerry knew that this was a lie and that 
she wanted to come. But he was, by now, so 
sulky that he made no attempt to dissuade 
her. 

“T’ll take the tray in,” she said, getting up. 

She sounded so meek and humble fhat 
Gerry was infuriated. He said certainly not, 
snatched it from her, and hurried into the 
house. Evangeline followed, protesting miser- 
ably. 


% 


In the kitchen passage they met Mrs. 
Siddal, who looked as though they were the 
last straw. When Gerry explained what they 
had been doing she exclaimed: 

“So that’s where those two helpings went! 
And I’ve been scolding poor Fred. Really, 
Gerry, I can’t think what possessed you to 
do such a thing. Fo take the dining-room 
lunches.” 

“One of them was Angie’s anyhow,” pro- 
tested Gerry. 

“Whose?” 

“Miss Wraxton’s. One of them would 
have been given to her in the dining room, 
wouldn’t it?” 

Angie? thought Mrs. Siddal. He calls her 
Angie? Oh, the sly creature! And she glared 
at Evangeline. 

“T really can’t have people walking off 
with their lunches like that,’’ she told them. 
“T’m always ready to cut sandwiches if I’m 
asked.” 

“I’m sorry, mother. It was my fault. I 
suggested we should have lunch on the rocks. 
I didn’t know there was any rule against it.” 

“But you weren’t having tongue for lunch, 
Gerry. That was only for the dining room. 
You’ve eaten Canon Wraxton’s tongue. 
What can I give him for lunch?” 

“Can’t you give him whatever I was going 
to have?” 

“No. It was only bread and cheese.” 

Mr. Siddal, who had been listening from 
behind the boot-room door, now intervened. 


You’ve no idea what a poor 
opinion I have of myself, 
and how little I deserve it. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Duff's getting tongue, Gerry. Give the 
canon Duff’s tongue.” 

“There wasn’t enough for everybody,” 
explained Mrs. Siddal. ‘And it’s all very 
hard on poor Fred. I blamed him.” 

“Fred’s getting tongue,” cried the voice 
from the boot room. “And Nancibel is get- 
ting tongue.”’ 

“Well, I’m sorry,” said Gerry again. “We 
were going fishing and i 

“Going fishing? In the boat?” 

“Of course we’re going in the boat, mother. 
And Angie ——” 

“But not this afternoon, surely, dear. I 
really can’t spare you. Miss Ellis has given 
notice. Perhaps some other day.” 

“You asked me yourself,” protested 
Gerry, “to catch some mackerel for supper.” 

“T know. But I’d rather you stayed here.” 

“But what do you want me for?” 





THere was a pause. Mrs. Siddal could not, 
for the moment, think of anything, though 
she was determined to stop the fishing 
scheme. The voice from the boot hole was 
heard to suggest that she wanted Gerry to 
catch a mouse, and she was too much flurried 
to be aware of any sarcasm. 

“Yes,” she said, brightening. “There has 
been a mouse. In the pantry.’ 

Gerry lost his temper. “Borrow Hebe’s 
cat,” he said. ‘Come along, Angie. The tide 
will be just right by now.” 

He strode out of the house and down the 
steps, followed by Evangeline, who saw 
that he really wanted her to come. 

“T’m getting just about sick of it,’’ he 
muttered as they pushed the boat down the 
slipway. “All this fuss because I want to 
take you out fishing.” 

“You didn’t want to,” 
said Evangeline, ‘until 
there was a fuss.” 

He looked at her, a little 
startled. ‘Well,’ he said, 
“T do now.” 

They fished, cruising up 
and down outside Pendi- 
zack and Rosigraille coves. In less than two 
hours they had caught twenty-seven mack- 
erel. 


—W. S. GILBERT. 


Their progress was observed by the Paleys, 
who were sitting in their usual niche, a hol- 
low on the headland looking toward Rosi- 
graille Point. Nothing could have pleased 
Mrs. Paley more, for it was plain, even at 
that distance, that they were enjoying them- 
selves. 

The afternoon sun sparkled in a myriad of 
diamonds on the sea, so that she had to shut 
her eyes against the glare. It was very quiet. 
For twenty minutes or more this peace was 
unbroken save for the occasional scream of 
a gull, and then she heard voices calling on 
the beach. 

She opened her eyes and saw some chil- 
dren scrambling over the boulders toward 
Rosigraille Point. It was the three Coves 
and Hebe and they were all carrying bath- 
ing towels. They had chosen a bad time to 
bathe, for the tide was rising and the hard 
sandy floor would be out of their depth. They 
would have to splash about among the 
boulders at high-water mark, since the little 
Coves could not swim. 

Mrs. Paley watched as they scrambled 
steadily toward the far side of Rosigraille 
and then, glancing up at the cliff, saw that 
somebody else was watching. A small, dark- 
clad person was standing on the path which 
led over to Porthmerryn. Mrs. Paley had 
good eyes, but she picked up her husband’s 
field glasses to make sure. 

Yes, it was Mrs. Cove. The glasses re- 
vealed her face distinctly; they even re- 
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revelation. Its uncontrolled bitterness, as 
she watched her children down on the beach, 
gave Mrs. Paley quite a shock. She was look- 
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After a few seconds Mrs. Paley turned her 
glasses upon the children. They were making 
their way toward a long ledge called Dead | 
Man’s Rock, which ran out into the sea. 
Blanche was finding it difficult to get up, but | 
the others were pulling her along. 





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| e 
| side of the rock. 





| Hebe, 
| | down excitedly, 


JOURNAL 


A faint qualm of uneasiness assailed Mrs. 
Paley. But she told herself that they could 
not possibly be meaning to bathe from there. 
The water off Dead Man’s Rock would be 
completely out of their depth. And a notice, 
pinned up in the hall at Pendizack, warned 
all visitors never to bathe from any of the 
rocks because the currents were dangerous. 

She looked quickly again at Mrs. Cove, 
who had not moved. And she thought that a 
shout from the path would reach them, if 
they tried to do anything silly. It was lucky 
that Mrs. Cove should be so near. The 
Paleys, up on the headland, could never have 
been heard. 

Now the children were collected in a little 
group on Dead Man’s Rock. Her uneasiness 
changed into real terror when she saw that 
they were stripping off their dresses. All four 
emerged in bathing suits. 

“But they can’t—they mustn’t!” she ex- 
claimed aloud. 

‘‘What’s that?” asked Mr. Paley, rousing. 

“Those children. They seem to be going 
to bathe off Dead Man’s Rock.” 

He sat up and reached for the glasses. The 
three Coves were standing in a row on the 
edge of the rock. They seemed to be receiving 
some kind of harangue from Hebe. 

“They'll be drowned if they do,”’ he said. 

“But their mother! Why doesn’t she stop 
them?” 

‘*Their mother?” 

‘**Mrs. Cove,”’ she told him. 
the cliff.’ 

She snatched the glasses from him. But 
she could not, immediately, find Mrs. Cove, 
who seemed to have left 
the path. 


“She’s up on 


“Oh, there she is,”’ she 
| exclaimed. “‘She’s going ¥ A woman, 
down. Thank goodness. profession, 
But I wish she’d shout.” times more 


man. 
to help him; 


‘Good heavens!” cried 
Mr. Paley. 

She lowered the glasses 
and looked at the rock. 
dancing up and 
was now 
the only child to be seen. 
The three little Coves had vanished. 

““Where are they?” 

“They all jumped in together. On the far 
The current is probably 
taking them round the point.” 

Hebe had stopped dancing. She was shout- 


ing now, so loudly that the echo of her cries 
rang across the bay. Then she, too, van- 
ished. 


“Gone in after them,” commented Mr. 
Paley. ‘“‘Much good that will do.” 

“But their mother c 

Mrs. Cove was not scrambling down any 
more. She had stopped dead in her tracks 
and was staring, as they had stared, at the 
empty rock. 

“She saw. She must have seen. Oh, why 
doesn’t she go on?”’ 

““Not much use if she does,”’ said Mr. 
Paley. ‘“‘They’ll all be round the point by 
this time.” 





Mrs. paLey picked up the glasses and 
focused them on Mrs. Cove. The pale square 
face looked blank and uncertain. 

*“We’d better go round to her,” 
Paley, getting up. 

“She’s . . . going away.” 

Mrs. Cove had turned and was scrambling 
up to the path again. She did not seem to be 
in any great hurry. When she reached the 
path she paused, as if undecided whether to 
continue toward Pendizack or return toward 


said Mr. 


| Porthmerryn. Then she made up her mind, 


apparently, and went higher up the cliff 
slope and vanished behind a stone wall. 

““There’s nothing in the world that she or 
we can do,”’ Mr. Paley was declaring. “ By 
the time we could get to the rock they’d be 
half a mile away. We’d better go back to the 
hotel and raise the alarm.” 

They were both hurrying back across the 
headland and they came in sight of Pendi- 
zack Cove, which was unexpectedly full of 
people. Nearly everybody from the hotel 
seemed to be running and shouting. 

“Boat!”’ shouted Mr. Paley. 
boat!” 


“Get a 


to succeed in a 
must have ten 
talent 
A man will have friends 
a woman, only 
difficulties put in her way by 
man to surmount. 


October, 1949 


But nobody seemed to understand except 
Nancibel, who turned and began to run 
back. Whereat Bruce turned and followed 
her. 

Robin had reached the headland and was 
panting out questions to the Paleys. Had 
they seen the Coves? When he heard what 
they had to tell he groaned and Duff, joining 
them, exclaimed, “Off Dead Man’s Rock? 
Then it’s hopeless.” But he started to run 
round Rosigraille, followed by the other 
boys. 


‘Tue next to arrive was Sir Henry, badly 
winded. Caroline, who was with him, ex- 
plained the cause of this panic-stricken pur- 
suit. It was she who had raised the alarm, 
as soon as she discovered that Hebe and the 
Coves were missing. She had warned Hebe 
that she would do so, unless the swimming 
ordeal was abandoned. 

“And I thought she’d given it up,” wailed 
Caroline. ‘I'd have told before, if I'd thought 
she was really going to do it!” 

“Hush!” said Mrs. Paley suddenly. “Lis- 
ten!” 

The faint chugging of a boat was audible, 
though none was to be seen. 

“It’s Gerry and Angie,” said Mrs. Paley. 
“They’re behind the point. I saw them go 
round. They must be quite near.” 

“Then perhaps - ’ began Sir Henry, 

“Look! Oh, look!” Caroline pointed. 
“They're coming " 

The nose of the boat appeared from be- 
hind the rocks. As it came into full view 
Mrs. Paley raked it with her glasses. 

“I think they’ve got the 
children,’’ she said. 
“Yes ... all four.” 

Mrs. Paley handed the 
glasses to Sir Henry. Gerry 
was steering the boat. Hebe 
and Evangeline were pom- 
meling two Coves who lay 
inert amidships. A third 
was beingsick over theside. 





than a 


—MAX O'RELL, 


Nancibel and Bruce 
had stayed on in the 
kitchen when they found the boat gone, be- 
cause there seemed to be no point in rushing 
again to the top of the cliff. Everything 
would be over, one way or another, long be- 
fore they got there. 

““We don’t know for sure that they went 
in the sea at all,’’ said Nancibel. “‘Let’s hope 
somebody got there in time to stop them. 
I'll get the kettle on. When they come back 
I’m sure they'll all be glad of a cup of 
tea.” 

She seemed to have forgotten that she had 
ever quarreled with Bruce, and he found 
himself wishing that this panic might go on 
for a long time, provided that it proved 
groundless in the end. 

“Anything I can do?” he asked. 

“Yes. Put the cups out. And then look to 
see if anyone’s coming back. Oh, dear. I do 
hope nothing’s happened to them. They’re 
such funny little things, the Coves. You 
know—babies for their age. They don’t know 
a thing about anything. They wanted to 
catch a lobster and feed it to the whole 
hotel.” 

“What for?” 

“‘They wanted to give a party. A feast! 
And ask everybody. And they didn’t have any 
money to buy anything, so they planned to 
catch a lobster and asked me if I knew how 
to do it. It seems they’ve never given a 
party. And they’re just mad to give one 
here.” 

“Poor little kids!’’ Bruce said. “‘What a 
shame.” 

“That’s what I felt. There’s something 
sort of . . . pathetic about them,” Nancibel 
said. “I could easily get some lobsters. And 
I could cook ’em. And I thought p’r’aps 
Mrs. Siddal would let me make some jelly. 
I could get some cream, too, and I’ve still 
got some of my sweet points left. It does 
seem a shame they shouldn’t have their 
feast.” 

“T’ve got all my sweet points,” said Bruce. 
“They could have them. And there are 
peaches in Porthmerryn. I would like to 
help.” 





LADIES’? HOME JOURNAL 119 


“They could ask the little Giffords, and 
make quite a party of it . . . if—if they get 
home all right. Oh, dear!”’ 

“Don’t worry. It’ll all come right.” 

Poor Bruce pulled a packet of Player’s 
Weights out of his pocket, and the truce 
was over. He did not know what he had 
done wrong, but he saw her expression 





change. 

““Nancibel!” ; E 

He tried to go round the table to her, but i el iTS CLEAN | 
she waved him off, saying drearily, ‘It’s no 3 SM \ 
use. I can’t ever feel any different to what IT] 9, | WHOLESOME 






do, Bruce. But this isn’t a proper time for us 
to quarrel. We’d better look out and see if 
anyone’s coming.” 

He followed her into the garden, where a 
glimpse of the boat coming into the creek put 
an end to their anxieties. With cries of relief 
they ran to the slipway to help the party 
ashore. 


i ve 
MEATY AROM, “a & 


Blanche and Beatrix, the most nearly 
drowned of the Coves, were sufficiently re- 
stored to be getting a severe lecture from 
Hebe upon their want of resource. 

“You just went down like stones,” she 
was saying. “If you couldn’t swim you would 
have floated. If I hadn’t gone in ——” 

Gerry told her to hold her tongue. They 
would all have been drowned if he had not 
brought the boat in close to the rock, when 
he saw what they were going to do. 

“Oh, I could have managed quite well 
without the boat,”’ boasted Hebe airily, “if I 
hadn’t had three fatheads to save at once.” 
She had had a shattering fright and she was 
trying to work it off. 

“You saved nobody,” said Gerry severely. 
“You had to be saved yourself.” 

“And you gave more trouble than any- 


one,” said Evangeline. ““You struggled. The A dogs best med 


Coves had the sense not to.” 


Gerry looked at her anxiously, for her e 9 
voice had an overtone of exhaustion. He was | S WI LS @) N S 
Pleasant... still transported with amazement at her 


. courage and judgment during the critical 
real mint for h five minutes. She had gone into the sea at 
taste and breath. the very moment when the Coves had 


jumped, and as she dived she told him to 
Gentle... take the boat back. He saw what she meant. 
contains the finest She was afraid that the current might carry 
known polishing them all past him and that he would never 
catch them up. So he raced round in a wide 


ingredients. circle and picked up Maud, who was floating. ca ts 100 | 
e 


. : Then he came in to meet Evangeline. She 

Eff a i had got Blanche by the hair and Beatrix by 
made with one foot, but could do no more than hold on 
antacid to them until he came up. Hebe was carried 
masrnesium right past the boat and they had to chase her. 
h a She could swim a little, but lost her head and 
y : a sank as the boat came up, so that Evangeline 
had to go in again to fetch her. He had been 
obliged to allow it, for no one else could man- 
age the boat, but he very much disliked tak- 
ing the safer role, and he had been furious 
when she was forced to go in a second time. 


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ai TT direction of the current, he would have been 
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“You're all in,” he said. ““You must have sUPpISs a u Pp 
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how wonderful you were,”’ he told her. ‘““Go 


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“Why should I?” protested Hebe. “‘I a A ff 
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120 


‘You need a whipping,”’ declared Evang 
line fiercely. For it was too bad of this hor 
rible child to spoil everything and interrupt 
Gerry just when he was saying such delight 
ful thing 

“That’s very old-fashioned,” said Hebe 
“Modern parents don’t whip their children.” 

“Perhaps not. But modern children aren't 
generally quite so spoiled and pampered a 
you are.” 

‘*Pampered?”’ howled Hebe. “I am not. I 
am not pampered. I can’t help it if the 

adopted me so Caroline shouldn't get an 
only-child compress. I’m a homel vail 
I’m a bastard.”’ 

Gerry and Evangeline were obliged to 
laugh, but they went into the house with the 
delightful things unsaid and with little char 
ity in their hearts for Heb« 


Nancibel took the Coves upstairs to bed 
as soon as they had had a hot drink. But 
Evangeline stayed in the kitchen with Gerry 
and Bruce to dispense tea to anyone who 
came. Mrs. Siddal, Sir Henry, Caroline and 
all the boys appeared, and lingered for a 
while, drinking and chattering in the idle 
mood which succeeds tension. Caroline was 
questioned: about the Covenant of Spartans, 
and her embarrassed reticence intensified tht 
general impression that Hebe had been 
bullving the other children in a most repre 
hensible way 

3ut it’s a secret society,”’ she protested 
“We promised we'd never give away its 
secrets.” 

‘‘Hebe made us promis 

“But why do you let 
her boss you like that ? 


asked Robin 


Sir Henr aid dk e The happiness of a married life 
. e yY S = 


power of making 


depends on a 


spondently that Heb« 
should be reprimanded 


small sacrifices with readiness and 


cheerfulness. Few 


Oetober, 1949 


Hebe and Maud don’t seem to be a rx nny 


the ore 

‘What?" Her expr ion dissolved nd 
blank astonishment "Then they're not 
they're not 

Didn't Miss Ellis tell you that? What} 
did she say?” 

“She said they wert drowned,’ mut- 
tered Mr Cove in a thick voice All four 
ol them "7 

‘Drowned? No wonder Ejirene fainted! ; 
He seized his wife’s hands and began to call . 
to her eagerly, *Eirene! Ejirene! It's all 
right. Hebe is quite all right. They're all 
afe.”’ 


rhe long eyelashes fluttered and Ejirene® 


moaned faintly 
It was all a mistake. Hebe is safe 


Hy ran to the door and told Fred, who 
was listening outside, to find Hebe and send 
her up. Then he returned to the bed 


“Oh, Harry. They 
“Oh, my poor darling. My poor, poor 


aid she was 


darling!’ 

“And what about me?” Mrs. Cove’s 
voice was not loud, but it broke on them like 
a scream. ‘Hebe is only one child, and not 
your own either. I was told that all mine 
were lost. Where are they?” 

Chey’re in their beds. Nancibel is seeing 
to then 

Mrs. Cove went toward the door, But her 
rage was too much for her. She turned, came 
to the foot of the bed, and addressed Lady 
Gifford. ‘*Stop that whimpering, you silly 
creature. You've nothing to cry for 

Astonishment si- 
lenced Eirene She 
stared at Mrs. Cove, 
who went on 

There’s nothing in 


persons are ever the world the matter 


His wife would called upon to make great sacrifices with you exce pt over- 
He Was interrupted or to confer great favors: but aflee- eating and no exercist 
by Mrs. Siddal, who tion is kept alive, and happiness se- If you'd been left as I 


said sharply that Lady 
Gifford and Mrs. Cove 
were apparently the 
only people in the 
house who had, so far, 
suffered no alarm whatever. Where were they, 
and why were they not looking after thei 
own children? 

‘My wife is upstairs,”’ he said 
ing her afternoon rest. I’d better go up and 
tell her.” 

He hurried up and knocked at Eirene’s 
door. A harsh, unexpected voice told him to 
come in. He did so and was confronted by 
Mrs. Cove, who told him grimly that his 
wife had fainted. 

**She’s heard, then?” he said, looking at 
Eirene. 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Mrs. Cove. “I 
rang the bell, but nobody came. I dashed 
water in her face.’ 

He went to get brandy from the flask in 
Eirene’s dressing case. “How long has she 
been like this?” 

“T really don’t know. She was like this 


warfare against 


*“She’s hav- 


walk when that stupid housekeeper called 
over the banisters, shouting for help, so I 
came up. She told me... what has happened, 
but beyond that she wasn’t the slightest use, 
so I sent her off to get someone. I’ve been 
here ever since. I didn’t like to leave your 
wife, but I think somebody should have 
come.” 

“I’m very sorry. It must have been the 
shock. Could you hold her up a little?” 


Mrs. cove roughly jerked Eirene up while 
he gave the brandy, and then let her fall 
back again. A faint flush lit up in the ashy 
cheeks. 

“It’s a good thing I’m not given to faint- 
ing,’’ muttered Mrs. Cove. 

“Yes, indeed,’’ he agreed. “It must have 
been quite a shock for you too.” 

“Quite a shock?” she repeated, staring at 
him. There was in her gaze such a strange 
mixture of alarm, suspicion and defiance 
that he was puzzled. 

“An awful shock,” he amended. “But 
they’re really quite all right, you know. 
Blanche and Beatrix are still a bit shaky, but 


cured, by keeping 


little selfishnesses. 


up a constant was, a penn less widow 


with three children to 
J. H. PERKINS : 
you wouldn't 
be able to afford these 

fainting fits.”’ 
“You know nothing about it,” cried 
Eirene, finding her tongue. “‘I happen to 
love Hebe. You don't love your children, so 


fend for 


it wasn’t such a shock to you.” 

‘Why do you suggest I don’t love my 
children?” 

‘‘Anybody can see you don’t. You neglect 
them. You sell their sweets.” 

‘*Which you aren’t ashamed to eat.” 

There was a tap at the door and Hebe 
looked in, half frightened, half impish. 
‘Fred sent me up,” she said. “‘What’s the 
matter? Am I wanted?” 

*“No,”’ said Sir Henry. “‘ You aren’t. Go 
to bed.’’ He pushed her out and slammed 
the door. 

Neither lady had noticed her brief appear- 
ance. They were too deeply absorbed in their 
battle, each intent upon utter condemnation 
of the other. But neither listened much to 
what the other said. 





Beatrix and Maud were asleep. Blanche 
lay awake, staring at the sunset hues on the 
ceiling. Their mother had gone down to 
dinner. She was very angry, but she had not 
whipped them because they were still un- 
well. They were, however, to be punished. 
They were never to play with any of the Gif- 
fords again. 

But it was not this woe which kept Blanche 
awake after her sisters had sobbed them- 
selves into a doze. It was something much 
more dreadful—a discovery so terrifying 
that, for the first time in her life, she felt no 
impulse to share it with the others. 

Mrs. Pearce’s little carving was locked up in 
the suitcase under the bed. 

Not many of their possessions were left in 
the wardrobe or the chest of drawers, for 
fear that Nancibel or Fred or Miss Ellis 
might be a thief. As much as possible was 
kept locked up in the suitcases, the keys of 
which lived in Mrs. Cove’s handbag. Just 
before supper she had pulled this particular 
suitcase out and unlocked it, in order to find 
a pair of stockings. Maud was suddenly sick 





NNN 


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g controlled brush. 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


again, so that it had been left on the floor 
with all its contents displayed, while Mrs. 
Cove jumped up to fetch a basin. Blanche 
had caught a glimpse of the little carving, 
where it lay ina tumble of handkerchiefs and 
gloves. 

She said nothing, but she was profoundly 
shocked. She did not love her mother. None 
of them did, nor had it ever occurred to them 
that they ought to do so. But neither did 
they criticize or rebel against her. They sel- 
dom thought about her. 

But Blanche was thinking now. At the 
sight of that dark little lump among 
the handkerchiefs, a sudden illumination 
had come to her. For she had already de- 
cided that the person who bought Mrs. 
Perace’s carving must be very cruel and 
wicked. 

Footsteps came softly along the passage 
and Nancibel looked in. She had stayed until 
supper was served in order to oblige Mrs. 
Siddal, for the household was still disor- 
ganized. 


Catcuinc the watchful sparkle of Blanche’s 
eyes, she came on tiptoe and knelt by the 
bed. ‘All right, ducks?” she whispered. 

“Yes,”’ breathed Blanche. 

“Listen, Blanche. I’ve been thinking. I 
believe you could give that feast. I could get 
you some lobsters and cream and sweets if 
you like.” 

“Oh, Nancibel! How good you are! But 
it’s no use. We mayn’t play with the Giffords 
any more, so we couldn’t ask them.” 

“Well, then, ask somebody else. Ask me. 
I’ll come.”’ 

“And Angie and Gerry Siddal—all the 
Siddals. We could ask them. And the chauf- 
feur and Mrs. Paley . . . and Fred ——” 

“That’s right,’’ said Nancibel, laughing. 
“Ask the whole hotel, I would. Now give me 
a kiss and go to sleep, and you’ll feel quite 
well tomorrow.” 

Blanche flung skinny arms round Nancibel 
and hugged her. “‘I wish you were our sister, 
Nancibel! I expect you have lovely times at 
your home.” 

“We have good times and bad times,’’ 
said Nancibel, smiling. “Everybody has. 
Your good times are all coming.” 

“Are they? How do you know?” 

“The cat told me.” 

“What cat?”’ cried Blanche, astonished. 
““Hebe’s cat?” 

“No. My great-grandmother’s cat... . 
Now what’s the matter?” 

For Blanche, reminded of old Mrs. Pearce, 
had looked woebegone. “‘ Mrs. Pearce’s cat?” 

“No, no. It’s just a saying. It doesn’t 
mean anything. It means I’ve a sort of 
guess.” 

She lingered, wondering what had upset 
the child again, but Blanche would say no 
more. At last she went off to climb the hill 
and tell the tale of the day’s adventure to her 
family. 

If she knew, thought Blanche, if she knew 
what's in our suitcase! Mother will sell it to get 
a lot of money. She needs money because she is 
so poor. But Nancibel is poor and she ts going 
to give us a feast. And Mrs. Pearce is poor, 
poorer than anybody. 

The light faded and the noise of the sea 
grew fainter as the tide went out. At ten 
o’clock Mrs. Cove came up to bed. Blanche 
pretended to be asleep. She heard her moth- 
er’s movements, rapid and decisive, the 
opening and shutting of drawers, the creak 
of the wardrobe door. Then Mrs. Cove went 
to have a bath, leaving her handbag on the 
dressing table. 

Blanche sat up. She slipped out of bed, 
took the keys from the bag and opened the 
suitcase. Taking the carved figure, she flung 
it out the window as far as she could, onto 
the grass terrace. Then she locked the 
suitcase, returned the keys and went back to 
bed. 

It was the first time that she had ever 
taken a decision without consulting her 
sisters. The idea of returning the piece 


|to Mrs. Pearce never occurred to her. 


She merely wished to put it out of her 
mother’s possession. 


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October, 1949 


OUR LEGAL HORROR — DIVORCE 


(Continued from Page 65) 


Today, the knowledge that one can always 
get a divorce without too much effort or ex- 
pense or delay takes away much of the idea 
of the permanence of marriage. As a result, 
in many circles, marriage is no longer looked 
upon as a permanent affair. All John or Jane 
has to do is raise the necessary money to hire 
a lawyer, decide what “grounds” they are 
going to use, and then go into court. The 
grounds vary from state to state. In a few 
states, a wife can get a divorce simply by 
proving that her husband eats crackers in 
bed, and, although she has told him the 
habit annoyed her, he refused to quit. This 
comes under the heading of mental cruelty. 
In one state, divorce can be granted only 
if either spouse can prove his or her partner is 
unfaithful, and the proof must be in the form 
of pictures of the erring partner in a state of 
intimacy with a member of the opposite sex, 
or in statements from witnesses of such a 
situation. In every state, however, divorce 
grounds include infidelity; most add drunk- 
enness, physical 
cruelty and desertion. 
These grounds stem 
from our traditional 
views on what consti- 
tutes “‘sin’’—but are 
now merely pegs for 
the law to hang a di- 
vorce decree on. 

To begin with, ev- 
erybody believes di- 
vorces break up fam- 
ilies. This is not so. 
The broken family is 
not the result of di- 
vorce. Divorce is the 
result of the broken 
family. In the last 
12,000 cases coming 
before me the spouses 
had already been sep- 
arated—the families 
broken—an average 
of over two years be- 
fore getting their di- 
vorces. 

Marriages fail be- 
cause of the failure of 
the individuals who 
marry. Marital un- 
happiness must have 
a cause. That cause 
can be found, with 


7 1 a oe 


tether — 
feather 


together. 
wild, 
smiled, 


trace 


before 
were 


character defects of 

Jane or John or both. de ade.” She ee 
Here’s a typical case 

I remember: 

John was unfaithful. He was unfaithful be- 
cause Jane wouldn’t have ‘‘anything to do 
with him.’”’ She wouldn’t have “anything to 
do with him”’ because John stayed out nights 
and got drunk. He stayed out and got drunk 
because Jane nagged. She nagged because 
John didn’t make as much money as she 
wanted. John kept changing jobs and didn’t 
provide well because he was discouraged. He 
was discouraged because Jane kept spending 
beyond his means. Jane was extravagant be- 
cause she had been spoiled in her youth. John 
had never learned the virtues of hard work 
and perseverance; he preferred his own 
pleasures. Jane had never learned the vir- 
tues of encouragement, co-operation and self- 
sacrifice. Both were fundamentally selfish. 
That’s really why their marriage failed. 


Tuere is ample evidence that even sexual 
incompatibility is often merely the result of 
underlying selfishness, usually on the part of 
both spouses. In most cases it can be cor- 
rected, or greatly improved, by medical or 
psychological or psychiatric treatment—if 
the parties so desire. Moreover, there are still 
countless couples who have the strength of 
character—the selflessness—to put up with 
genuine sexual incompatibility. 

However, the idea of guilt and punishment 
is so deep-rooted in all American thinking 
that perhaps we’d better go into a little de- 
tail to explain how this idea does more harm 


fy ia Vay, ; 
V psise Passing 


By Ethel Barnett de Vito 
The wind pulled from its flimsy 
Perched in her hair—a rakish 


As they came round the turn 


Weighted with books, her hair gone 
She seemed a tousled, bookish child, 
But the wind teased at her till she 
And suddenly passers seemed to 


In the flash of mischief on her face 
The corner she would turn in space 


When men would be swept back 
That puckish smile, to the boys they 


And, loving that return, love her. 


than good, how it is at thé bottom of much 
that is wrong with divorce. 

When Jane finally goes to court for a di- 
vorce, she thinks she is suing John. That's 
the way the papers read. That would be true 
if she were after alimony, for then she would 
ask the court to order John to pay money; 
she would get a judgment against John per- 
sonally. But we're talking only about di- 
vorce, and in straight divorce Jane doesn’t 
seek anything from John and she doesn’t get 
a judgment or decree against him. 


Tus is because a divorce suit is not a re- 
quest for the state to do something to a per- 
son or to require a person to do something, It 
is not an action against a person. It is a suit 
against or upon a ‘hing, a request that the 
state wipe out or remove or dissolve a thing. 
That thing is invisible, but the eyes of the 
law can see it. It is the legal marriage status. 


the purely legal tie still binding the par- 
ties, the thing the old 
judges with perhaps 
unconscious humor 
used to call the chain 
of matrimony. 

The point is that 
Jane’s divorce decree 
does not operate on 
John, buton a thing. 
The way it divorces 
Jane and John is by 
dissolving that legal 
status. 

So what? Well, no 
self-respecting state 
would do anything to 
a person unless that 
person were guilty of 
something. Must we 
therefore find a thing 
guilty before we can 
dissolve it? Must that 
invisible, legal chain 
be a drunkard? 

Now if, as the 
American Bar Associ- 
ation committee 
hopes, divorce is to 
be made helpful, con- 
structive, preventive, 
what good can it do 
to find somebody 
guilty? In a way the 
shattered romance of 
Jane and John is like 
the shattered leg of a 
patient brought to the 
hospital. If the leg be 
hopelessly shattered, utterly beyond help, 
the surgeon will decide to amputate. That 
would be best for the patient and indirectly 
for society. But if the surgeon thinks the 
leg can be saved ne will set the bones, cleanse 
the wounds, and give the healing power of 
Nature every possible chance to do its work. 
He doesn’t have to know who was guilty of 
breaking the leg. 

The idea of guilt isn’t really necessary and 
it is really harmful. Since the law provides 
“no divorce without proving John guilty,” 
many people have the idea that the converse 
should be true and that for every guilty John 
there ought to be a divorce. Appalling 
thought, but true! 

People are learning fast how this anti- 
quated idea actually serves to put a premium 
upon many forms of wickedness. The appli- 
cant who can testify to the most vilifying 
facts with the most vindictiveness comes 
through easiest and best; and if the true facts 
are trivial, the applicant exaggerates them 
until the stupid law is complied with; and in 
the many cases where there isn’t even a triv- 
ial fact which can be magnified into some- 
thing of sufficient legal weight, the applicant 
manufactures evidence out of whole cloth. 

_In the opinion of the ABA committee, 
these evils stem largely from our blind and 
useless adoption of and adherence to the doc- 
trine of guilt and punishment; the idea that 

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(Continued from Page 122) 

all we need do is prove somebody guilty in 
a sort of criminal trial. And the committee 
believes something should be done about it 
now. We suggest throwing out the window 
the whole false premise of guilt and punish- 
ment. (Don’t be nervous! The committee 
has something better to offer.) 

Is a divorce trial a contest, a court fight 
between a husband and wife, one seeking, 
the other opposing the divorce? No. In an 
overwhelming majority of cases, the trial is 
asham battle against the little man who isn’t 
there. John really isn’t there, literally, be- 
cause he knows if he were to show up it might 
spoil everything. He wants the divorce as 
much as Jane—maybe more. So there is al- 
most never a real contest on the question, 
“Shall there be a divorce?’’ Only one side is 
heard. (The court battles you read about are 
over dollars, not divorce—alimony, property, 
child support, and occasionally custody of 
children.) 

Yet all the forms and procedures the law 
sets up are for antagonistic lawsuits and 
they serve only to drive the parties farther 
apart. The law compels Jane to sue John. 
The case is titled: ‘‘ Jane Doe vs. (against) 
John Doe.”’ Jane must make public, written 
accusations against John. She must come into 
court and publicly swear to things against 
John. She must bring witnesses into court 
who likewise testify against him. And if, as 
happens once in a great while, she fails to 
paint John black enough the first time, she 
merely profits by her experience and comes 
back later with enough smear to blacken a 
regiment. 

The ABA committee thinks it is unre- 
alistic to wage sham battles; that it is silly to 
set the stage for a prize 
fight with referee, seconds 


October, 1949 


Here are a few further samples of unsound 
thinking, firmly embedded in the law: 

1, A divorce may be granted only in the 
state where the plaintiff has his legal domicile, 
Now domicile is a state of mind. You may 
be actually living in Ohio yet, because off 
your state of mind, choose to be “‘ domiciled” 
in Florida. But it is the community where 
you actually live that is adversely affected 
by your marriage failure—not the distant 
state which you say is your home. (Note: 
a social investigation of your marriage could 
be made only where you have been residing a 
reasonable length of time.) 

2. If both parties are guilty, then by the” 
doctrine of recrimination neither may be 
granted a divorce. Yet when both are 
“guilty” there is often greater social need 
for divorce than when just one is proven 
“guilty.”’ 

3. If the “innocent” spouse forgives the — 
“guilty” one, that is condonation, and there _ 
may be no divorce unless there is renewed 
“guilt.” You and I were taught that to err is 
human, to forgive, divine. But the law penal- 
izes the spouse who forgives, and puts a pre- 
mium upon vengefulness and vindictiveness. 
And thus the law punishes honest attempts 
at reconciliation, 


Iw the thinking of the American Bar Asso- 
ciation’s special committee on divorce, all 
these examples of prevalent thinking, as em- 
bodied in the law, are fallacious. They are 
vicious fictions, pernicious snares and de- 
lusions. We would utterly abolish them all — 
the doctrine of guilt and punishment, the 
forms and procedures for antagonistic liti- 
gation, the doctrines of domicile, collusion, 
recrimination and condonation. 
: And what kind of di- 
vorces would we have in- 


and all the trappings, and , 7 stead? 

then have only one fighter ¢ Man learns ae from vie~ To take care of family 
appear and engage in mere pres but much from de- ang personal problems, the 
shadow boxing. It is pos- i. progressive juvenile court 
itively hamful tt hve ___———erees = is equipped with a staff of 


procedures that can only 

build up bitterness and intensify antagonism. 
The committee suggests doing away with this 
false premise, these forms and procedures 
for contentious litigation, and substituting 
a realistic, sensible and positively helpful 
method. 

A Nevada legislator recently introduced a 
bill to provide for divorce by slot machine. 
Divorce seekers reaching Nevada would 
register for a $5 fee. This fee would buy each 
a special key to a combination juke box, 
time clock and slot machine. They would be 
required to use their keys on the machines 
for 42 consecutive days. This would auto- 
matically record the fact they had spent the 
statutory six weeks in the state necessary 
for divorce. On the 42nd day the divorce 
seeker would insert in her machine 200 es- 
pecially coined dollars, minted of Nevada 
silver. Lights would flash. Wheels would 
spin. The juke-box section would give forth 
the first two lines of America. As the music 
died away, a pretty divorce decree would 
pop out of aslot. It would be complete with 
multicolored ribbons, the imprint of the 
great seal of Nevada, and the signature 
of the district judge. 

Sound fantastic? Well, it isn’t. We now 
have slot-machine divorce in almost every 
state. Aside from the difference in time re- 
quired, the only difference is that our divorce 
courts resemble human rather than mechani- 
cal slot machines. First the divorce seeker 
inserts a petition into the legal machine. Then 
she goes through an ordained ritual just as 
ignoble as the Nevada scheme. Then out 
pops her decree. 


ALtHoucH divorce by mutual consent is com- 
mon in almost every state, the idea is utterly 
abhorrent to the law. The law goes to great 
lengths in an effort to avoid anything even 
faintly resembling divorce by mutual con- 
sent, but it is an ineffectual effort. If both 
parties agree to a divorce, that is collusion 
and divorce is forbidden. What is really for- 
bidden is agreement. Yet, as everybody 
knows, a vast majority of cases are agreed-to 
cases. So, in a given case everybody must 
pretend not to know it. 


highly trained specialists. 
A family court for marital problems would 
have to be similarly staffed. It would prob- 
ably require the social case worker, psy- 
chiatric case worker, marriage counselor, 
clinical psychologist, psychiatrist, and so 
on. In addition, like the juvenile court, 
it would regularly invoke the services of the 
legal profession, the church, school, private 
agency, public agency (police, recreation de- 
partment, and so on) and all available com- 
munity and institutional resources. 

In practice the new idea might work out 
something like this: When Jane decides the 
time has come, she retains a lawyer to “‘file for 
divorce.”’ But instead of preparing a petition 
setting forth her bitter accusations against 
John, the lawyer takes Jane to the new 
Family Court, where she files an application 
for the “help” or the ‘‘remedial services’ 
of the state. Instead of the case being titled: 
Jane Doe vs. John Doe,” it is titled: ‘In the 
Interest of the John Doe Family.” (This sim- 
ple change is significant of the whole fresh ap- 
proach.) The lawyer would remain definitely 
in the picture as both Jane’s advocate and an 
officer of the court, playing a role beneficial 
to his client by assisting the court to get at 
the whole truth. 

Immediately the trained personnel of the 
court would commence an investigation to 
determine not whether John or Jane has 
broken his or her marriage vows, not whether 
theys—or either of them—are “guilty” but 
to get at the seat of the trouble, the under- 
lying, fundamental factors causing the mari- 
tal rift. 

Following this diagnosis—and along with 
it—would come the therapy, the help, the 
healing. After a reasonable period of treat- 
ment—perhaps two months, possibly two 
years—final report of the investigation, with 
recommendations, would be submitted. The 
final report might read that the trouble had 
been located, the obstacles removed, and that 
all is now quiet on the Doe home front, 
whereupon the case would be dismissed. 

On the other hand, the report might read 
that everything had been tried, every 
technique exhausted from simple case work 
to psychiatry, and the situation appears 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL I 


1) 
wt 


hopeless. Of course the judge would not be 
bound by any recommendation and he would 
be free to pursue such further lines of in- 
quiry as he saw fit. But in any event, his 
guiding star would be: ‘‘ What ts best for this 
family?’’—and consequently, best for so- 


ciety—just as in juvenile court the guiding \\y ta ed 

star is: “ What is best for this child?”’ 9 
If the judge be convinced that the case is 

utterly hopeless and that nothing can be 


es e 

gained by further efforts at marriage mend- 
ing, something in the nature of ‘“‘banns of ib OO CS 1 <e 
divorce,” as suggested by Lord Merriman, 
President of the English Probate, Divorce 
and Admiralty Division of the High Court b { 

o of Justice, would be issued. If nobody ob- 
SQUIBB ANGLE jected, a decree would be entered without d OX O ee @ 


the necessity of any verdict of guilt. 


TOOTHBRUSH 3 A pvstic trial would be entirely eliminated 


by the plan just outlined. Once it has been 


reaches hard to clearly determined that Jane and John’s 


get at plac | marriage is unquestionably dead, that no 
es 





spark of life remains which could by any 
amount of effort or skill be revived, there is 
no humane reason why the court should not 
be able to perform the necessary operation 
quietly and privately and mercifully, much 
as a surgeon operates upon a person. After 
all, what virtue is there in shaming, dishonor- 
ing or humiliating the wretched and miser- 
ably unhappy persons who stand before the 
court? 

We should also consider whether, if each 
state enacted a uniform divorce law, facing 
facts and aiming to protect family life, the 
“divorce mills’’ might not be put out of 
business. 

The National Association of Women Law- 
yers has been valiantly in the forefront 
of the movement for uniform state laws 
on divorce. This is not just because our 
“sisters-in-law ’’ dislike legal messes and feel 
sorry for unfortunate New Yorkers with 
Reno divorces who don’t quite know whether 
they’re single or still married. After all, these 
“‘migratory’’ divorces are only about 3 per 
cent of the grand total. 

The women lawyers have a further aim— 
and their “‘brothers-in-law”’ join with them. 
The drafting of a model state law on divorce 
and marriage would be a momentous under- 
taking. It would take some years of study 
and effort on the part of the best brains in 
law, religion, medicine, education, sociology, ware oes 
psychiatry and other sciences. But it is cer- i . | oh 
tainly not unreasonable to expect a remark- sc OE facia tissues | 
ably sensible, realistic, humane and con- 
structive piece of legislation to emerge from 
so much talent and effort. Then if the legis- e % 
lature in only one state should adopt it, some ye [ all it S 
good would have been accomplished; and G U Y, 
when a number of states adopt it, a great 
stride will have been taken toward the 
protection of family life. . 5 | 

But do not think that when we get new O eSS 1 t © W ONC er Ul 
divorce laws of the right kind the problem will 
be licked. The ABA committee cannot em- 
phasize too strongly that laws alone solve no 
problems. It is the way a law is enforced, car- ! 
ried out, administered, that can make it a ne W -S APE OX, 
good law or a bad law. 

The kind of law the ABA committee is 
thinking about would be worthless without 
the right kind of courts to administer it—the ve 
new-type Family Court. But the court would 
not be something made of stone or brick or 
mortar. It would be people—the trained 
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judge. Thus everything would depend on the 
quality of the judge. 

It is easier to stem a flood at the source 
than the outlet. So the ABA committee has 
been thinking about marriage laws too. 
BENT like a dentists England has a new provision in its divorce 
law affecting marriage. It forbids any person 
mirror to reach to seek divorce until after three years of mar- 

more places riage. This law was passed at least partly in 
the hope of putting the brakes on the hasty 
and ill-considered marriage. If Jane knows 
| full well that when she marries John she will 
be stuck with him at least three years before standard 
she can get rid of him legally—no matter shape 
| what a villain he may turn out to be— 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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the water. Diluted 50-50, 
Carnation meets all U. S. 


State standards for rich, 
whole milk—yet costs far 
less than bottled milk. 





She was a“Carnation Baby” 
—Now She’s a 
“Carnation Mother”! 

By “doctor’s orders” Mrs. 
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nation—and so was her 
daughter! Ask your doctor 
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baby—it’s the milk every 

doctor knows. 


BUDDY CLARK SINGS every Mon- 
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more, investigate a little more carefully, be- 
fore plunging into matrimony. The ABA 
committee, knowing that close to one fifth 
of American divorces occur while the parties 
have been married less than three years, be- 
lieves this English plan is worthy of consider- 
ation, 

Moreover, there must be some strengthen- 
ing of our marriage laws. As the law now 
stands, if Jane and John can’t get married 
when and where they want to, they never 
have to wait long or go very far or spend 
very much to get around the law where they 
live. Into the next county or across the state 
line they go and back they come married. 

I call these elopements or runaways “‘mi- 
gratory marriages.”” I mean a marriage in 
which the license is obtained or the ceremony 
performed in some place where neither Jane 
nor John lives. Few people realize how com- 
mon this is or what a bad thing it is. In 
the last 12,000 divorce cases coming before 
me one out of three followed a migratory 
marriage! 

Many times the evidence in court shows 
that the migratory marriage was not, in fact, 
a true marriage. Of the three things neces- 
sary to make a marriage—persons, sex and 
duration—two were conspicuously absent. 
Sometimes almost any person of just a few 
hours’ acquaintance would do. And the mat- 
ter of duration or permanence was farthest 
from their thoughts. What the parties wanted 
above all else was to go to bed together with- 
out danger of interference. 

So Jane and John slip off to their Gretna 
Green and call upon the state (through its 
marriage-license clerk and its justice of the 
peace) or the church (through some not-so- 
careful parson). And these agencies for sickly 
sentimental reasons—‘‘all the world loves a 
lover’’—or for money reasons, become par- 
ties to the evil transaction by giving their 
license and sanction and blessing, not to true 
marriage but to legalized fornication. The 
ABA committee suggests that some atten- 
tion be paid to a uniform law to curb the 
vicious migratory marriage. 


The ABA committee recognizes the im- 
portance of education for marriage, but does 
not believe it is a cure-all. John and Jane 
once insisted upon consulting me under the 
mistaken notion I was a family counselor. 
Their marriage was fast going to pieces. This 
John was a Ph.D. and Jane had a master’s 
degree. I got out books, pamphlets, articles. 
They had read them all. They knew the an- 
swers better than some of the authors. They 
had taken courses in college. Yet despite all 
their education, their marriage ultimately 
crashed. Why? Because they didn’t really 
want it to succeed. 


October, 1949 


So the ABA committee sees the need for 
something beyond meré education. For want 
of a better term it might be called inspira- 
tion. All the education in the books is useless 
unless Jane and John are inspired with an 
imperishable desire, an unquenchable urge 
to make a go of their marriage. 


OF course the best education and inspira- 
tion for marriage stem from the church in 
the first instance, and from the home. The 
trouble is that the church just simply doesn't 
reach large segments of our population. In the 
past three years less than 10 per cent of the 
thousands seeking divorce before me have 
admitted that they attended any church— 
much less that they were communicants of 
any religious faith, 

As to the home, the cold, hard fact is 
that too many parents are inadequate, 
just simply not equipped to do a good job 
of education and inspiration for marriage. 
If otherwise, where do all our divorce 
seekers come from? 

When Jane and John appear at the window 
to apply for a license to enter upon the all- 
important career of marriage, all the state 
requires of them is that they have two dollars. 
In most states they also must pass a blood 
test to prove they do not have syphilis, but 
none to prove they are free from a hundred 
other diseases of soul or mind as well as body, 
which could be far more damaging than 
syphilis. 

The state is adversely affected by mar- 
riage failure. Every time a home is broken the 
state is hurt, as well as the children and the 
spouses. So why is it illogical for the state to 
step in and meet the deficiencies of the home 
and take care of those whom the church 
can't reach, by requiring preparation for the 
career of marriage—by compulsory educa- 
tion and inspiration for marriage? Many 
thoughtful persons have reached the conclu- 
sion that the state has not only the right but 
the duty to require a reasonable degree of 
education and inspiration for marriage on 
the part of each couple applying for a mar- 
riage license before issuing such license and 
conferring upon them the legal status of 
marriage. 

The committee of the American Bar 
Association—an organization of over 40,000 
of the country’s leading lawyers—started by 
thinking about divorce from its beginning, 
getting right down to bedrock. Its principal 
aim is to protect family life by making our 
divorce laws helpful, not harmful; construc- 
tive, not destructive; preventive, not puni- 
tive. The unhappy folks who wind up in 
divorce court have for the most part been 
living in hell. What they need is not more 
hell but help! THE END 


“Oh, good heavens, take it off . . . quick, quick, take it off!” 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL M7 





“Cans ¥ 

















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a 
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¢ Here is the first chorus— you add a title: "2 
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Q I see a chapel on the bill, And tho’ we've drifted far apart, ’ 
n Spring's first daffodils This song lives in my heart. . . 3 
Q Reflected in the mill pond, from the shore. It’s a melody of love and you. 2 







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HOW TO WIN $6000! 
The Great Gildersleeve, radio’s popular . ~ & 
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written a song but can’t decide on a 
title. Name the song for him and win 
up to $6000! 












ends midnight Oct. 8. 





Every week 200 $10 bills <ezy 


1st weekly contest starts Oct. 2, 





3rd weekly contest starts Oct. 
16, ends midnight Oct. 22. 


20 prizes of $1000! Yes, four crisp 
new $1000 bills will be awarded to win- 
ners each week for five weeks. And in 
addition there’s a grand prize of $5000 
for the best name submitted in all five 
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beginning October 2, 270 other valu- 
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runners-up! 

So easy! Such fun! Just think of a 
name for the new song written by The 


Just read the words of the song . . . and 
write down a title. A name like “The 
Bachelor’s Serenade’”’ or “Melody of 
Love’”’ may win. These are just sample 
titles of course. You can think of better 
ones. Send in as many entries as you 
like, and with each title submitted in- 
clude the red end-flap from any package 
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that millions prefer because it tastes so 











2nd weekly contest starts Oct. 4th weekly contest starts Oct. 








9, ends midnight Oct. 15. 








1. Print or write clearly your suggested 
title for The Great Gildersleeve’s Song. 
Use coupon below, plain piece of paper or 
entry. blank from your food dealer. 

2. Print your name and address on your 


entry. Include also name and address of 


the dealer from whom you bought your 
Parkay Margarine. 

3. Send in as many entries as you wish. 
Write each song title on a separate entry 
blank. With each entry enclose the red end- 
flap from any package of Parkay Margarine. 
4. Mail entries to Parkay Margarine, Box 
5167, Chicago 77, Illinois. 

5. There will be five weekly contests. First 
contest starts October 2, 1949; last contest 
ends midnight November 5, 1949. All 
entries must be postmarked before mid- 
night of each closing date. Entries received 
before midnight October 8 will be judged 
in the first week's contest. Thereafter, 
" entries will be judged in each week's con- 
test as received. Entries for the final week's 
contest must be postmarked before mid- 
night November 5 and must be received 


Weekly first prize winners announced on Gildersleeve program each Wednesday 


Follow these simple rules to win 


23, ends midnight Oct. 29. 


5th weekly contest starts Oct. 30, ends midnight Nov. 5. 


by November 12, 1949. No entries will be 
returned, and no correspondence entered 
into. Not responsible for entries lost in the 
mail. You accept conditions of these rules 
when you enter. 

6. Grand prize winner and weekly prize 
winners will be notified by mail. No one 
person may win more than 1 prize in each 
contest, nor more than 1 first prize in all 
five contests. All weekly winners are eligible 
for the grand prize of $5,000. Complete 
lists of winners sent on request to anyone 
sending a self-addressed stamped envelope. 
7. Entries will be judged on originality, 
uniqueness and aptness of title. Judges’ 
decision is final. Duplicate prizes in case 
of ties. All entries become property of 
Kraft Foods Company. 

8. Any person living in the continental 
limits of the United States and in Canada 
may enter this contest—except employees 
of the Kraft Foods Company, its advertis- 
ing agencies and members of their families. 
Contest subject to Federal and State 
regulations. 









es 


ELL ALAA 


Send Red end-Hap with entry » 


Great Gildersleeve. You don’t have good. Buy Parkay today—clip the 
to know anything about music to win. coupon below—send in a title before 
you forget. Your dealer has extra 
entry blanks. 


TUNE IN—hear Gildy sing the song 
Wednesday evenings over ‘The Great 
Gildersleeve” radio show. 8:30 p.m. 
E.S.T., NBC. You'll get lots of ideas 
for winning. 





a 
In most states you can buy Parkay Margarine 
colored yellow, ready to serve. Parkay also comes 
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the handy Color-Kwik bag. Enclose the red end- 
flap from any one of the packages with your entry. 


oe NESE alice ah acetals 


© CLIP COUPOW WOW on. vie 


any package of Parkay Margarine and mail to Parkay Margarine, Box 5167, Chicago 77, Hlinois 


My title for The Great Gildersleeve’s Song\is: 





My own name i : on 








My address i 


Ce ee J ON es SHON. 





Dealer's name and addres 





Get additional entry blanks from your dealer or use plain sheet of paper, - c LH 4 





Plan your party menu ahead and let the guests double as cooks. Season with en- 
thusiasm, add a dash of friendly rivalry, serve informally for the best effect. 








With or without the traditional flaming sauce, 
crépes Suzette are worth the ritual of preparation. 





know of no place where a party can be more 

fun than in a kitchen, with everybody using 

it for the purpose for which it is intended. Most— 
and I hope all—of us have pleasant memories of 
impromptu cooking parties, and in my experience the 
men enter into the spirit with as much enthusiasm 
as the women do. But if the party is planned rather than 
impromptu it can be a real cordon bleu affair. We can 
discard the usual formula of complete prepreparation 
and do concoctions that require a lot of last-minute 
attention. In fact, last-minute jobs, not too laborious 
or too long-drawn-out, are just what we want. 

So here comes a menu for such a party—dishes 

I wouldn’t dare suggest for any other servantless 
occasion. You can imagine the satisfaction I had 
in working it out with no holds barred. It was fun in 
the doing, too, as you'll find it even if your kitchen, 
like mine, is a less glamorous setting than the 
Kurt Wieses’ kitchen | borrowed for the oceasion; 
a pretty kitchen helps, but (Continued on Page 130) 


By ROTH MILLS TEAGUE 


For appetizers, thin rounds of stuffed French rolls. A main dish of oysters Mornay, with 


pommes soufflées, salad of cucumbers, green grapes and water cress. Serve hot, « risp rolls. 


PHOTOS BY STUART 








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re rr 


130 


(Continued from Page 128) 
the food and the cooking of it are the prin- 
cipal pleasures. 

Stuffed French rolls, prepared the day be- 
fore, will be the appetizers. We'll have two 
kinds of filling, avocado and salmon, and 
when the rolls are sliced in thin rounds they 
will look as good as they taste. I think it’s a 
fine idea to serve the appetizers while the 
cooking is in progress, for once this meal is 
ready for the table it should be eaten. 

Oysters Mornay will be the main dish, and 
for my taste a pretty super one. It’s a com- 
bination of broiled oysters and a delicate 
sauce, and it can be made and served in a 
casserole or in oyster shells. If the shells are 
deep, each one will hold a lot of sauce and 
two large or three medium oysters. 

Pommes soufjlées will be the hot vegetable— 
those twice-cooked slices of potato that swell 
into toy dirigibles, hot crisp outsides and 
nothing but air in the middle. I say twice- 
cooked, but ours will be thrice-cooked, be- 
cause I wouldn’t advise doing the whole job 
with a crowd in the kitchen and a lot of other 
cooking activities in the works. In case you 
have never made these potato balloons, this 
probably sounds mysterious and involved, 
but I’ll come up with an explanation pretty 
soon. For salad, and loads of it, we’ll com- 
bine cucumbers, seedless green grapes and 
water cress with sour-cream French dressing. 
The bread can be rolls, French bread or 
whatever, and I’m not suggesting that you 
make it yourself. There are enough produc- 
tions in this menu without adding homemade 
bread to the list; and besides, I think this 
party should go easy on the hostess. 

And speaking of productions, we’ll finish 
our meal with crépes Suzette. This is a dish 
that’s special enough to justify its elaborate 
ritual. My only complaint is that in restau- 
rants I never get enough. When I watch 
waiters dashing around, handing this and 
that to the captain who is making the dish in 
front of my very eyes—and nose—I’m just 
not satisfied with two or three little folded 
crépes. There’s always plenty of sauce for at 
least four of those delicate pancakes, and I’m 
always in the mood to eat that many with 
no urging. Having crépes Suzette at home gives 
me a chance to indulge my gluttony—if 
that’s the name for it, and I don’t care—and 
I find that there are plenty of people who 
share my whatever-it-is. There seem to be 
just about as many recipes for making the 
sauce for crépes Suzelle as there are cook- 
books and fine restaurants. My recipe is the 
result of research—very pleasant indeed— 
and experimentation—pleasant, too, because 
I’ve had to eat the results of my efforts. 

I’ve planned these recipes for a party of six. 


STUFFED FRENCH ROLLS 


Get 10 French rolls, cut off the ends and re- 
move the soft centers with a sharp-pointed 
knife, so that only a shell of crust remains. 
Do this carefully, and when the center is out 
put your fingers inside the roll and press to- 
ward the outside so the interior will be 
smooth. 

For the salmon filling, drain a 1-pound 
can red salmon and remove all skin and 
bones. Mash the salmon or pinch it to a 
pulp with your fingers and add 3 ounces 
cream cheese, 3 tablespoons catchup, 3 
tablespoons mayonnaise, 4 teaspoon red 
pepper, 4 teaspoon mustard, 4 teaspoon 
paprika, 8 tablespoons finely chopped sweet 
pickle and 3 tablespoons chopped pimiento. 
Stir these ingredients until thoroughly 
blended. Soak 1 envelope—1 tablespoon— 
unflavored gelatin in 14 cup cold water. 
Place container over steam or in boiling 
water until gelatin is completely dissolved 
and add to salmon mixture, stirring briskly 
to distribute gelatin evenly. In the past I’ve 
always used butter or margarine as a stiffen- 
ing agent in stuffed-roll mixtures. Good, but 
plenty rich, and I didn’t want rich appe- 
tizers for this meal. A pretty sizable amount 
of butter is coming our way when we get 
around to the crépes Suzette, so I tried the 
gelatin and it works like a charm. 

To stuff the rolls, stand one on a piece of 
wax paper and fill it clear to the top, inserting 
a knife as you go along to be sure to remove 
air bubbles. Wrap each roll in a piece of wax 


October, 1949 


paper and store in refrigerator. This quantity 
should fill 5 rolls, although French rolle do 
vary in size and | might be off in my caleula- 
tions. Anyhow, it will be plenty for this 
party, and if you have any left the stuffed 
rolls freeze beautifully, 

For theavocado filling, cut 2 good-sized avo- 
cados in half and serape out pulp with a spoon 
to be sure you get all the bright green fruit next 
to the skin. Add 3 tablespoons lemon juice, 
mash to a pulp and press through a sieve or 
potato ricer. Add 3 tablespoons mayonnaise, 
3 ounces cream cheese, 3 tablespoons very 
finely minced onion, a few drops garlic juice, 
1 tablespoons very finely chopped raw carrot, 
4 cup finely chopped nut meats and salt 
to taste. Soak | envelope—1l tablespoon— 
gelatin in 44 cup cold water, heat until dis- 
solved—just as you did for the salmon mix- 
ture—and stir this into the avocado, If you 
like, add a few drops of green vegetable color- 
ing. Stuff the rolls, wrap each in wax paper 
and store in refrigerator. 

‘To serve, cut rolls with a sharp thin-bladed 
knife into slices about 4% inch thick. 


OYSTERS MORNAY 


Allow 6 large oysters for each person, and if 
the oysters are to be baked and served in the 
shells you'll need 3 shells for each serving. 
These are minimum quantities and a few 
extras would do no harm. If you can get 
fresh oysters in the shell, that’s fine but not 
necessary. Excellent fresh or frozen oysters, 
already removed from the shells, are avail- 
able in grocery stores, fish markets or frozen- 
food locker plants practically everywhere. As 
for the empty shells, most fish markets where 
you trade regularly would be happy to let 
you carry off a sackful for little, if any, cost; 
and failing that, maybe your grocer would 
pick some up for you on a trip to the big 
markets. Mine did—a whole vat of them 
from which | could select twenty -four perfect 
ones to keep. The shells should be scrubbed 
well and dried out in the oven. If you use a 
casserole, a large shallow one would be best. 

At last I'm ready to talk recipe. Fill a 
couple of shallow pans with rock salt and 
wiggle the oyster shells in until they are 
firmly embedded and level. Put these in a 
350°F. oven. Spread the oysters out on a 
pan ready to go under the broiler, but don’t 
put them there yet. Cut 4 ounces Gruyére 
cheese into small pieces and grate 2 ounces of 
the cheese. Gruyére usually comes in 6-ounce 
packages containing 6 separately wrapped 
l-ounce wedge-shaped pieces. 

In the top of a double boiler, melt 4 cup— 
\4 pound—butter or margarine, add 7 table- 
spoons flour and blend. Stir in 2 cups top 
milk, 1 small clove garlic, finely mineed, | 
teaspoon chopped fresh sweet basil or 4% 
teaspoon dried sweet basil, | pinch powdered 
tarragon, \% teaspoon red pepper. ] teaspoon 
salt, 4 ounces Gruyére cheese cut into small 
pieces and 4 tablespoons purée of spinach or 
mustard greens. It’s a good idea to have the 
purée made ahead of time. Have water boil- 
ing in the bottom of the double boiler, put the 
top in and begin stirring. 

Now it’s time to put the oysters under the 
broiler. Let them broil until their edges curl, 
turn them over and broil a little longer— 
about 4 minutes in all. Drain off oyster juice, 
add % cup of it to the sauce and 4 cup more 
milk, or 4 cup sherry, if you like. Cook until 
cheese has melted and the sauce is thick. Di- 
rect heat is a lot quicker than the double- 
boiler method, and perfectly O.K. if you 
stir all the time. 

Put 1 generous tablespoon sauce into each 
shell, sprinkle with a little chopped parsley, 
lay in 2 large or 3 medium oysters and cover 
with more sauce. Heap the shells as full as 
they will hold. Sprinkle tops with the grated 
Gruyére cheese. If you're using a shallow 
casserole instead of the shells, put a layer of 
sauce in the bottom, sprinkle with parsley, 
add the oysters, cover with the rest of the 
sauce and sprinkle top with grated cheese. 

Put shells orcasserole in a preheated 350°F. 
oven until the sauce on the oysters begins to 
bubble up a bit. It will take a little longer for 
the casserole than for the shells with their 
bed of hot rock salt, but it won't take long 
for either. When this step is reached, run the 
oysters Mornay under the broiler until the 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


tops are faintly brown. The grated cheese 
shouldn’t melt completely and will leave a 
lacy pattern on the green top. Garnish with 
parsley and serve at once. 


POMMES SOUFFLEES 


The day before they are to be used, wipe 8 
baking potatoes with a dry cloth and peel 
them, leaving a little of the skin on here and 
there. Cover them with a towel and let them 
stand until you are ready to begin frying. 
They will darken and become dry on the out- 
side. Use potatoes which are between 4 and 5 
inches Jong—and they shouldn’t be too new. 
Six potatoes should be plenty, but you'd bet- 
ter have a couple of extras in reserve. You 
can’t count on 100 per cent success with this 
deal because some slices, for reasons they 


them fry until they are crisp and brown. 
Drain on paper towels, salt lightly and trans- 
fer to a hot serving dish. 


This method differs considerably from any 
method-I have used before and is far and 
away the surest I have tried. I learned it at 
Charles’ 4 la Pomme Soufflée, a fine French 
restaurant in New York where the spécialité 
de la maison is the most gorgeous pommes 
soufflées I ever saw in my life. Between them, 
Charles and the chef who cooks the potatoes 
generously revealed all their secrets—the 
chef even let me watch him do the whole job. 


SALAD 


Peel and slice 3 cucumbers—I always leave 
on some of the green skin—cover slices with 





keep quite to them- 
selves, refuse to pop 
into balloons. Just 
before you begin fry- 
ing—which should be 
sometime in the after- 
noon of the party 
day —cut the potatoes 
from the long narrow 
side into slices ! 
thick. Use a potato 
slicer for this job so 
the slices will be even. 
Heat enough short- 
ening for deep frying 
in two French-frying 
pots, preferably iron 
ones. Bring fat in one 
pot to 225° F. and the 
other to 425° F. I 
hope you have cook- 
ing thermometers— 
they’re so important 
for deep frying, icing, 
candy, and so on. If 
you have to guess at 
the temperature of 
the fat, it will be 
about 225° F. when 
it’s completely 
melted. Drop acouple 
of potato slices into 
the pot. If they sink 
to the bottom and 
remain there without 
bubbling for several 
seconds and then the 
fat begins to bubble 
gently, you're O.K. 
The very hot fat 
willbe atabout425° F. 
when it smokes. Test 
it by dropping a 


g inch 


AUT asin 


BY JOAN AUCOURT 


The heart looks past the passing of 
the seasons. 
Undone, the yellow leaf, the 
crystal frost, 
Calyx and corolla and scarlet 
seedling 
Scatter upon the wind, and so are 
lost. 


But hearts keep longer hours in 
secret weathers, 
In landscapes of their own 
imagining. 
Secure forever at a maiden season, 
Green hearts maintain an 
inconclusive spring. 


And wanton hearts stay carelessly at 
summer, 
Wintery hearts beneath a weight 
of snow; 
While some revolve, swifter than 
lunar measures, 
Catherine-wheel calendars of yes 
and no. 


But constant hearts beat evenly at 
autumn. 
Bright meadows brushed with 
death, the level gold 
Of islands laid like fires along black 
waters 


ice cubes and water 
and set in refrigerator 
to crisp. Wash and 
stem | pound seedless 
green grapes and wash 
and dry 2 or3 bunches 
water cress. If water 
cress is not available, 
other greens may be 
substituted. Just be- 
fore serving rub a 
salad bowl well with 
garlic, drain and dry 
cucumbers and put 
them with the grapes 
and water cress into 
the bowl. Toss with 
sour-cream French 
dressing. 


SOUR-CREAM 
FRENCH 
DRESSING 


Into a jar put 7% cup 
salad oil, 14 cup vin- 
egar—preferably mild 
white-wine vinegar— 
6 tablespoons sour 
cream, | teaspoon 
salt, 1 tablespoon 
sugar, | teaspoon pap- 
rika, 14 teaspoon dry 
mustard and )% tea- 
spoon red pepper. 
Shake well before 
pouring over salad; 
and be sure every- 
thing involved in the 
salad, including bowl 
and plates, is icy cold. 


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piece of bread into 
the pot. If the bread 
bubbles madly and 
browns right away, 
it’s O.K. 

Now drop a hand- 
fulofpotatoslices into 
the 225° F. pot and stir them as you would for 
French frying. When potatoes begin to bub- 
ble a lot, lower heat. After 4 or 5 minutes the 
slices will rise to the top. Scoop them into a 
wire French-frying basket—or a sieve if you 
don’t have a basket—and put them into the 
very hot fat. The slices should pop right 
away, and what a sight that is. After they 
have popped let them cook a few seconds, 
shaking the basket or, if they aren’t in a 
basket, stirring with a spoon. 

Remove slices and lay them separately on 
cloth towels—don’t stack them on top of 
one another. They will collapse and look like 
nothing but flat slices of potato, but don’t let 
this worry you. Once they have popped they 
will pop again when submerged in very hot 
fat. Of course if they are to be eaten at once 
they should continue to fry until crisp and 
brown, but we’re saving the final cooking for 
the party. W hen you find a nonpopper, take 
him out, let him cool off a bit and try him 
again. If he doesn’t pop this time you might 
as well give up and let him fry until he is 
crisp like a potato chip. The failures taste 
wonderful and they can be put in the bottom 
of the serving dish or saved for another meal. 

When time for the final cooking arrives, 
bring the fat to 425° F., put in a big hand- 


Arm them against the white 
encroaching cold. 


for the crépes stir to- 
gether 2 cups flour, 4 
eggs, 114 cups milk, 
1 tablespoon sugar, 1 
teaspoon salt and | 
teaspoonvanilla. Beat 
with rotary beater, 
electric or hand, untils nooth and add slowly 
1 more cup of milk, beating until all ingredi- 
ents are thoroughly blended. This mixture 
will make about 24 pancakes, and unless your 
range is a monster, they'd better be cooked 
before the final frying of the pommes soufflées. 
There’s the matter of space to consider, and 
the crépes can be covered with a towel and 
kept hot in a barely turned-on oven or on a 
heating device. 

Have a small frying pan about 6 inches in 
diameter; and if you could have 2 pans, that 
would speed things up considerably. Heat 
pan and wipe it well with a towel. Brush bot- 
tom of pan with melted butter and pour in a 
small quantity of batter. Lift the pan from 
the stove and quickly tilt it in all directions 
to distribute the batter evenly over the bot- 
tom. Cook over medium-high heat until 
underside of pancake is delicately browned, 
then turn it over and cook the other side. 
Transfer to a cooky sheet lined with wax 
paper, fold crépe in half and then in quarters, 
cover with a towel or linen napkin, and put in 
a warm place. Continue until all the crépes 
have been cooked. 

The sauce should be made at the table if 
possible. If you don’t have the chafing-dish 
equipment for making crépes Suzette, you can 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





Golden-brown cake—gloriously light and lovely as an Indian Summer day—thanks 
to the tiny-bubble double-action of Calumet Baking Powder. Discover for your- 
self how wonderful Calumet is for all cakes—chiffon-type as well as butter-type. 


From its luscious honey nougat frosting 
down to its last, moist, melting crumb 
—here’s a man’s cake! 

And it’s a perfect example of the 
glorious results you get with Calumet’s 
tiny-bubble double-action. 

For Calumet raises batter twice—first 
in the mixing bowl, later in the heat of 





39 


Preparations. Have the shortening at room 
temperature. Line bottoms of pans with 
paper; grease. Use two round 8-inch layer 
pans, 1!4 inches deep. Start oven for mod- 
erate heat (375°F.). Sift flour once before 
measuring. 


Measure into sifter: 
2 cups sifted Swans Down 
Cake Flour 
114 teaspoons Calumet 
Baking Powder 
1% teaspoon soda 
1 teaspoon salt 


Measure into mixing bow!: 
14 cup shortening 


Measure into cup: 
*Milk (see below for amount) 
11% teaspoons vanilla 
Have ready: 
2 eggs, unbeaten 
114 cups brown sugar, firmly packed 
*With butter, margarine, or lard, use 34 
cup milk. With vegetable or any other short- 
ening, use 74 cup milk. 


Now—the “Mix-Easy” Part! (Mix by hand 


CALUMET-BAKING POWDER 
, bublbs double-action 


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even all through baking ... giving you 
superb results every time. 

Depend on Calumet’s tiny-bubble 
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light and luscious biscuits, muffins, waf- 
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Try a can of Calumet today! 


~~ 


a 


or at a low speed of electric mixer.) Stir 
shortening just to soften. Sift in dry ingre- 
dients. Add brown sugar which has been 
put through a sieve to remove lumps. Add 
34 cup of the milk and mix until all flour is 
dampened. Then beat 2 minutes. Add eggs 
and remaining milk and beat I minute longer. 
(Count only actual beating time. Or count 
beating strokes. Allow about 150 full strokes 
per minute. Scrape bowl and spoon often.) 


Baking. Turn batter into pans. Bake in mod- 
erate oven (375°F.) 20 to 25 minutes. Spread 
Honey Nougat Frosting between layers and 
on top and sides of cake. 


Honey Nougat Frosting. Combine 1 egg 
white, *¢ cup sugar, dash of salt, 214 table- 
spoons water, and 1 tablespoon each light 
corn syrup and honey in double boiler. Beat 
1 minute to blend ingredients. Cook over 
rapidly boiling water, beating constantly 
with rotary egg beater 4 minutes, or until 
frosting stands in peaks. Remove from water, 
add !4 teaspoon vanilla, and beat 1 minute, 
or until stiff enough to spread. Add 14 cup 
coarsely chopped toasted walnut meats. 

(All measurements are level.) 












stove and a shallow pan with a handle, Have 
ready on a tray beside the chafing dish 24 cup 
granulated sugar, | cup strained orange juice, 
2 pieces orange and | of lemon which are 
mostly rind with some of the fruit left on, J 
tablespoon grated orange peel and 4% pound 
butter. If you want the sauce to flame— 
which is the traditional way of making crépes 
Suzette—you should have also | ounce bene- 


Cointreau and 2 


dictine, 1 ounce ounces 
brandy. 

Light the flame under the pan, add sugar 
and butter and stir until butter has melted. 
Now stir only occasionally for a while to let 
the butter and sugar caramelize slightly. 
When the color has darkened a little, put in 
the lemon and orange 
pieces, rind side down, and 
press them hard with the 
spoon to extract some of ® 
the oils. Add orange juice 
and grated rind, stir well, 
and when sauce has bub- 
bled a couple of minutes 
it’s time to bring in the 
hot crépes and very hot 
plates for serving. Remove 
pieces of lemon and 
Put 


unfold it, turn it over so that both sides have 


orange. in a crépe, 

been in contact with the sauce, refold it in 
quarters and push it to the side of the pan. 
Continue in this manner until all the crépes 
have been unfolded and refolded. Spoon the 
sauce over them, and if you aren't going to 
add the liqueurs, they are ready to serve. 

If the sauce is to be lighted, pour in the 
liqueurs, let them heat without stirring and 
then light either with a match or by tilting 
the pan so the sauce comes in contact with 
the flame. Spoon the flaming sauce over the 
crépes and serve. Divide the pancakes among 
the plates and put a spoonful of sauce over 
each serving. Kat at once—but goodness, | 


don’t need to urge that. 


He who is sure of himself is 
deeply willing to let others 
be themselves. He who is un- 
stable in his own character 
must reassure himself by try- 
ing to compress others into 
his mold. —JOSHUA LOTH UEBMAN: 





October, 1949 


Service: The actual serving of the meal will 
take care of itself. This is a co-operative ven- 
ture and everyone will pitch in to get the 
food to the table with dispatch. It’s during 
the cooking that confusion may develop un- 
less you do some planning. I don’t mean that 
you should rack your brains until you have 
anticipated every tiniest detail. That would 
be laborious for you and the result might be 
too, too smooth. But decide on a work space 
for the preparation of each dish and have the 
essential tools needed in its preparation at 
hand, If everyone must poke around in cup- 
boards or drawers looking for what is needed, 
you're bound to get in one another's way. 
Your table can be set in advance and the 
serving dishes, spoons and 
forks can be laid out 
on it ready when needed. 
There are three cooking 
jobs that involve the 
range —four, really, be- 
cause the rolls or bread 
must be warmed — and 
a schedule should be 
worked out in advance. 
For instance, when the 
oysters Mornay go into 
the oven it’s time for the 
final cooking of the pommes soufflées and 
the crépes will be already baked. This sched- 
ule need not be followed, but it’s a pretty good 
one for an average-sized range. 

Of course everyone should have a recipe 
for what he or she is going to cook, but rec- 
ipes for this meal are easily come by with 
no effort from you. If your friends take the 
JOURNAL, let them bring their own copies— 
or you might blow yourself to a couple of 
extras for the occasion. 

There are three quite special dishes on this 
menu, each one calculated to fill a chef with 
pride, and that’s what makes cooking an ad- 
venture, What with teamwork and possibly 
friendly rivalry, this should be a gay affair. 


Peace of Mind 
(Simon & Schuster). 


THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN 


(Continued from Page 71) 


lovely month, the nut-brown month. The 
autumn weaving has begun and the “ Persian 
carpet of purple and gold the weary autumn 


| weaves” will soon be spread for our accus- 


tomed feet. 

And you will be looking for more sub- 
stantial food than lettuce sandwiches and 
iced tea, good as they are when what are 
known as “‘scorchers”’ are upon us. You'll 
be setting forth good hearty steaks and roasts 
and corned-beef hash and baked beans and 
buckwheat cakes before you can say Jack 
Robinson. That’s my prophecy, and here we 
go with things to “implement”’ it, as we say 
in the circles in which I move. 


Getting on time. It’s as natural for me 
to put things off—procrastinate, if that’s the 
word—as it is to breathe. ‘‘ Never do today 
what can possibly be put off till tomorrow,” 
is the motto that hangs over my desk. It’s 
the motto that is the cause of a certain cool- 
ness among my family and friends. But oh, 
it’s a comforting thought. Comforting, if not 
strictly on the up-and-up. So you see that 
often, in jotting down something about your 
menu, I leave the first course until somewhere 
in the middle. But not this time. It belongs 
here—and here it is! 


GRAPEFRUIT PIQUANT 


Cut 3 grapefruit in half. Remove the seeds 
and loosen sections from membrane. Cut out 
the core. Peel and section 3 oranges. Cut 
them in pieces. Mix orange pieces with 14 cup 
pickled pearl onions and fill the centers of 
grapefruit halves with this. Garnish with 
points of green pepper. Pour French dressing 
over each grapefruit. 


What’s in a name? Ask Shakespeare. 
He knew. “‘A rose by any other name would 
smell as sweet.” Period. 

Now I shall apply that very idea to this 
short paragraph on stews and ragouts. Take 
the diner—there, it’s beef stew. Take moth- 
er’s kitchen; it’s still beef stew, likely as not 


clapped into a crust and comes out a meat 
pie. Take Palais de Folderole and it’s a rag- 
out, and “Very good today, madame— 
$3.50.” 

Now take your choice. The receipt is 
here—the name is yours. And no extra 
charge, either. 

BEEF-AND-KIDNEY RAGOUT , 
Have 3 pounds lean stewing beef cut into 
14-inch cubes. Remove the fat from 3 veal 
kidneys and slice thin. Dredge the beef with 
flour. Season well with salt and pepper. 
Brown on all sides in hot shortening or salad 
oil—about 3 tablespoons. (A Dutch-oven 
type kettle is best for cooking this dish.) 
While meat is browning, put kidneys in a 
saucepan with water to cover. Cook 15-20 
minutes until scum forms. Skim this off. 
Drain the kidneys and strain the broth 
through a fine sieve. When the beef is nicely 
browned, add 1 quart broth (use the kidney 
broth and enough more water to make up 
quantity). Now add 2 tablespoons paprika, 1 
tablespoon meat sauce, | tablespoon Worces- 
tershire sauce, 14 bay leaf, crushed, % tea- 
spoon thyme, 1% teaspoon pepper, 3 large on- 
ions, minced, 4 cup finely minced celery, 44 
cup minced parsley, 1 clove garlic, minced, 
and last, the sliced kidneys. Cover and sim- 
mer about 2 hours over low heat until the 
beef is tender. Taste for seasoning—it may 
need more salt. In last half hour add 4% 
pound mushrooms, sliced. When the meat is 
tender, skim off any fat that floats to the top. 
Thicken slightly with 2 tablespoons flour 
mixed to a smooth paste with a little water. 
Cook a few minutes, stirring so the gravy will 
be smooth. Serve in a deep hot casserole. 
Will serve 6 with plenty left for another meal. 
And you know that warmed-oyvers are often 
better than the originals. Or did you? 


A surprising affair. Dear to our hearts 
are the memories of all the tomato surprises 
that have come our way. Anything that could 

(Continued on Page 134) 


—— 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 133 


Cooking is fun 


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© 1949, American Stove Company 


134 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 132) 
go into a hollowed-out tomato was promptly 
fixed up and the tomato stuffed and the may- 
onnaise treatment applied and there we were, 
off on another surprise. 

But one thing that will, can and does com- 
plete the décor, as we say, of this universal 
old stand-by, is presented to you here and 
now. Give it a try. You’ve got to do some- 
thing with spinach; tomatoes can take care of 
themselves. 


TOMATOES WITH SAVORY SPINACII 


Cut a slice off the tops of 6 medium-sized to- 
matoes and scoop out the centers. Cook, drain 
and chop 2 pounds spinach. Melt 2 table- 
spoons butter or margarine in a small sauce- 
Add 114 teaspoons flour and the liquid 


yan. 
aa the spinach. There should be about )4 
cup and no more, Cook until thickened. Add 
Y4 cup heavy cream, 4 teaspoon nutmeg, the 
chopped spinach, salt and pepper to taste. 
Fill the tomatoes with the savory spinach. 
Bake in a moderate oven, 350° F., 15 min- 
utes. Sprinkle with sieved hard-boiled-egg 
yolk. Serves 6. 


What goes? Why, eggplant, to be sure. 
Believing, as I do, that the best way to cook 
eggplant is to fry it, this is, frankly, only fried 
eggplant, cut up ina different way. That’s all. 


FRENCH-FRIED EGGPLANT 
Cut a medium-sized eggplant into %-inch 
slices. Cut off the skin. Cut the slices into 
34-inch sticks. Dip the sticks if slightly 
then in cracker crumbs which 


beaten eggs, 





Legend: A lie that has attained 
the dignity of age. 


have been seasoned with salt and pepper. 
Drop in deep hot fat, 375° F., and fry until 
golden brown (2 eggs and 1}4 cups cracker 
crumbs will egg and crumb enough sticks for 
6 servings). 


Apple-pie time. And won't thal sound 
good to the pie lovers! Every pie has its own 
particular enthusiast, but it seems to me that 
apple pie takes them all in. And so fascinat- 
ing is this famous confection that history re- 
cords not one instance of a defection on the 
part of even one apple-pie addict. There’s 
a record for you. Can anyone beat it? 


DUTCH APPLE PIE 


Make a good rich pastry and line a 9-inch pie 
shell and flute the edge. Pare and core about 
3 pounds tart apples. You should have 214 
quarts, and if you don’t, raid the nearest or- 
chard—at night. Slice them into the pie shell. 
Mix together }4 cup flour, 34 cup sugar and a 
pinch of salt. (You may have to use more 
sugar if the apples are very sour.) Add 1 cup 
heavy cream and beat until smooth and 
thick. Mix in 14 teaspoon nutmeg and }4% tea- 
spoon cinnamon. Use more if you like real 
spicing. I happen to like spices. Pour the 
cream mixture over the apples. Bake in a hot 
oven, 450° F., for about 20-25 minutes until 
the edge of the crust begins to brown. Re- 
duce heat to 350° F., cover apples with in- 
verted pie plate or cake pan and continue to 
bake until filling thickens up and becomes 
glossy and apples are tender—about 45 min- 
utes more. Serve warm. Better puta pan un 

der this pie, so if it starts to run over, you ll 
save yourself a job. 


Autumn project. I intend to embark, a 
little later, on a project. Maybe that’s not 
the word, but I plan to get into our horseless 
buggy, and, with a faithful companion, re- 
pair to the green hills of Vermont, there to 
look once more on the magnificence that is 
autumn. We don’t have it here. It’s all back- 
ground and no curtain. 

So I must go. There’s color enough up 
there to last, in memory, like an English 
violet pressed in a volume of Keats, as long 
as memory lasts. As fragrant too. That’s my 
project. Want to join us? Come along. 

THE END 


October, 1949 


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REVOLT IN EAST ST. LOUIS, ILLINOIS 


(Continued from Page 31) 


out-of-pocket expenses did not run more than 
$500 for the whole campaign. 

Opposition was prompt and nasty. School- 
teachers could not, of course, take part in the 
campaign, but attempts were made to in- 
timidate them. Several anonymous-letter 
writers took poison pen in hand to attack 
Bernice Goedde’s character and family. 
Wives feared for their husbands’ businesses, 
but were more reckless where their own in- 
terests alone were at stake. 

Machine politicians were a surprised lot 
when a record vote of 20,000 swept Bernice 
Goedde and Earl Pollock, an independent 
candidate whom she had endorsed, into two 
out of the four posts up for election on the 
board. It was the largest vote ever polled by 
candidates for the East St. Louis school 
board. As soon as the count was in, Bernice 
rushed home to tell her mother. ‘‘I was a 
little scared,’’ she says now, “‘because I knew 
that the real fight had just begun. Earl and I 
were a minority of two against ten.”’ 

Old hands at politics warned Bernice to 
keep quiet during her first school-board 
meetings. But that 
didn’t suit Bernice’s 
plans. She moved to 
amend rules discrim- 
inating against mar- 
ried teachers at her 
very first meeting. 
At the end of a year, 
she so obviously had 
been a firm champion 
of the people they 
elected her president 
of the board with 30,- 
000 votes cast this 
time, and returned 
four members of the 
independent party 
she endorsed. In 1949, 
four more machine- 
free candidates 
pledged to her sup- 
port were elected, and 
anew deal for East St. 
Louis schools was in 
order. 

Most of the new 
members are small 
businessmen who 
have had no previous 
experience in school 
affairs. One other 
woman, Mrs. Marie Anderson, a quick-witted 
blonde, the first housewife ever to be elected to 
this school board, finds time for public busi- 
ness without neglecting her home. ‘‘ My main 
contribution,” she explains candidly, ‘“‘is that 
I’m not afraid to ask questions.” There is 
much that the new members must learn about 
the routine business of the school board from 
the two left over from the old regime. Bernice 
Goedde realizes, too, that the new members 
will have to withstand the same political 
pressures that paralyzed the old board, and 
that they cannot carry out their plans for re- 
form without the continued support of the 
public. She feels that results up to date add 
up to only a good beginning of reform in the 
public-school system: 


ful 


nerves, 


stein. 


A comPETENT engineer in the new post of 
supervisor of buildings; a new board secre- 
tary trained in business administration; a 
new purchasing agent instructed to buy 
school supplies in the best market; and a 
130-page statistical survey of business man- 
agement in the school district by outside ex- 
perts under the supervision of the recently 
formed St. Clair County Taxpayers’ Associa- 
tion for which the school board paid $7000. 
At least half of the newly elected board is 
pledged to follow its detailed recommenda- 
tions. 

The year Bernice Goedde joined the school 
board, the East St. Louis system was in such 
critical physical condition that it was in dan- 
ger of losing state funds amounting to about 
$300,000. In 1949, after the expenditure of 
$343,000, the schools were declared off pro- 
bation. State inspectors who revisited the 


ORG ok Ok ok ook ke 


Unstving i: Finger 


By Georgie 
Starbuck Galbraith 


Those ladies waxing wroth and fret- 


When their spouses grow forgetful 
Should recall that brevity 

In any husband’s memory 

Can sometimes prove a benefit. 

As when milady, plagued a bit 

By what the female world calls 


Lets fly some nasty verbal curves, 
And plays the shrew with such effect 
Her baffled mate can but suspect 
That in his character combine 

The traits of Scrooge and Franken- 


When lulls the storm, how fair a boon 
To know he will forget it soon! 


BER AA RL eR 


LADIES’ H JOURNAL 137 










schools confirmed the fact that the old build 
ings had really become pleasanter places it 
which to teach, and to learn. 


The McKinley School has a new furnace 
inside toilets, and a spotless basement fo1 
play. The starting salary for teachers with z 
degree is now $2550. Buying in the five cafe- 
terias has been centralized under a compe- 
tent dietitian, and the East St. Louis schools 
have qualified for Federal school-lunch 
grants. The public schools also take advan- 
tage, at present, of the two visiting teachers 
and a psychologist supplied by the state 
who give special help to children with 
emotional problems. A vocational-guidance 
counselor, half of whose salary is paid by the 
State, is giving aptitude tests and personal 
interviews to graduating seniors. Plans are 
going forward to fit East St. Louis high- 
school graduates, about 12 per cent of 
whom go to college, to take their places 
in the diversified industrial life of the town. 
Now that the new school board has suc: 
cessfully laid the foundation for a progres: 
Sive, up-to-date 
school system, it i 
faced with the rea 
function from whic] Moen 
the old board ha ff GRE 
wandered so far intl’ 0”) ph 
the brambles of petty « Lote 
favoritism. Tha,” 
function is policy, 
shaping the schogq 
system to the wishe 
of the community u 
der our democrati 
system of local contra 
of public educatio 
And here it may we 
stub its toe on a co 
munity problem big 









How Baby-Wise 
are YOU 7 








e 


g MT 



















1. When shouldn't baby’s wet 
diapers be changed? 


If baby is sleeping contentedly, don’t 
disturb him to change wet diapers, au- 
thorities say. Plenty of time, when he 
wakes up! But guard against ‘‘urine 
irritation” by smoothing on pure, gentle 
Johnson’s Baby Oil, at every diaper 
ee change. Use Oil, too, forall-oversmooth- 
overs after baby’s bath! 


ger than East St 2B Be 
Louis. ea Sig ’ ¥ 
That is the problen $ th 


of segregation in th 
schools. The law o 
the state of Illinois i 
specific. It states tha 


“no pupils shall b 
een A seg Many astonished mothers can’t believe 


regated fromany suc@nything so tiny could be so accomplished 
school on account o—buta baby’s “‘smiles”’ are, actually, pleas- 
color, raceornationalure reflexes! And how he beams when 
ity.”” Thus far, howmother sprinkles silky-soft Johnson’s Baby 
ever, race-conscious East St. Louis has manPowder on his tender skin. Feels so good— 


aged to stay within the letter of the lavyelps chase little chafes and prickles! 
because white and Negro populations have 


segregated themselves. But population shift: Hts 
make this policy more difficult to continue 
all the time. Just last spring, for instance, or 
the first day of the second term, a handfu 
of Negro children presented themselves ai 
the school nearest their homes. In three cases 
these schools happened to be ‘white.’ 

All was well until evening, when both whit« 
and Negro students got home. The followin 
day, on instructions from their parents, whit« 
children reported to school, but prepared tc 
walk out if the Negro students were stil 
there. Before any incident occurred, the 
Negro children were escorted home with po: 
lice protection. Instead of trying to senc 
them back, parents working with Negro lead. 
ers were advised by the National Associatior 
for the Advancement of Colored People t« 
bring suit against the East St. Louis Boar: 
of Education. 

Another difficulty which the new schoc 
board faces is its own success. Like all reforr 
movements, the cleanup in East St. Lou 
depends upon the continuing support of cit 
zens who do not usually take an interest j 
politics. Miss Goedde’s good start may lea 
some of them to assume that she can “‘fi 
everything” all by herself, now that she hz 


€ 7 ape 
eS , 


2. Is it true that newborn 
babies can smile? 






3. Should fathers be banished 
from the nursery? 


Definitely no, say all the experts. 
Fathers gain new understanding 
and kinship with their babies by 
occasionally taking over. It’s a 
pleasure to care for a Johnson’s 
baby—whose skin is smooth and 
sweet from daily care with 
Johnson’s Baby Oil and Johnson’s 
Baby Powder! 










ohmson 





a majority on the board. Z BABY 
Bernice Goedde knows that active com i POWDER 

munity leadership is needed—not only t if 

follow school affairs and analyze the job th ‘ 

board is doing, but to keep on working t i seo oho 





make East St. Louis a better town in whicl 
THE EN’? 





to live. 


138 LADIES’ 


QUAKER OATS HELPS GROW 


v NS ot th @ 
ta ture” 


Doctors say the more often 
youngsters eat a good oatmeal breakfast, 
the better they grow! 






so" 


ae 





ss 


THE GIANT OF THE CEREALS IS QUAKER OATS! 


A GIANT i Nddetteon / 


Your youngsters get more growth, more endurance—your grown- 
ups get more energy, more stamina from nourishing oatmeal than 
any other whole-grain cereal! A recent suryey shows only 1 school 
child in 5 gets enough breakfast. So doctors say, the more often 
youngsters eat a good oatmeal breakfast, the better they grow! 
So serve Quaker Oats often! 


A GANT ut Vee! 


Nutritious Quaker Oats helps save on 
grocery bills. Saves precious time, too 
—Quick Quaker Oats cooks in 24% 
minutes. 


A GANT ua Fao! 


It’s the most popularcereal inthe world 
because folks love that Quaker Oats 
flavor! Tempting recipes on the pack- 
age. Remember to buy delicious 
Quaker Oats. 


QUAKER OATS 





Quaker and Mother’s Oats are the same 


HOME 








JOURNAL 


and psychiatrists. They tell us that chil- 
dren who have never been disciplined dis- 
play just as many frustrations, guilt feelings 
and neuroses as those who have been over- 
disciplined. 

Take young Charlie, described in the 
opening paragraph. He is growing up with- 
out any comprehension of one of the basic 
rules of society: respect for the rights and 
feelings of other people. Unless somebody 
straightens him out, he will cause far more 
unhappiness for himself than he will make 
for others. A sharp reprimand, if not per- 
haps a brisk paddling, would have been far 
kinder on his mother’s part than the gentle 
admonitions which he so pointedly disre- 
garded. 

Actually, regard for others and respect for 
their rights and feelings are what all dis- 
cipline, and all law, aim to teach. A room 
full of undisciplined children is an anarchy 
for the same reasons that a lawless state is 
one. In an orderly world, there is no place for 
either. 

The mistake made by the parents of my 
generation and earlier ones was in thinking 
there was some virtue in discipline itself, 
and the mistake made by many young par- 
ents today is in thinking that any kind of 
discipline is evil. The truth of the matter is 
that reasonable discipline is needed to teach 
acceptable behavior, and that only un- 
necessary discipline, or unnecessarily severe 
discipline, is evil. 

Invariably parents with whom I discuss 
these problems ask me, *‘ What forms of dis- 
cipline do you approve of?” This is hard to 
answer. Individual techniques must always 
vary with the customs and character of the 
individual family, and what is right for one 
child may be wrong for another. 


A rich man’s foolish sayings pass 
— SPANISH PROVERB. 


for wise ones. 


Generally speaking, however, I like to re- 
mind my young friends that discipline and 
punishment are not the same thing. Approval 
of good performance is as much a part of 
discipline as is penalty for bad performance. 
Also, whenever possible I favor routines that 
emphasize the positive rather than the nega- 
tive approach. 

Thus in the case of young Charlie, the 
mother might have enlisted his aid in stretch- 
ing out the curtains and keeping them in 
place while she worked. I have seen many 
mothers use the small child’s eagerness to 
“help mother’’ in such constructive ways 
as this. When he tired, as small children 
will, she might have released him for free 
play in the yard or in his room, in such a 
way that the young helper would deem it a 
reward and privilege rather than a punish- 
ment. 

Giving a child something to do that will 
keep him happily employed is a modern ap- 
proach of which I heartily approve. It is the 
best and most painless way to avoid punish- 
ment situations, and it gives a youngster a 
positive rather than a negative attitude to- 
ward life and its problems. 

But when a young shoot is disregarding 
the rights and the comfort of others, he 
should be removed from the scene until he 
sees matters in a different light, or else re- 
quired to conduct himself properly if he 
stays. Parents who permit antisocial be- 
havior to go on unchecked are harming 
youthful egos quite as much as did the gen- 
erations with the ironclad rules. 

Fortunately many doctors, school ad- 
ministrators, teachers and parents are aware 
that we went too far in our efforts to shake 
off the evils of needless discipline and re- 
straint. The progressive school of today is 
rarely the disorderly scramble that marked 
progressivism in education ten years ago. In- 
stead, freedom to do and learn is combined 
with enough discipline to encourage good 
social behavior. The goal to strive for at 
home is right behavior based on love and 
understanding between children and parents. 
When this exists, the outward show of respect 
for authority is unimportant. THE END 




















October, 19) 


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em ee ee ee wee ee = oe, 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


RANDOLPH 


(Continued from Page 37) 


“You don’t have to tell me things you 
don’t want to,” the man said. 

“T don’t mind,” I said. I lowered my eyes. 
“T lied jus’ now about my father. I never 
knew him. He died when I was a baby. I al- 
ways lie when people ask me questions.” 

“Me, too” the man said. “Drop around 
any time. You’ll meet my kids in the neigh- 
borhood. You'll like them.” 

An automobile rolled up to the pumps. 

“Good-by,”’ I said. 

“So long,”’ he said. ‘‘ Watch out for letter 
boxes.” 

I cut across an empty lot and went down 
another street. I wasn’t feeling so strange 
any more. Cleveland was getting a little 
more human. 

Then I met Babe. He was hunkered down 
by the trunk of a big tree, intent upon some- 
thing between his toes. 

“Hello, little boy,” I said. “‘ Whatcha got?” 

He looked up. He had yellow hair and a 
dirty face. ‘“Worm.” 

“Whatcha doin’ with it?” 

“Spittin’ on ut.”’ He turned his back to 
me, frowning up over his shoulder. ‘Ya 
touch me an’ I’ll yell fer my big brothers!” 

“T’m not scared of anybody’s brothers,” I 
said. ‘How old’re they?” 

“Bigger’n you,” he said. “‘I’ll yell fer ’em.”’ 

“Where d’you live?”’ I asked. 

“Right there!’’ he shrieked. “Get away 
f’'m me!” 

“T’m not hurtin’ ya,’’ I said. ‘Lemme see 
the worm.” 

“No!” 

Just then two boys came out from behind 
the house. Twins. ‘‘ Whatcha doin’ ta him?”’ 
they asked, advancing menacingly. “‘ What’s 
he been doin’ ta ya, Babe?”’ 

“Pushin’ me,” Babe said, getting behind 
them. “He wants my worm!”’ 

“Horse feathers!” I said. “I didn’ touch 
him.” 

“He jus’ moved here,”’ Babe said. 

“Where from?” one of the twins demanded. 

““What’s it to ya?” I asked. ‘““We came 
from South Dakota, on the Indian reserva- 
tion.” 

“Indians?”’ the other twin said. “ What 
kind?” 


Ip put a fallen leaf on my shoulder. So had 
one of the twins. We stood there with our 
chins stuck out. 

“Sioux Indians,’’ I said. ‘‘ How old’re you 
guys?” 

“Sock ’im!”’ Babe yelled, furious at the 
delay. 

“Shut up!” the twins told him. They 
turned back to me. ‘Goin’ on ten. You ever 
see any Indians? You an Indian?” 

“Unh-uh,”’ I said. “I’m an American. Sure 
I saw Indians. I speak Indian.” 

“Clunk ’im!”’ Babe screamed. ‘‘ Why don’ 
ya sock ’im? Whatcha scared of?” 

They ignored him. “Say somethin’ in 
Indian.” 

“Wipazhazha!”’ I said. 

“What’s ’at?”’ 

“Soap.” 

“Holy smoke!” one said. ““They got soap 
too? I thought they was wild savages!” 

“Sure they got soap,” I said. 

“Look,” one of the twins said, ‘I’m Bob. 
You wanta be friends?” 

“You wanta belong ta our secret society?” 
the other twin continued. “‘ Jus’ us two be- 
long now. I’m James. Our name’s Scott.” 

‘“Sure,”’ I said. ‘‘I’m gonna live here.” 

“Eyer goin’ back?” Babe asked. He’d 
given up hope for a fight. 

“Course I’m goin’ back,” I said. “I’m en- 
gaged to be married to a girl named Mary 
Heaven. She’s Indian.” 

‘“‘“C’mon in th’ house,” James said. “You 
gotta meet our mom. “4 

We went in the back door. Mrs. Scott was 
in the kitchen. 

“Mom,” James said, “‘he’s our new friend. 
He jus’ come from th’ Indian reservation an’ 

he can speak it!” 
| “Well, hello,” Mrs. Scott said. ‘‘You’re 





| the new little boy. Sit down and have some 





139 


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140 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


When baby’s upset because of 


“Childhood Constipation” 


Oe aa, r 


Cd 

Ef 
hei 
+2 





HEN your baby frets and fusses 

.. when she’s upset because of 
‘Childhood Constipation”’. . . it’s 
wise to know what to do. Give her 
Fletcher’s Castoria. 


Thorough and effective—yet so gen- 
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 & Sediment in the botiom of the bottle, This does not affect 


roduct im any way. Shake well betore asing. 


wialble pharmaceutical compound and ike other preparations 


y < 
£ 
of 
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ig 
iz 
# 
s 
Z 
= 
reacts 
_ 


milk and cookies. Who hit you in the eye? 
One of my boys?”’ She looked at them sternly. 
“We didn’ fight him,” James said quickly. 
Them Coffees must got him.” 

“No’m,” I said. ‘‘I ran into a letter box. 
Who’re the Coffees?” 

“Some guys,” Bob said, and let it go at 
that. 

“Who tol’ you about him, mom?” James 
asked. 

Mrs. Scott smiled and looked at Babe. 
“Babe’s girl. She lives right down the block 
from you. Her name’s Myrtle.” 

““Yes’m,”’ I said. “I guess I saw her around 
a couple times. Your dad—I mean their 
dad—Mr. Scott, he’s the man in the gas sta- 
tion, isn’t he?” 

“Yes,” Mrs. Scott said, smiling to herself. 

We all had cookies and milk and were still 
sitting there, talking about Indians, when 
Mr. Scott came home. He said “ Hello” very 
loud when he saw me there with his boys. 
He said he was glad that I’d met his family. 
Then he took a good look at me and said that 
I’d sure developed 
a genuine hundred- 
dollar shiner! 

“Tell them about 
Gabriel,” he said, 


NEXT MONTH 


October, 1949 


“T’d kinda like to have a pup,” I said. 
“Maybe we could have one together?” 

Mr. Scott looked at the boys, serious. ° 

“Huh, pop?” Babe asked. 

“William!” Mrs, Scott said, shaking her 
head. He didn’t pay any attention. 

“All right!”’ he said suddenly. “But you 
kids’re going to lake care of him this time! 
You've got to earn him yourself.” 


“He's got to be a boy dog!” Mrs. Scott 
said. “I’m not going through that again.” 
Mr. Scott nodded, added, “A boy dog!” 

“We'll all three of us own him!” James 
said. ‘‘ He’]] belong ta the secret society.” 

“What about me?” Babe wailed. 

“Le’s let him into the society—an’ no 
more members, ever!”’ I suggested. “We 
can’t split one pup more’n four ways.” 

Then Babe put his hand in mine. All of 
a sudden I loved Cleveland very dearly. 


The two Coffee boys were about the orn'ri- 
est kids that ever lived. They roamed around 
full of energy and 
looking for trouble. 
They had their own 
private clubhouse 
up in a tree—and 


sitting down and went out on raids 
taking Babe onto It seemed to him that it had always and busted up every 
his lap. been the same. “I hate to bother you, other clubhouse in 

‘‘He was my son,” his mother said, “but it’s the neighborhood, 


hawk,” I explained. about Lacy!” 
“He died when we 
were drivin’ here 
from South Dakota. 
Mary Heaven—th’ 
girl I’m gonna 
marry—gave him to 
me when I was goin’ 
away—to remem- 
ber her by. We 
caught him when he 
was a baby, and 
Mary named him 
Gabriel.” 

““Tena't that 
great!”” Mr. Scott 
said to Mrs. Scott. 
‘““‘Mary Heaven 
named a bird Ga- 
briel. I like that!” 

“Aw, pop!” the 
twins complained. 

“Go ahead, I'll be 
quiet,” Mr. Scott 
said. 

“Well,” I said, “‘we fed him an’ took good 
care of him an’ he grew up. All the white fluff 
fell out an’ he got beautiful speckled feathers. 
We were just beginnin’ to teach him to catch 
doves, when I had to go away. He was beau- 
tiful.” 

“What happened ta him?’’ Babe asked. 

““He died on the way here,” I said sadly. 
“We went in a hamburger stand an’ left 
him on the radiator cap an’ some dopey dame 
gave him tomato. Hawks don’t dare eat any- 
thin’ else but meat. Gabriel was young and 
didn’t know any better. He died a coupla 
hours later. We stopped down the road an’ I 
buried him in a meadow.” 


see about him.” 


Chris’ problem: 


Base put his head down on his arms and 
burst into tears. 

“Tm sorry,” I apologized to Mr. and Mrs. 
Scott. “I didn’ mean to make anybody cry.” 

“That’s all right,”’ Mr. Scott said, patting 
Babe on the head. “‘Everybody’s got to cry 
seventy-four gallons before they grow up, 
and another seventy-four after they get their 
growth.” 

“T never seen a grown man cry,” James 
said, rubbing his eyes. 

“No,” Mr. Scott said. “The tears drip 
down inside.” 

“Well,” Mrs. Scott said, drawing a deep 
sigh. 

“You got a dog?” I asked. 

“Unh-uh,” Bob said. “‘ We had one when 
we was kids like Babe. Her name was Teddy. 
She got run over by a motorcycle.” 

“Dear,” Mrs. Scott said, ““whatever got 
us started on so much unhappiness?” 

“Gonna get another?” I asked. 

The twins looked at their father and 
mother. 


IKE a wall, those words had 
always come between Chris 
and happiness. They had pulled 
him from Jacqueline, and now it 
was Harriet to whom he must say, 
“It’s my brother Lacy. I’ve got to 


Most of us know someone like 
Lacy whom we hate, and love, and 
must protect from himself because 
he is, literally, his own worst enemy. 

Meet Lacy in the November 
JourNnav and you will understand 


My Brother’s Keeper 
Ry Clifford Dowdey 


condensed from the novel soon to be 


published by Doubleday & Co., Ine. 





The Coffees had 
always been espe- 
cially mad at James 
and Bob because of 
the indestructible 
clubhouse they’d 
dug. A hole in the 
ground couldn't sat- 
isfactorily be torn 
up. They could 
throw dead cats in 
it, garbage, tin cans, 
broken bottles—all 
of which we could 
and did remove with 
a moment’s effort. 

After my admis- 
sion into the secret 
society, the enmity 
between the Coffee 
tree house and our 
dugout became even 
more intense. The 
fights became more 
bitter. James and 
Bob and I would summon one another across 
the schoolyard or street, or wherever we were, 
with mystic and piercing cries such as “Wip- 
azhazha”’ or “‘Tgalawhush’’—words which— 
all being “‘soap” in their respective tribal 
tongues—possibly hadn’t ever been uttered 
in Ohio before. 

One day Miss Roth, our teacher, heard us 
yell the secret summons across the school- 
yard, and reported us to Mr. Eddy, the 
principal, for using obscene language. Mr. 
Eddy demanded to know what we’d said. 
We said “Wipazhazha,” but we wouldn’t 
tell what it meant. That would have robbed 
it of its magic. All three of us were punished. 
After that we went around whispering the 
word to one another. ‘Soap. Soap. SOAP. 
SOAP.” It was wonderful. 

Once, on a Saturday afternoon, before it 
got too cold to swim, the Coffees caught us 
in the creek on the other side of the amuse- 
ment park. We didn’t see them until it was 
too late. The other kids got out in time, run- 
ning out of the water, grabbing their clothes, 
and racing off through the poison ivy. 

“Wipazhazha!”” Babe yelled, suddenly 
aware of what was happening. He’d been 
sitting in the shallows. He couldn’t swim. 
He splashed up on the bank and disappeared 
into the poison ivy, naked, like the others. 

We trod water and looked around in alarm. 
Then we saw the Coffee boys. 

“Gotcha!” the bigger said. He was Bert. 

“We gotcha good!’ the other one said. 
He was Jimmy. Both of them shook their 
fists at us. 

We paddled around dog-fashion, trying to 
figure out what to do. Our clothes were on 
the Coffee bank. 

(Continued on Page 142) 


1 
| 
{ 








Mrs. Igor Cassini with her 6- 





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Mrs. Igor Cassini happens to be his wife, 
and the newborn daughter is his own! 





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LADIES’ HOME 


JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 140) 
“Come on out an’ get licked,” Bert yelled. 
Then Jimmy found our clothes. “* Hey,” he 
| said, ‘‘looka here. Le’s take their stuff up by 
| the highway an’ throw it up in a tree. How 
about it?” 
“Rub ’em in th’ mud first,” Bert advised. 

Jimmy pushed Babe’s clothes into a mud- 
hole and stomped on them. 

“Wipazhazha!"’ Babe shrilled from some- 
where in the poison ivy. 

“C’mon,” Bob said, making for the bank. 

So we went up on the bank and got beat 
up. 

I learned a lot from the twins. They 
worked on the principle that a guy could get 





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they’d already suffered that much on four or 
five occasions, and hadn’t perished. So mere 
pain held no great terror for them. We got 
beaten, but the Coffees retreated. We saved 
our clothes. 

I think that Bert and Jimmy didn’t really 
hate us as much as we believed. Maybe they 
just wanted to find out what wipazhazha 
meant—and didn’t know how to go about it 

And we wanted to be friends with them. 
They had a cute little girl dog named Dora. 
The twins said she had pups regular. We 
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‘The ice on the lake and the creeks and 
ponds had begun to get dangerous. Spring 
was coming. We went out to Mentor marsh 
and built ourselves a boat. It had a galva- 
nized-iron bottom, a packing-case hull, and 
board oars. We nailed it together with a 
brick. But it floated. 

Every Saturday after that we went out 
there to relax. We'd ditch Babe, hitchhike 
out to the marsh, drag the four-cornered boat 
out of its hiding place in the cattails, 
empty the water out, and paddle out into 
the swamp to fish for bullheads and snap- 
ping turtles. For a couple of weeks we didn’t 
get a single bite. They were still down in the 
mud where they'd slept all winter. We didn't 
mind. We just floated around. We had to 
concentrate. The boat turned over easy 

The day after school let out we took the 
twins’ coaster wagon and hiked all the way 





we'd supposed. We didn’t get there until 
late in the afternoon, but we found what 
we'd come for—a hot-water heater. We all 
three got hold of it, lifted it into the wagon, 
and started home. 

We didn’t get back until after 9:30 at 
night. We’d been gone since daybreak. We 
stopped at my house. The twins were so 
weak from hunger that they couldn’t go any 
farther. We had blisters on our feet. My 
mother wasn’t in. 

‘“*Where d’ya suppose she is?” James said, 





to the city dump. It was a lot farther than | 


sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs and | 


collapsing over the table. 

‘Out lookin’ fer me,”’ I said feebly. I got 
some milk out of the icebox and a package 
of gingersnaps down from the cupboard. I 
was so hungry I was dizzy. James and Bob 


she gets home!” 

“We never been out this late before,’ 
James said. 

We each gulped a glass of milk. I filled up 
again out of another quart bottle, all around. 
Then we took a breath, hooked our feet on 
the chair rungs, and began dunking ginger- 
snaps. 

‘‘What’re we gonna tell ’em?” I asked. 
We'd come into the house only after seeing 
that the’lights were out and that my mother 
was absent; we had to tell the same story— 
just in case our parents got together and 
checked up. 

“Pop ain’t gonna listen, anyhow,”’ James 
said. 

‘‘Sure he will,’’ I said. ‘“He’s a swell guy.” 

James ignored my encouraging attitude. 
“*He’s gonna take us out ta th’ garage an’ cut 
us in little pieces,”’ he said to a gingersnap, 
shaking his head at the vision of himself cut 
in little pieces. 

**What’ll we tell ’em?”’ 

““Why not th’ truth?” Bob asked. 

“Crazy?” I asked. ‘“‘They find out we 
done it to make money fer a pup, they’ll 


, 








never let us have it.” 


got three glasses. ‘‘She’s gonna kill me when 


October, 1949 


Curity 


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_ NURSERY 


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a ¢ 


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Nome ———__—————————————————— 
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City Sto 








LADIES’ 
















on us if they hear 
eee te einer: sand watched _— - = * 

him while he got tt j —T 
“Bell's ringin’.” 


“Nobody home?” Bot 

James hung up. ““ Wha 

“Told ya so,” I sz 
lookin!” 

“We been kidnabed!” | 
the idea out. 


It was the police. The 
had shown up yet. I 
looked at each other. 
“Is this the police statx 
“Yes_it’s the police 
station,”” the ae. 
phone said. “ You one 
of th’ kids?” 
“Yes, sir,” 
mered_ 
“Where 
been?” 
“The dump.”” I 
said. “We walked.” 
“Dump!” the big 
voice at the other close-clasped 


ty 





Pk See Oe ae 


Hak ae 


By Louis J. Sanker 


I stam- 


you 


Hills were made for lovers: Hands 








































end said. ] three of Be 
you?” aie 
“Yes, sir.” Cheeks flushed, blood fieer, “Heck, yes!”” Bob 
“Yer folks there?” quicksilver moments grasped; said. 
“No, sir.” I said. Laughter welling where the heart- ““We’re rich! 
looking around. The springs rise. — 
twins shook their W 


heads. “Just us. We 
were eatin’. Ginger- 
snaps an’ milk. We 
din’t eat all day.” 
“I wouldn’t be m 


Love was made for hilltops. High 
we stand, 
Alert to changing voices in the 


wind: 


% eee The tink of cow bells cdimbing faint 
your shoes" the : 5 
, and bland; 
voice said. 





you do at th’ dump ; All sound, save pound of thudding 
“We hadda get t 
somethm’,”” I said. 
“What?” 
I told him: “A hot- 
water heater.” 
“Don’ tell * mm why!” 
“Why?” 
“T make a helmet.” 
“You're gonna need 
yer folks get there!” the 
stay night there. 
“They there?” I 
“They're proba bly 
lookin’ fer three kids. 
they were here—an’” th v 
“Good-by,” I said. 


aia x a KO OUK i. me 


a 








I put the receiver back o = 
went back and sat down. We sat 
there twenty or thitty secor efore our 
appetites returned. 

“I never knew it'd take so long out to th’ 


dump,” I said. 
The twins were holding 
tion. Bob nodded. Then Jaz 
both shook their heads 
“My mother alway 
Saturday Evening Post. 


Thar’s nothin!’ 
his razor strap—on o 
him a safety razor on h 
the strap anyway.” 

“I wish I was back m 
said. “We could have al 
without gettin’ kilt gettm’ “em 

“Or folks don't t get no 


“You guys got 
said. * “He ain't so old.” 
“He c’n be brutal.” _ 
“It’s five after ten.” Ja 


i said. ““ You went to 









“That policeman said m 
“You better stay 
to meet my mother iter. 


HOME JOURNAL 


143 





NELLIE JANE CANNON 
co SweetHeor? Cower Girl 


AND SWEETHEART IS MY BEAUTY SOAP 
ay 9 out of 10 Cover — 


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glowing, fresh. young look that 
Wins me posing jobs at $100 a day. 
I wouldn't risk losing fees like 
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Rg 
a 
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9 
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D re 
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The Soap thot AGREES . 
with Your Skin 















BABIES ARE CLOTHES CONSCIOUS—but 
all they ask is comfort. So, when buying layette 
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MOTHERS DESERVE SPECIAL 
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Roa tot mes 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


I putas RMN. 


Director, Maternity Consultation Service, New York 





A Liner goes inside of the regular 
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Soiled Liners are just flushed away. 
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By BAS Bias 
COULD TALK; 
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That’s why 
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Address CHIX ... Dept. 
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This advertisement read and approved 
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CHICOPEE MILLS, INC. 


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When you didn’t show up at lunchtime, your 
mothers thought they’d check up and see 
if ~ Well’’—he was still rubbing his hands 
together—‘ we won’t go into that. But we 
had a grand time! I closed the gas station at 
four o’clock. We met firemen. We watched 
them drag the hole. We met policemen. We 
went to morgues and hospitals. We had two 
flat tires.” 

He stopped rubbing his hands together. 
He turned to my mother. 

“What’s the most soundproof room in 
the house? You don’t mind, do you? I don’t 
want to wait on this any longer than I have 
to. It’s after ten and we don’t want to dis- 
turb the neighbors.” 

Mr. Scott was very calm and businesslike. 
The twins were tongue-tied and glassy-eyed. 
I smiled at my mother. She smiled back at 
me—only she held her mouth the wrong way. 

“The bathroom, I suppose,”’ she said. She 
showed him the way. It was very dreamlike. 

Mr. Scott locked the door. “Take off your 
pants, boys,” he said. 

“Doncha wanta hear our side of th’ 
story?”’ Bob asked. 

“Not especially,” Mr. Scott said. ‘You 
might as well be first. Take off your pants.” 

Bob had a little trouble. His fingers 
wouldn’t bend. Mr. Scott helped him. Then 
he went to work. The sound almost peeled 
the tile off the walls. I didn’t know anybody 
could yell so loud. 

“Now, you,” Mr. Scott said to James. 

“Yer humiliatin’ us,” James managed to 
say as his father bent him over his knee. 

“Ts that what I’m doing?” Mr. Scott 
said—and began. He was efficient as all get- 
out. 

“Please, sir,” I begged, “ 
anythin’ wrong!” 

“Of course not,” Mr. Scott said. 
you deserve it, don’t you?” 

I was quaking so bad I couldn’t speak. 

““See?”? Mr. Scott said. ‘Now listen to 
me—at least I’m honest. I don’t tell you it 
hurts me more than it does you, do I?” 


we didn’ mean 


“But 


THIS 6S 
A WATCHBIRO 
WATCHING 


—_— 


October, 1949 


“No, sir,”’ I said. “My mother uses the 
Saturday Evening Post, sir.” 

He bent me over and secured my legs 
against kicking. 

“T don’t,” he said. “I use a strap, or my 
hand. They’re best. My father used to hold 
me out at an arm’s length and kick me for 
less than you boys have done today. He 
had eleven sons.” 

I remember seeing James and Bob with 
their fingers in their ears. 

That was my introduction to the most 
active week of my life. 


The very next morning the little girl who 
lived just down the block, Myrtle, Babe’s 
girl, came over to our house and yelled for 
me to come out. I wasn’t feeling so good. I’d 
had to kneel to eat breakfast. And I wasn’t 
allowed to go out. Myrtle kept yelling until 
I had to go to the screen door and tell her 
to go away. She had a big voice for a little 
girl just barely five. 

“Beat it!”’ I said. “I’m readin’.”’ 

“Ho,” she said. She always started like 
that. ‘‘Ho, ho, ain’ you on vacation?” 

“T’'m readin’ jus’ th’ same!” I said bit- 
terly. 

“Ho, 
spankin’, 

“G’wan, beat it!”’ I warned. 

“Be nice to her!” my mother admonished. 
“You know what I’ve always taught you: 
Little girls are little mothers.” 

“Ho, ho,” Myrtle said, trying to see in 
through the screening. “I come to tell him 
somethin’.” 

“What?” I asked. 

“Ho, ho, you want a puppy, huh?” 

“Sure,” I agreed, interested. ‘‘C’mon in.” 
I opened the screen door and let her in. She 
went over and curtsied to my mother and 
sat on the divan, smoothing her dress. 
“That’s a pretty dress you got on,” I said. 
“Yer mother make it?” 

“Ho, ho,”’ Myrtle said, nodding, pleased. 

“Who’s got puppies?” I prompted. 


ho,” Myrtle said, 


,” 


“you got a 


THIS ISA 
WATCHBIRD 
WATCHING A 
COMICBOOK 
TOUGH 


Munro Leaf 


Tus not-very-bright person standing here with a 
cap pistol, trying to look and act fierce, is a Comic-Book 


Tough. It has read so many 


” books about 


“comic 


gangsters, robbers and criminals of all sorts that it 
talks out of the side of its mouth and tries to bully 
every body whois littler than it is. A Comic-Book Tough 
is just a painful bore that doesn’t make sense. This 
one wears a big G on its shirt for Gangster—but we 
think it really means Goofy, because that is what it is. 


WERE You ACOMICBOOK TOUGH 4 1s MonTH? 














Two ways 
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9 Doctors say: don’t be afraid of 
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0a A well-developed body is im- 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Ho, ho,’’ Myrtle said, smoothing her 
dress again, ‘‘Dora’s gonna have pups!” 

“Dora? You sure?” 

“She is!’’ Myrtle said, beginning to fidget. 
“T gotta go now.” 

“How’d you find out?” I demanded. 

“Ho, ho, Bert an’ Jimmy were talkin’.”’ 

“When’ll they be born?” 

“Pretty soon,”’ Myrtle said, looking wor- 
ried. “I gotta go.” 

I let her out. Then I got back to my 
mother. “Please,” I begged, ‘‘may I go out 
now? I’ve gotia talk to somebody about them 
pups!” 

“Do you think you’ve been punished 
enough?’’ my mother asked. ‘‘Do you re- 
alize the dreadful thing you did?” 

“Yes’m,” I said, trying to conceal my 
impatience. “‘ Yes’m, I know I did somethin’ 
very bad, which I’ll never do again! Thank 
you for punishing me and teachin’ me right 
from wrong. I’m gonna be a good boy for th’ 
rest of my life an’ make you proud of me.” 

“You can go,” my mother said. 

I sprung James and Bob. I told Mrs. Scott 
they’d learned right from wrong. She was a 
little dubious, but with me on the loose she 
couldn’t very well keep them in. 

At last we were outside. We went over to 
the clubhouse and lay down to talk. On our 
stomachs. Sitting was out of the question. 

“Listen,” I said, ‘“‘Dora’s gonna have 
pups!” 

“Le’s go,” Bob said, starting to get up. 

“Wait a minit!’”’ James said. “‘We gotta 
have a conference first. What if Bert an’ 
Jimmy’re over there?” 

“This is vacation,” I said. “‘I guess we’re 
th’ only guys in th’ whole world who been 
home all mornin’!”’ 

“Helmet okay?” Bob asked. 

“Sure,”’ I said. ‘‘Still in th’ coaster wagon, 
under th’ back porch.” 

“Who'll we talk to about Dora?”’ James 
asked. 

“Ol’ man Coffee’ll be workin’,” I said. 
“Anyhow, we won’t get anywhere talkin’ to 
him.” 

“Missus Coffee,’’ Bob said. 

We got up and started. Somehow we 
moved with greater purpose and more unity 
than we’d ever moved before. 


Mrs. correkE didn’t hear us the first time 
we knocked. We knocked louder. She shut 
off the vacuum cleaner and came to the door. 

“Good mornin’, Missus Coffee,” we said. 

“The boys aren’t here,” Mrs. Coffee said. 
“T think they’re down by the lake.” 

““Wecame tosee you,” James said. ““About 
Dora.” 

“What’s that dog done now?”’ said Mrs. 
Coffee. 

“Nothin’,”” Bob said. 

‘Nothin’ at all,” James said. 

Mrs. Coffee unlatched the screen door. 
“Maybe you better come in.” 

“Where’s Dora?” James asked, inside. 
Bob and I looked around nervously. We 
were in enemy territory. 

“Out back, I suppose,” Mrs. Coffee said. 
“Sit down, all of you. Have a piece of 
candy?” 

Wesaid no, thank you, but eased ourselves 
into chairs and accepted the candy when she 
passed the cut-glass bowl around. 

“What about Dora?” Mrs. Coffee asked. 

“Ts she really havin’ pups?” I asked. 

“Looks that way,” Mrs. Coffee said. “And 
you want one, right?”’ 

“Tf you don’t mind,” James said. 

“We'd take good care of it,” I said. ““We 
always did want one of Dora’s pups.” 

“All right,” Mrs. Coffee said. 

“No!” we said, incredulous. 

“Certainly—if you want it. She’s going to 
have plenty.” 

“A boy dog?” I said. 

“All right.” 

It was too wonderful to be true. 

“Look, Missus Coffee,” James said, steady- 
ing a bit. “Bert an’ Jimmy don’t like us very 
much.” 

“TI know,” Mrs. Coffee said, nodding. 
“They’re going through that period. It’s 
between you and me.” ‘ 

We got up. She wasn’t done with us. 

(Continued on Page 147) 







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145 


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(Continued from Page 145) 
“Mind you, you can’t just have the 
puppy,” she said. ‘“You’ve got to show me 
enough money to buy it a license.”’ 
“Yes’m,”’ I said. 
“Two bucks,”’ Bob said. 
“Exactly.” Mrs. Coffee looked us over. 
“How long we got?”’ I asked. 
“You've got a little while,’ Mrs. Coffee 


“You can’t take the puppy the day he’s 
born. They have to stay with their mother 
for a little bit.”’ 

That was better. 

“Dora’s out back.” Mrs. Coffee turned on 
the vacuum cleaner. 

We went around back and looked at Dora. 
She didn’t even get up to bark at us; just 
lifted her head, wuffed once, and laid it down 
again. We got down and patted her. We 
didn’t talk much. We were happy, but re- 
sponsibility weighed heavily upon us. 

“Pumps,” Bob said, ‘“‘an’ air hose, an’ 
weights, an’ glass for th’ winda in front.” 

“Rope,” James added. ‘““Then we gotta 
put everythin’ together. Then we gotta get 
th’ turtles an’ sell ’em.”’ He didn’t say it 
with boundless enthusiasm; it was going to 
be a lot of work. 

“We better get started,” I said. “‘ What 
you worryin’ about?” 

“T’m thinkin’ about all th’ stuff we gotta 
get to make the helmet,” James said, ‘‘so 
soon. One slip-up an’ we get another beatin’.” 

“Le’s get away from 
here before they come 
home,”’ Bob suggested. 


caution to the winds, but 
we took a lot of chances 
considering the inflamed 
state of our rear ends. 

We worked on the hot-water heater with 
the hacksaw: cutting a helmet-shaped hunk 
Nrom one end, shaping the breastplate and 
noulder slots, and cutting a square window 
in the face. It was exhausting labor and 
murder on our hands. 

During our rest periods we acquired the 
uther stuff we needed. 

We were most of the week swiping enough 
Ove-gallon demijohns to make a window for 
tne helmet. We got them off of a mineral- 
“water truck. We spoiled one after another 
until we learned how to use the glass cutter 
we’d swiped out of the 5 & 10. At last we got 
a curved piece the right size and shape for 
the face plate. 


WE stuck the glass in place with marine 
glue and felt we swiped out of an aquarium 
store. We plastered the edges with tar dug 
out of a new street. We rigged a pump out of 
tire pumps the twins swiped out of their 
pop’s filling station. We got air hose by raid- 
ing the drugstore that specialized in hops, 
twenty-gallon earthenware crocks and rub- 
ber siphon hose. Those were the home-brew 
years. We got seventy feet of the red hose 
in one roll—and Mr. Daniels saw it go. He 
jumped across the pharmacy counter and 
chased us almost two blocks. But our wind 
was better than his. 

Our chest and back weights were plun- 
dered from the scales in the steel yard down 
by the railroad tracks on the way to Collin- 
wood High; after dark. After that Babe 
went over to Myrtle’s house and stole her 
mother’s clothesline. 

Then we had everything. We finished the 
diving rig, put it in the coaster wagon, and 
hauled it two miles out beyond Euclid 
Beach Park to an irrigation ditch. I got in 
the icy artesian water and Bob helped lower 
the helmet over me and James pumped. 

It worked swell. The water wasn’t more than 
Mat bree and a half feet deep—I had to sit down 
rb get the helmet wet—but it showed us 
that the thing worked. Now all we had to 
do was make money. 

Then, the following day, Dora came 
across. Myrtle brought us the news. We were 
in my back yard, putting a few finishing 
touches to our creation. We were splitting a 
length of garden hose and fitting it to the 
lower edge of the helmet; the ragged edge 
cut our shoulders unless it was covered. 


* As the climbing up a sandy 
We didn’t exactly cast way is to the feet of the 

aged, so is a wife full of words 
to a quiet man. 


“Ho,” Myrtle said, coming through the 
fence, ‘‘ho, ho,” 

“Hi,” Babe said. 

“Whatcha doin’?”’ she asked. 

“Fixin’ up our drownin’ suit,’”’ Babe said, 
being witty. ‘‘ We're gonna drown oursel’s.”’ 

“Shut up!’”’ James said. 

“Ho, ho—who?”’ Myrtle asked. “Me?” 
eee Bob said, giving Babe a little 
kick, 

“Tl tell pop!’”” Babe warned, jumping 
away. 


Grow up!” Bob suggested, holding the 
end of the hose while I fastened it. 

“Go kiss Myrtle,” I said. 

“Ho, ho,” Myrtle said, grinning, “sure.” 

Babe turned and ran. Myrtle started after 
him. She stopped a moment and looked back. 

“Hey,” she said, “‘ho, ho.” 

“Ho, ho, yerself,” James said, struggling 
to get the helmet into the coaster wagon. 
“Beat it. We got important business.” 

Myrtle stuck out her tongue. “A’right,” 
she said, ‘“‘then I won’ tell ya!” 

“What?” I asked. “He didn’t mean any- 
thin’.”’ 

“No!” 

“We'll help catch Babe if you tell,” I bar- 
gained, sensing something important. 

“Ho, ho,” she nodded, agreeing. ‘‘ Dora’s 
got pups!” 


Mrs. Coffee was at home. ‘‘Come in,”’ she 
smiled. ‘‘Dora’s in the 
kitchen, under the stove.” 

The pups were terrific. 
There were ten. They were 
tiny and wriggly and their 
eyes were closed. They just 
squeaked and wiggled 
around against Dora’s 
tummy. And one of them 
was ours—when we got the license. 

“Well,” Mrs. Coffee asked, ““how do you 
like them?”’ 

We three were on our knees beside the box. 
Bob came to his wits first. 

““Missus Coffee,” he said, “they’re hand- 
some! Want to buy a turtle?”’ 

“What?” 

I explained. Like Bob, I’d suddenly re- 
membered that we had to show enough 
money to buy our pup a license. 

“It’s like this,” I said. ““We’re in th’ 
turtle business. We get turtles for people 
who want to eat ’em. That’s the way we’re 
makin’ enough money to buy a dog tag. 
D’you want to buy a turtle to make soup? 


—Apocrypha, 


. We'll let you have one Cheap.” 


“Ugh!” Mrs. Coffee said. ‘Eat a turtle? 
Who ever heard of such a thing?” 

““They’re good!’’ James said, surprised at 
her attitude. ‘‘They’re delicious. It said so in 
a magazine. People pay a lot of money!” 

“‘Heavens!”’ Mrs. Coffee said. ‘“‘Have you 
sold any yet?” 

“No, ma’am,” I admitted. ““But we’re 
startin’ today. Right now. We’re gonna go to 
every house an’ get orders.” 

“Not in this neighborhood, you’re not!” 
Mrs. Coffee said. ““ Was that the way you were 
going to get money to buy a dog tag?”’ 

The twins looked at me. It’d been my 
idea. I’d found the magazine. 

I answered, ‘‘ Yes’m.” 

“You got the turtles?” 

““No’m,”’ I said, “‘they’re in th’ swamp.” 

“Where's that?”’ 

“About twen’y-five miles from here,’ 
James said. 

“‘Child,”’ Mrs. Coffee said, “if you get any 
orders, and if you catch any, how’re you 
going to bring them in?” 

“We'll catch ’em all right, all right!” I 
said, staring Bob and James down. *‘We’ve 
got a divin’ outfit. We'll bring back gunny 
sacks full of turtles!” 

“In whose automobile?” 

It was a most discouraging conversation. 
Mrs. Coffee told us it’d be a while before the 
puppies could leave their mother. She said 
that we could get jobs selling newspapers, or 
mowing lawns, or something, and make 
enough. She said that if we worked hard and 
didn’t think up any more foolishness, we’d 
most likely have the money in time. 

(Continued on Page 149) 

















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(Continued from Page 147) 
Out on the sidewalk again, I gave the 
wins a talk. I told them to take one side of 
che street and I'd take the other. We’d show 
Mrs. Coffee. We'd sell a ‘on of turtles! 

We met at the corner. I’d rung every bell 
and they’d covered their side. We hadn’t sold 
any turtles. “‘Well,”’ I said, ‘‘maybe this is 
th’ wrong neighborhood. Maybe ——”’ 

“Look,” James said, sticking out his jaw. 
“T been thinkin’. How’re we gonna get all 
’at divin’ stuff out to th’ marsh?” 

That had struck me too—the third door- 
bell I rang. It weighed eighty or ninety 
pounds, pump and all; maybe more. ; 

“On the coaster wagon,”’ I said bravely. 
“We'll pull it out. We'll walk!” i 

“T got a notion ta bust you right on th’ 
nose!’’ Bob said. 

“Yeah!” James said. ‘For all th’ stuff we 
swiped we could be put in Sing-Sing! When 
pop says for me to go to th’ drugstore an get 
him a cigar, I gotta go eleven blocks! I don’ 
dare let Mr. Daniels see me.” 

‘“There’s hardly any place we can go any 
more!” Bob said, working himself up. 

But just then the Coffee boys showed up 
way down the street. We decided that we’d 
better be moving along. 

We went over to my house and looked at 
the diving outfit. It looked complicated and 
wonderful; it made us proud. James pumped 
the pump and air hissed into the helmet. It 
was on its side. Bob got down and stuck his 
head into it. It was too heavy to pick up. 
James and I took turns pumping for the next 
ten minutes while Bob lay there, breathing. 
Then James took a turn at sticking his head 
in the helmet. Then I had my turn. Re- 
freshed, we went over to the empty lot next 
to the Scott house and sat in the big hole we 
used for a clubhouse. We sat there and medi- 
tated for a while. I broke the silence. 

“Gosh,” I said, **it works swell. We should 
oughta be able to make money with it.” 

James thought it over. ‘“‘Yeah,’’ he said 
at last, “maybe if we were out by th’ lake 
sometime, maybe somebody would drown 
an’ you could go down in it an’ bring up 
th’ body an’ get us a reward.” 

After a little bit we crawled out of the hole 
and went over to the amusement park at 
Euclid Beach. We wandered on down to the 
pier that stuck out into Lake Erie. People 
were sitting along the edges, fishing. 

Something very significant happened out 
near the end of the pier. While we watched, 
one old lady got her line fouled underwater; 
tangled in the pilings. A man came over 
and helped her. But the line broke when they 
tried to pull it free. 

“Drat!” the old lady said. She started 
gathering up her things and winding up the 
remainder of her Tine. ‘‘Drat!”’ she said again. 
“Them pilings must be like pincushions. 
That’s the third line I’ve lost in a week. This 
last one was the best. It had a catgut leader.” 

“IT lost a hook an’ sinker this morning,” 
the man said. ‘“‘There must be a fortune in 
hooks an’ sinkers down there.”’ 


"Twas going tomentionit, but Iwas afraid it 





149 


“Pardon me, lady,” Bob said. ‘“‘ How much 
you figure you lost?”’ 

“In money?” she asked, looking at him. 

“Yes’m.”’ 

“Right now—or all week?” 

“Right now.” 

“About fifteen cents. Them hooks cost 
two cents each. The sinkers the same. That’s 
ten. The catgut leader cost five cents. I’m 
not countin’ the line. Drat!”’ 

“Lady,” James said, ‘‘if somebody, maybe 
a deep-sea diver, was to salvage what you 
lost—what’d it be worth t’you?” 

The old lady got mad. ‘“‘Go away, you 
kids!”’ she said, waving her hands. “I got 
trouble enough without fresh kids!’’ She got 
her stuff together and left the pier. 

The man who’d helped had gone back to 
his pole. 

‘Mister,’ I said, “‘what d’you think? If 
somebody was to get all th’ hooks an’ bring 
‘em up here, on th’ pier—d’you think peo- 
ple’d buy ’em?”’ 

“Why not?” he asked. ‘““Why not—at 
half price? All that weren’t rusted into ruina- 
tion. The sinkers would be rusted. Only 
there’s no way.” 

I looked at the water. The pilings disap- 
peared way down deep in it. We’d tested 
the diving outfit in an irrigation ditch. I’d 
had to squat down so that the water would 
close over me. Nobody’d have to squat down 
there. It gave me the jimjams just to think 
of it. 

Bob and James talked over the salvage 
business all the way home. 

“We haven’t even got a boat,’’ I argued 
as they got to the part where I was to go 
down first. ““We’ll get pinched, sure, if we 
try divin’ off’n th’ pier! I'll betcha Mr. 
Coffee’d be out there an’ arrest us in two 
minutes. Nobody’s-allowed ta swim off’n th’ 
pier.” 

“You wouldn’ be swimmin’,”’ Bob ob- 
served. 

“No,” James agreed, “‘you’d be walkin’ 
around.” 

“On th’ bottom,’ Bob added. 

“Why me?”’ I asked. 

“You wanted ta build a divin’ outfit,’ 
James said. 

“Anyhow,” I insisted, ‘““we haven’ got a 
boat—and we can’t work from th’ pier!”’ 

“We'll get one,” James said, undaunted. 
‘**We'’ve swiped everythin’ else.” 


Myrtle was waiting for us at my house. 
She had news. “Say,” she said, excited, 
‘you tol’ me you were gonna get one of th’ 
puppies?” 

Bob nodded, positive. 

‘Well, you’re not!’’ Myrtle said, swallow- 
ing. ‘Know what? They’re’ gonna kill all of 
‘em, Bert an’ Jimmy are. Their daddy said 
to. He said th’ puppies weren’t any good.” 

We ran down the street, frantic. Bob was 
the best runner. After two blocks he was a 
whole block ahead of James and me. He tore 
into the driveway beside the Coffee house 
and disappeared in the back yard. By the 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


time we got to the front gate, he was coming 
out again. He had the whole box in his arms, 
Dora’s bed, and Dora was running beside 
him, worried. 

James asked, ‘“‘Missus Coffee didn’ say 
not to take ’em, huh?” 

“‘Unh-uh,” Bob gasped. ‘‘She said to.” 

James jerked a paling off of somebody's 
picket fence and I got another, just in case 
the Coffee boys showed up and tried to jump 
us and get the pups back. 

We got them over to the twins’ house 
okay. We put the box in the garage and Dora 
got into it and began nursing her babies. 
James and I settled down to figuring out 
which belonged to who. We had ten pups to 
divide amongst the three of us—four, count- 
ing Babe. There was enough for everybody. 
We were rich! 

Bob went into the house and came back 
with a pint of milk and a package of sausage 
for Dora. He took a long look at Dora’s fam- 
ily while she ate. 

“Hey,” he said, thoughtful, “what if they 
want ’em back?” 

“They’re ours!” I said. ‘‘We’ll take our 
divin’ outfit over tomorrow an’ make enough 
to buy dog licenses for all ten. I guess if we 
do that an’ get tags an’ a paper showin’ we 
paid, that’ll make the pups ours, /egal/”’ 

James agreed. He got enthusiastic. Bob 
counted the pups again. Ten. Two dollars 
each for the boys; more for the girls. 

*‘Fishhooks?”’ he said. ‘We'll have ta 
hold up a bank!” 

“‘Maybe somebody will drown,” James 
said hopefully, nodding 
toward me, “an’ him get 
us th’ reward.” 


€ Every period of life has its 
; scahnd peculiar prejudices. Who 
Mrs. Scott called up my ever saw old age that did not 
applaud the past and con- 
demn the present times? 


mother and asked if I could 
stay with the twins for 
supper. She said she’d send 
me home before it got 
too dark. 

Supper wasn’t alto- 
gether a success. That is, it wasn’t restful. 
Mr. Scott kept complaining about what 
was this world coming to? Sneak thieves 
had stolen four brand-new tire pumps out of 
the gas station. 

Then, when supper was over, Mrs. Scott 
discovered that the cream to put over the 
peaches for dessert was missing. She was still 
in the kitchen, looking in the icebox and 
thinking out loud, when James said: 

“*Mom, we got our pup from Missus Coffee. 
The one she promised. We didn’ know it was 
cream. Dora drank it.” 

“Land!” Mrs. Scott said from the kitchen. 
‘“*Where’s the sausage for your father’s lunch 
tomorrow?” 

Mr. Scott had started to eat his peaches 
without cream. Now he paused. He put down 
his spoon. He looked at the twins. 


‘“Tr’s like this,” James began. “Bet an’ 
Jimmy were gonna kill all th’ pups an’ > we 
went an’ got ’em an’ brought ’em hoine. 
Dora’s gotta eat if she’s gonna take care of 
her babies, don’t she? We had to show Dora 
we loved her, didn’ we?”’ 

“Where’s the sausage?’”’ Mr. Scott said. 

Mrs. Scott came to the door of the dining 
room. “William, be patient. Control your- 
self. I can make cheese sandwiches.” 

Mr. Scott didn’t look away from the twins. 
“Where's my lunch sausage?” 

“Dora et it,” James said. 

“We got ten pups,”’ I said, smiling warmly, 
“out in th’ garage.” 

Mr. Scott smiled. He put down his napkin. 

“Sonny,” Mrs. Scott said to me, “you 
better go home now. Your mother’!! be wor- 
rying. It’s dark out.” 

Just then someone rang the doorbell. Mr. 
Scott turned on the porch light and answered 
it. Bert and Jimmy Coffee pointed at us and 
said that we’d stolen their dog and her pups. 
Mr. Scott looked at us and said that he 
didn’t doubt it. 

“No, sir,” James yelled. “‘She give ’em to 
us on account they was gonna murder ’em. 
Golly, pop!” 

“We didn’t steal a one!’’ I said. I appealed 
to Mrs. Scott. “You wouldn’ want ’em 
killed, would you?” 


October, 1949 


She shook her head that she wouldn't. 

“Come on,” Mr. Scott told the Coffees. 
“T think I know where they are.” 

Babe started to scream. James and Bob 
rushed toward the kitchen door and the back 
yard. 

“No you don’t!”” Mr. Scott bellowed. 
“No you don't! Go to your room, Right now!" 

Babe howled louder. 

“G’wan, run!” Bob said, pushing me. 

“Run!” James said. ‘You don’ have ta 
obey! You ain’t one of the fambly. G’wan!/” 

I went. I ran out the back door and fell 
down the steps. I fell again over the garbage 
can at the bottom. I got to the garage and 
Dora’s box and got hold of two pups. Dora 
got nervous at my suddenness and she nipped 
me on the ear. As I started out with the pups 
I ran into Mr. Scott and fell down again, I 
hung on to the pups. The Coffees grabbed 
at me, but I was gone. I kept running until 
I found our clubhouse in the field. I stopped 
there in the darkness. I’d escaped. 


I sat down in the hole and cried a little, 
with a pup in each hand. I dried my eyes 
with one of them. My knees were all skinned 
and so was an elbow, from when I fell over 
the garbage can. The pups whimpered and 
wriggled. I could feel their tiny hearts beat 
against my finger tips. I hid there about an 
hour. I put the puppies inside of my shirt, 
next to my skin, so they’d think I was 
Dora and not whimper. It worked. 

When I was sure that the coast was clear, 
I crawled up out of the clubhouse and went 
back to the twins’ house. 
Their room was in back. I 
found the window. It was 
dark, but I could hear sob- 
bing inside. 

“‘Hey,’’ I whispered, 
putting my face to the 
screen. “‘Hey, you guys. 
We still got two pups. I 
saved’em.Whathappened ?” 

Then Dora came to the 
window and sniffed me and whined. She 
scented her pups. The boys had her inside 
with them. Then I knew that something was 
wrong. 

Bob opened the screen and I handed him 
Dora’s babies. He gave them to James and 
helped me climb in. He’d been crying and so 
had James. 

“What's th’ matter?”’ | whispered. “Get a 
beatin’ ? Look, I fell an’ skinned both my knees 
an’ my elbow.” ° 

The twins were in their pajamas. Bob had 
made a bed for Dora out of their two pillows 
and we watched her nuzzle the two pups and 
lick them. 

“Naw,” James said, wiping his tears on 
his pajama sleeve. ‘‘Pop didn’ whip us. He’s 
sorry. He’s awful sorry. You don’t have ta 
whisper. He won’t do anythin’.” 

“What happened?” I asked. “‘I been 
hidin’ in th’ clubhouse. Where’s Babe?” 

“‘Pups’re all dead,” Bob said. 

“They’re alive,’ I said, dropping down 
beside Dora and touching one. “I took good 
care of ’em!” 

“The rest,” James said. “After pop gave 
’em back, Bert an’ Jimmy got a bucket of 
water an’ drowned all eight out in front of 
our house. Right in front of Dora. When 
they was dead they rang th’ doorbell again. 
Pop opened th’ door an’ Bert an’ Jimmy were 
gone, but th’ bucket with th’ pups floatin’ 
around was there. Pop buried all eight in th’ 
garden. Babe’s been havin’ hysterics ever 
since. They got him out in th’ front room.” 

“Yeah,” Bob said, “‘an’ Bert yelled they 
was gonna kill these too—soon’s they found 
7em.”’ 

We took turns patting Dora and telling 
her not to feel so bad. All four of us cried a 
little bit. Then, after we decided we’d hold 
a proper funeral in the morning, I decided 
that I’d better be getting along home. 

I went out through the front of the house. 
Mr. and Mrs. Scott were sitting there. Mr. 
Scott was holding Babe in his lap. Babe was 
asleep. Mrs. Scott said my mother’d called 
about seventeen times; she was worried why 
hadn’t I come home. Mrs. Scott went out to 
the telephone in the hall and I apologized 

(Continued on Page 152) 


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152 


(Continued from Page 150) 
to Mr. Scott for being so disobedient. He 
shook his head. 

“Never mind, boy,” he said. “I’m the one 
who’s sorry. Forget the sausage! What hap- 
pened to the pups you got?” 

“I saved two,” I said. ‘‘They got both of 
*em back there in their room. Dora’s takin’ 
care of ’em. I got in through th’ window.” 

He nodded. Mrs. Scott came back into the 
room. 

“You're to run home, right away!”’ she 
said. “I told her there’d been a little tragedy 
over here. I think everything’s fixed up, but 
you go home right away.” 


I got out of the house just as soon as my 
mother decided that I’d had enough break- 
fast next morning. It was hard to eat. | 
kept thinking the funeral would be over 
before I got there. 

When I got to the twins’ house they were 
in the back yard. 

“We been waitin’ on you,” James said 
soberly. 

Babe pointed to the grave; he looked kind 
of moist. The pups had been buried at the 
edge of the garden, close under the rose- 
bushes. Bob was kneeling beside it and pull- 
ing the petals off of 
some roses and strew- 
ing them on the plot. 

“C'mon, help me,” 
James said. ‘‘We 
gotta get enough to 
cover th’ grave.” 

We gathered every 
rose in the garden. 
Babe helped. Each 
time we stuck our- 
selves on the thorns 
we got sadder. By 
the time we'd done, 
we were in the right 
mood for a funeral. 

We knelt down be- 
side Bob and helped 
him shuck the petals 
from the flowers. 
Then everything was 
ready. We were about 
to start services when 
Mr. and Mrs. Scott 
came out of the house. 
He was going to work. They looked our way 
and we suspended everything for the 
moment. 

Mrs. Scott’s eyes widened. ‘‘Good heav- 
ens!” she said. “‘My flowers!” 

“Mary!” Mr. Scott said, taking in the 
situation at a glance. ““Haven’t you ever 
been to a funeral? They have to have flow- 
ers. You can grow more.” He kissed her and 
told her to go back in the house, then he went 


| off down the street. 


Tr was a close shave and it took us a second 
or two to get back in the mood. But then the 
perfume drifted up from the rose petals. 

“How do we start?’’ Bob asked. 

Babe burst into tears. He got up off of his 
knees and went over and flung himself down 
on the grass. 

“Pray, i guess,” I said. 

“You start,” James said. 

“T don’t wanta say anythin’ in English,” 
I said. 

“Any which way, go ahead,” James said. 
Bob nodded. 

I cupped my hands in front of my mouth. 
“Inna ilaihi w’ inna ilathi rajighun— Janlari 
tannaida bulsun—Ameen.” 

‘“How about the Lord’s Prayer now?” 
Bob asked. 

“All right,” James said. We bowed our 
heads again. 

Bob looked at the mound of rose petals 
and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ““ Well,’’ he 
said, ‘I can think of two guys who’re gonna 
wish they din’t trespass against us—if it 
kills me!” 

We got off of our knees and went into the 
garage and patted Dora and looked at the 
pups. Babe got up from the grass and tagged 
along. One of the pups was mostly black with 
a few white spots. The other was mostly 
white with a few black spots. They’d grown 
overnight. They were eating for ten. 


FOR ALL 





October, 1949 


“We gotta make money fast,”” James said 
“After we get dog tags, Bert an’ Jimmy 
won't dare touch ‘em.”’ 

“Four bucks,”’ Bob said. 

Babe hiccupped. 

“Think we c’n leave Dora an’ her pups 
here, alone?”’ I asked. *‘ Mightn’t they come 
back? Your pop’s gone to work.” 

“‘He’s bad when he’s mad,” James said 
“But he don’t do anythin’ much, just ram 
page around. Mom's different. She's liab! 
to do most anythin’. She gets excited. Seein 
them dead pups last night after Bert an 
Jimmy run—seein’ that set her in a state!” 

Bob nodded. 


Warn she’s in a state,”” James continued, 
“she’s dangerous as all get-out. She said 
Jiends! three times.” 

“Okay,” I said. ‘Only Babe better stand 
guard. He can yell if they come around. Then 
she can come tearin’ out.” 

Babe got the garbage can and hauled it 
over in front of the garage and sat on it. 
“Wipazhazha!” he said, defying an imagi- 
nary foe. 


Lake Erie was quiet and there weren’t any 
bathers out yet. It was too early in the morn- 
ing. Bob pointed to 
a stretch of private 
beach this side of the 
amusement park: 
there were homes set 
back from the lake so 
that the pressure ice 
in the winter wouldn't 
crush them. Each 
house had a couple 
rowboats or canoes 
upside down on the 
sand, 

James and I worked 
the wagon with the 
diving rig down to 
the rocky beach 
while Bob went to get 
a boat. A rowboat, | 
said. It looked to me 
like I was elected to 
do most of the diving, 


RED FEATHER SERVICES | oes nc ce 


twins were satisfied 
it wasn’t going to 
drown them, and I didn’t want them to turn 
over in a canoe and lose the pump while I 
was on the bottom of the lake. 

We got down to the water’s edge and sat 
down and waited for Bob. James didn’t seem 
very concerned. I looked at the hot-water- 
heater helmet and wiggled the pump handle. 
It was tight. We could hear the air hiss. 

I looked out across the lake. ‘‘Sixty miles 
to Canada,” I said. 

““So what?”’ James sneered. “‘You ain’t 
goin’ ta Canada. What’s th’ matter? You got 
goose bumps all over!” 

We'd undressed when we got to the beach. 
I looked at the goose bumps. 

“Tt ain’t cold,”’ James said. “I ain’t got 
none.” 

“T had cold milk fer breakfast,” I ex- 
plained, feeling trapped. ‘My mother made 
me drink it.” 

James sneered again. “I got some ice off’n 
th’ ice wagon a couple days ago. It didn’ give 
me no goose bumps!” 

I leaped to my feet and made my hands 
into fists. ‘“‘You’re jus’ beggin’ fer a scab on 
yer nose!” I yelled. “‘C’mon, stand up!” 

James got up and hit me square in the eye. 
I staggered back and sat down. I got up and 
rushed him and popped him in the eye and 
we went down together. 

Just then two things happened. Bob 
shouted, and a stone clanged off of the 
helmet. Bob was coming around the rock 
breakwater in a green rowboat. He yelled 
again and pointed. Another stone struck in 
the sand close to us. Bert and Jimmy were 
on the cliffs. It was a two- or three-minute 
climb down the cliff path and they saw that 
we'd be gone before they got to us. They 
came anyhow, heaving rocks at us all the 
time. James got beaned and went into a fury, 
jumping up and down and holding his head. 
Then Bob got to the shore and we hurried 

(Continued on Page 155) 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


DALLAS! “My doctor suggested Noxzema for my dry skin,” says attractive Mrs. Mar- 
jory Ryan! “Now Noxzema is the only beauty cream I ever use —I wouldn’t do with- 
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WHO ELSE WANTS 
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Doctor’s new home beauty treatment helps 4 out of 5 





NEW YORK! Charming Arlene Anderson 
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rash. “It helped improve my skin so 
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: 
al 
had a dry skin condition. “Then I started 
using Noxzema every night,” she says. 


“I soon noticed my complexion looked 
s< . . ” 
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CHICAGO! Vivacious Marion McEvoy 


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At one time each was bothered with 
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external causes, rough dry skin or sim- 
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aid to softer, smoother, lovelier-looking 
skin. 


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For now a noted skin specialist has de- 
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ANNAPOLIS! “A skin irritation almost 
ruined a Company party,” says Mrs. Erma 
Boone. “But I used Noxzema in time... 
and the party was a complete success, 
Now it’s my regular beauty cream.” 


153 





KANSAS CITY! “T used to have occasional blemishes,” says popular Judy Hadas, “but 
using Noxzema as my regular night cream has helped keep my skin looking soft and 
smooth. Now it seems as though I’m always getting compliments on my complexion.” 


women in clinical tests 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL October, 1949 


ealtime Adventil CS *2a." 


FOR OCTOBER: A sure-fire Hollandaise Sauce... a salad you drink 


2 e. a quick-fix chow mein... how to make ice cream pie. 









recipe that’s practically fool-proof, And turns out the 


smoo-o-othest, most delicious Hollandaise you eve 
LETS DRINK A TOAST ya thest, t a you ever 


o impressed a guest with! Try this: 
Meadow Gold Hotlandaise Sauce in all.) And it’s free —if you'll write immediately to 
—_- (Serves 4) Dept. K6. ba hoy Food Products Division, Beatrice 
4 cup Meadow Gold Butter 4 tsp. salt Foods o,, Archbold, Ohio. 
ee 2 Meadow Gold egg yolks, Dash of white pepper 


well beaten 1 tbsp. lemon juice 


Melt butter in top of double boiler. Beat egg yolks CHOW MEIN 
with egg beater or electric mixer (low speed) adding 


butter gradually. Cook in double boiler over hot, 
7 } 1 i , ° i ili z il thickened, stirring con- 
> ‘ affiz ; on h, October! Mellow, not boiling, water unti ’ s 
Be : aD kind of m ; stantly. (It’s boiling water that causes separation.) 
Remove from heat and stir in salt, pepper and 
living! So I propose that before each meal we toast lemon juice. Serve Ionmediately or pen and cement 
° : : er hot, t boili water. Note: if sauce shou 
October in a true October drink—rich, ruddy SVEN Os TiC RIDES 


5 separate, beat in 2 tbsp. boiling water, drop by drop. 
‘ Vecamato Cocktail! You'll like Vecamato, I’m sure, 


merry .. . a harvest time of good eating and good 





for it’s a harvest of summer vegetable vitamins, Of course Hollandaise Sauce requires the very 
* blended in the most delicious vegetable juice cocktail highest quality butter. So when you 2 72 cipe 
7 rer taste Zi as a frosty ‘ning! I suggest that you also try Meapow Gotp Burrer. 
you ever tasted. And zippy as a frosty morning! gor er ee es ote a ee sa 
e It’s absolutely the finest lve ever use -d or served. If your va aes ae ee a = as . th 
z juice T > ; x or is ¢ sssing. That’s when it’s 
All these ep apiieraeree bat There’s an especially pleasant fragrance and delicate cut or pe is a L SSI be Lac 8 Tenia 
i pean of VEGAMATO! : . . y v ackage ACHOY CHINESE 
poets sy 2 flavor to Meapow GoLp because Meapow GOLD is a good to know there's a package o 
Sun-ripe tomatoes . ... iron-rich spinach... . celery very high-score butter, churned fresh daily from the DINNER in the pantry. For LaCnoy Cuinese Dinner 
Paper com mebrersn vite nun fy caked Peete ns ain Ws altel I : localities. 't is a complete, and ready-cooked, Chow Mein meal 
¢ parsley ... carrots (Vitamin A). And something no richest top-quality cream. In many localities, too, iI bad i xt nthe ehiealeil Chitin 
other juice cocktail has, as far as I know—a dash Meapow GoLp comes beautifully w rapped in shining —all ready to serve. jus ypen th 
of real lemon juice for extra zing ! . . at ae Mein and Noodles, heat them, apply a dash of 
* aluminum foil which keeps its dewy freshness twice Lac a ( fe so) 
1 : | 7 ‘ink Try 1. : , ; Ald SOY a t (c gS e package, too 
When you drink VeGamaTo, you drink a salad! Try as long. Try this wonderful butter soon. You'll A a be aAUCE ee pe 1 the pa ‘ os 4 
: roxy ? retin < = ; ° : “Te , or, Se ; a : ra 
some at your house. I know you'll prefer it to any never go back to ordinary butter, I promise! ... and there’s my dinner. Savory, satisfying, an 


speedy! Pick up a LaCnoy Cutnese DINNER at your 
grocer’s and try it. It'll become a standby with you. 


other vegetable juice you've been using! 






D SECRETS 
COOKERY 


Sure-fire recipe 
for Hollandaise 
Sauce 


If you love Hollandaise 
Sauce as much as I do 


I do want you to have a copy of this remarkable 
but have hesitated to 


Chinese Recipe Book! It’s a treasure-house of simple 





. *,? *.. . . cc ‘ , 
make it because it’s ways to make exciting things —like Sub Gum Chow 
so tricky, here’s somé Mein, Pagoda Chicken Salad, or Golden Pheasant 


U DON) 
good news. I’ve found a simple and easy-to-follow Omelet, for example. (25 deliciously different recipes The TCH. HA IF YO r 
HAND OUTs 


Hallowe’en soon . . . the scary night which stems from the 
old pagan festival of Samhain. Once more we'll be buying 
immunity from pranks by “‘treating” small ghosts and 
goblins—just as the ancient Irish did in the days of the 
Druids. And here’s my suggestion for safeguarding the 
whole neighborhood. Why not a parents’ co-operative 
Hallowe’en party for all the kids? With goblin-taming 


treats like these: 
FOR Wances 


} oT CHOCOLATE Spicy Hot Chox 
instantly/ 


(Recipe makes 8 to 12 servings) 


3 2 114 cups Chox Instant Hot 4 small sticks cinnamon 
in Mitairice Fonds ro ‘ Chocolate 20 whole cloves 
RK Wit wris see Sa 4 \4 cup sugar 7 cups Meadow Gold 
‘ = 1 cup water Homogenized Milk 


Combine Chox and sugar in saucepan; add water and 
stir until dissolved. Add spices. Place over low heat and 
bring to boil. Boil 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Add 
milk, heat to boiling point; strain. Serve hot, topped with 
whipped cream sprinkled with nutmeg. 
You'll like CHox for any occasion. For Cxox is delicious 
and thrifty. Has whole milk and sugar already in it. So rich 
you can make a cup of regular breakfast chocolate just by 


adding hot water! And now for my second Hallowe’en treat: 


Meadow Gold Ice Cream Pie 


11% cups chocolate wafer 2 tbsp. granulated sugar 
crumbs 1 quart Meadow Gold Ice 
14, cup Meadow Gold Butter, Cream 
melted Grated bitter chocolate 


Combine chocolate wafer crumbs with sugar. Add melted 
butter and mix thoroughly. Press firmly into a greased 
9° pie plate and chill until set. Fill shell with ice cream. 
Sprinkle with grated chocolate and serve immediately. 





. Bac ee R i 3 s ing is MeEapow Gotp! ink it’ i 
No trick to these treats ! To make this Spicy Hot Chox and Ice Cream Pie, just ee oe ow Con me 
use the easy recipes in the adjoining column. A sure success for any party ! ee ae eS ee © 1949, Beatrice Foods Co. 















dort 
it's 
XB 
NER 


mea! 





—_ 


SEER & 


(Continued from Page 152) 

at loading the stuff before the Coffees got 
there. We got everything into the boat; 
everything except the coaster wagon. We 
had to leave it. They were almost to us and 
rocks were falling like rain. We pushed away 
from the shore and rowed for all we were 
worth. James got beaned again and punched 
Bob in the mouth for not rowing faster. Then 
I rowed all alone while they fought in the 
bottom of the boat. I kept rowing until we 
were out of range. 

When Bert and Jimmy saw that we 
couldn’t be reached, they concentrated on 
the wagon. They busted it all to pieces. They 
picked it up and hurled it down. They got 
big rocks and dropped them on it. Then, 
when there wasn’t anything more they could 
do, they heaved the wreckage into the lake. 

“Holy smoke!’ James said, dumfounded. 
“What’ll pop say?” 

“He give it to us for Christmas a couple 
years back,” Bob said. The fight had stopped 
when I yelled that the wagon was being 
busted up. 

We yelled threats back and forth between 
the boat and shore for a while, then we rowed 
past the fence that jutted out into the water, 
separating the public beach from the amuse- 
ment park. When they saw where we were 
headed, Bert and Jimmy ran back up the 
cliffs and disappeared. There was no way of 
getting over the fence and into the park; if 
they wanted to follow us they had to go 
around to the entrance at the corner of Lake 
Shore Boulevard. All of us in the boat had 
black eyes. And James had an extra two big 
bumps on his head right 
where the hair stood up 
straight. 

But we felt good. All 
except for the wagon. The 


Sympathy is never wasted 
except when you give it to 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


more. It was because of the twins’ faces; 
now, suddenly, at the last minute, they were 
riddled with envy. 

I took a breath and sank down under the 
helmet and came up inside—and breathed. 
Air. It smelled of oil, from the pumps, and of 
rubber, from the hose, but it was genuine 
air. I fastened the arm loops and hung there, 
beneath the boat. I could see out of the face 
plate. I saw pilings ten or fifteen feet away. 
And I saw the bottom of the lake. 

I freed myself of the helmet, sank from 

under it, and broke the surface. I got hold 
of the gunwale and hung there panting— 
from excitement. 
“What’s it like?’’ James demanded, hang- 
ing on to the helmet rope a little tighter. Bob 
had stopped pumping. ‘‘What’s it like? 
Does it work okay, huh?” 


Say somethin’!” Bob demanded. He 
started pulling off his clothes; he hadn’t un- 
dressed before. “It’s my turn!” 

“T shaven’t gone down yet!” I yelled. 
“Now I get fishhooks. Drop that anchor 
over here so’s I c’n go down th’ rope.” 

“What for?” 

“Dope,” James said, “‘tha’s th’ way it 
said ta do in th’ magazine!”’ 

Bob scrambled over the thwart and got 
the concrete-block anchor out of the bow. 
He lugged it to the stern and put it over. 
He stepped on James and they almost got 
into a fight—except that James couldn’t 
turn loose of the helmet rope. 

“Shut up, you guys, an’ pump,” I said. 

Bob grinned and started pumping. I sub- 
merged. I got under the 
helmet and took hold of 
the anchor rope and James 
let me go. 

It was only about ten 


airwaswarm and exhilarat- OS or —JOHN W. RAPER: feet of water, but it seemed 
: at This World Needs 5 4B 

ing. The water was calm (World Publishing Co). _ like a week’s journey. The 
and glistening. I had one helmet was heavy and 
oar and James took the A —! pressed dewn on me, but 


other; we sat on the single 
thwart, side byside, and Bobcalled the stroke. 

We started for the pier, then worked the 
rowboat between the pilings and into the 
gloom underneath. There was a jungle of 
pilings all around us, marching out another 
couple hundred feet to the outer end. We'd 
planned it this way. We couldn’t be seen by 
anybody up above. The Coffees would never 
find us—and if they did, they couldn’t get 
at us. 

We stopped rowing and looked at one an- 
other. Bob lifted one of the oars out of the 
oarlock and stuck it down into the water. It 
disappeared entirely. His arms were sub- 
merged up to the shoulders and his chin was 
touching the water before he fetched bottom. 
He lifted the oar back into the boat and the 
twins looked at me. I looked at the water. 

“Well,” James demanded, “you gonna 
do it, or ain’cha?”’ 


““Tr’s kinda deep,” I said. 

“We gotta get them dog tags,” Bob said. 
“Tf you won’t, I will!” 

“No, you won't!” I said, challenged. “‘It’s 
my idea. I'll go first!” 

Bob sighed with relief. I’d stuck my neck 
out. 

We coiled up the lifeline and tied one end 
to the fitting on top of the helmet, with a 
hunk left over to put around me under the 
armpits. Then I thought it over and decided 
that I didn’t want to be tied to anything. I 
could always abandon the helmet and swim 
to the surface—but if I got the rope fouled, 
and me fastened to it, I might swallow a lot 
of water before I got free. 

We lowered the helmet over the stern of 
the boat and Bob wobbled the pump. The 


tire pumps, four, were fastened to a plank, 


two on each side, opposing each other. As he 
wobbled the handle the beer hose writhed 
and stiffened. The helmet got lighter in the 
water. The air hissed into it and it got 
still lighter. Then bubbles started to erupt 
from the shoulder slots. 

“Hot dog!” James said. “‘She’s fulla air.” 

“Hang on,” I said. 

I lowered myself over the side. I got in up 
to my armpits and let go. The water under 
the pier was cold, but I wasn’t afraid any 


I hung on to the anchor 
rope for dear life and descended slowly. I 
was just beginning to get frightened at the 
weight of the water on my body, the pres- 
sure, and the chill, when I stubbed my toe 
on the bottom. Still clinging to the rope, I 
leaned back a little and looked up. It wasn’t 
so far to the surface. And the water wasn’t 
as dark as it had seemed to be. But it was a 
lot spookier than squatting in an irrigation 
ditch! 

Staying well in the shadow of the pier, far 
enough back so that the escaping air bubbles 
wouldn’t be seen by anybody fishing, I 
worked from piling to piling. I got fishhooks 
all right—and it would get better if we could 
work out near the end of the pier where most 
of the fishing was done and most of the lines 
lost. 

I got eight fishhooks, eleven sinkers, a 
rusted reel that still worked, a first-class 
lunch bucket, a pair of smoked spectacles 
and a two-bit piece. And I saw fish. They 
came and looked at me, got excited, rushed 
away, then came back for another look. 
Both of us were astonished. It was great. I 
was squatting to pick up the two bits when, 
suddenly, the air stopped coming down to 
me. I shed the helmet and swam to the sur- 
face with my hands full. I’d been down about 
fifteen minutes. 

“Hey!” I yelled, still in the water. “What’sa 
matter with you guys? Yacan’t stop pumpin’ 
with a diver on th’ bottom!” 

I didn’t get much attention, even when I 
got to the side of the boat and threw the 
stuff in. The twins were jumping around in 
the rowboat and yelling insults at the floor 
of the pier. My ears cleared and I could hear 
some muffled yells from above. Then a spray 
of saliva descended on Bob. The Coffee boys 
had located us. 

We got the helmet up and pushed along 
between the pilings until we got to a place 
where the floor above was solid and the 
Coffees couldn’t get at us. I showed the 
twins what I’d salvaged. I had it all in our 
lunch bucket. Then I showed them the two- 
bit piece. That made them feel better. When 
I told them you could see fish down there 
and they’d come right up to you, the twins 
forgot all about the Coffees. 





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156 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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Bob went down. James watched the beer 
hose and line and I pumped. Then, while the 
Coffees thumped around overhead, we made 
a big haul. Bob started bringing up old milk 
bottles. The people who fished used them to 
keep bait in; in the course of years any num- 
ber had gotten knocked off of the edge of 
the pier. Every minute or so Bob would 
break the surface with a bottle in each hand. 
We'd take them from him—two cents each 
haul up the helmet, he’d get under it, and 
down again. 

We had about thirty milk bottles in the 
boat when we heard Mr. Coffee’s voice. His 
boys had called him. 

“Get outta there!”’ he bellowed, hanging 
his head over the edge and looking upside 
down at us. He was in his police uniform. 
“Gel oulta there! Yer under arrest, all of ya. 
No swimmin’ allowed under th’ pier!” 

“G’'wan,”’ James yelled, “arrest yer own 
kids, them murderers. They spit on us.”’ 

“They stole th’ boat!”’ one of the Coffees 
yelled. “‘ Them thieves!" 

“They smashed up our wagon an’ chucked 
it in th’ lake!” I countered. 

“Yer under arrest!"’ Mr. Coffee shrieked; 
his voice cracked from being upside down so 
long. ‘Fer theft!” 

“Boy,” Bert yelled, “are you guys gonna 
get it! Pop called your old man on th’ tele- 


October, 1949 


“Oh!” said the man with the beard. We 
were right under him. 

“We'll fix it, mister,” I said. 

Bob kept trying to row. We headed out 
into the lake. Our shoes, all three pair, were 
floating half submerged back under the pier. 
Our clothing was there too. It had been 
stowed in the torn-out side and the spike had 
pulled it out. James grabbed one sock before 
it drifted out of reach, He put it on. Then he 
looked back at the pier and the shore. Al- 
ready we were three quarters sunk, Milk 
bottles were floating all around. Even the 
two bits was gone. It had been on the bottom 
part that was ripped off, 

Everybody came running to get a better 
look at us. Then I saw Dora. She was follow- 
ing Jimmy and whining. 


Turow th’ pumps an’ helmet overboard,” 
Bob yelled, “‘ Maybe we can make it around 
th’ other side of th’ fence.” 

“There's Dora,” \ said. An’ Jimmy’s got 
our pups. They went an’ got ‘em after 
throwin’ rocks at us.” 

“What?"" Bob said. He looked. James 
looked. Jimmy had a pup in each hand. He 
held them out and showed them to us, tri- 
umphant. 

Then, very suddenly, very gently, the 
boat sank and we were swimming in the 


phone. He’s left the 
gas station an’ comin’ 
right over!” 

Bob’s eyes got big. 
He looked at the tire 
pumps. “C'mon!” he 
yelled. The anchor rope 
had gotten twisted 
around a pile as the 
boat drifted. We could 
not untwist it fast 
enough for Bob. He 
threw the rest of the 
rope overboard. 

“Hey, don’t do 
that!” one of the spec- 
tators up on the pier 
yelled. We looked up. It 
was another upside- 
down face; sort of old. 
He had a cropped gray 


¥ A shotgun changed the course of 
Broadway, New York City, at 
Tenth Street. In L811 a commission 
was appointed to lay out a city plan 
of streets above Fourteenth Street. 
Broadway then extended to Tenth 
Street. Surveyors and engineers 
were told to carry it straight on up- 
town, and if they had done sa it 
would have paralleled Fifth Avenue. 
But when they started to lay their 
lines through the farm of old Hen- 
drick Brevoort, where Grace Church 
now stands, the crusty old Duteh- 
man drove them off with a shotgun. 
That is why Broadway turns at 
Tenth Street and goes diagonally 
across the city. 


midst of a flotilla of 
milk bottles. 

There was only one 
place to go—to a lad- 


-der that went up from 


the water at the end 
of the pier. We got there 
all at the same time. 
There was no use inour 
staying down below. 
We had to go up some- 
time. We rescued as 
much of our clothing as 
hadn't already sunk. 
Mr. Coffee grabbed 
us aS we came over the 
top and onto the pier 
deck. He got us one by 
one, shook us, squeezed 
our arms hard, and 
handed us to another 











beard. 

*“Nuts!’’ Bob said. ‘‘Crimeny, if pop sees 
them pumps 

He started rowing as James and I strug- 
gled to get the helmet aboard. We got it up 
to the gunwale when James let go and 
mashed my fingers between the helmet and 
the boat. Then Bob ran us slam-bang into a 
piling and the helmet came aboard and onto 
James’ foot and went down into the bottom 
of the boat with a crash of broken milk 
bottles. 

“Go easy with that boat!” yelled the guy 
with the beard. 

“Stop, you little thieves!”” Mr. Coffee 
screeched, seeing us about to make a get- 
away, his voice breaking again. “Take thai 
boat in!” 

“Thieves! Thieves! THIEVES!” shouted 
Bert and Jimmy. 

“Le’s get out from under th’ pier!” I 
yelled. 


‘’ Waatcua think I’m tryin’ ta do?’’ Bob 
screamed, dragging at the oars and gaining 
momentum. 

“Bert! Jim!” Mr. Coffee yelled. ** Where'd 
that rowboat come from? Who owns it?” 

“They stole it from that gray house down 
the lake!”’ Bert yelled back. 

“We saw ’em,”’ Jim added. 

“It’s my boat,” said the guy with the 
beard. “I been following along the shore. I 
live there.” 

“We're takin’ it back right now, mister,” 
I said. 

James stopped rocking himself back and 
forth blowing on his injured foot and asked 
me, “‘How far’d you say it was t’ Canada?”’ 

“Look out!” I yelled to Bob, but it was too 
late. We slithered along a pile that had a big 
rusty spike sticking out of it. It gouged 
through the canvas from stem to stern and 
took off about half of the boat. 

“Holy smoke!’’ Bob said, looking at the 
water come in. 


park attendant. We 
didn’t struggle and we didn’t raise our eyes. 
Losing the pups had been the last straw. 

The man with the little beard stepped in 
and made Mr. Coffee stop pushing us around. 
Mr. Coffee grabbed him by the shoulder and 
was about to give him a shove when the 
little old guy said, slow, **Take your hands 
off me, lout!” 

“Mind your own business, you character, 
you!”’ Mr. Coffee yelled in his face, but not 
shoving. ‘‘ These here brats’re goin’ ta Juve- 
nile Hall!” 

“Bad Boy School,” Bert translated, 
grinning. 

“*Mister’’—I made a last appeal—“ please, 
sir, we’re sorry about your boat. They killed 
our pups, all except th’ two Jimmy’s got 
there. We were tryin’ to make some meney 
for dog licenses—for the two we had left.” 
“TI took the boat, sir,” Bob said, ‘‘on a 
loan.” 

“They killed your puppies?” 

“Eight!” Bob said, beginning to cry— 
half in sorrow, and half because he expected 
his pop along any minute and the plank 
with the pumps fastened to it was floating 
around in full sight of everyone. 

“Eight puppies?” 

“Yes, sir,” I said. “‘Murdered!” 

“Who did?” 

“They did!’’ James and Bob and I pointed 
at the Coffees, including Mr. Coffee. 

He got red. ‘Come on,”’ he ordered, start- 
ing to haul me away. 

*‘Just a minute!”’ the bearded man said. 
“T want to hear some more of this.”” Some 
other people did too. They said so. “Turn 
loose of the boy, officer.” 

“T won't run away,” I said. 

“Who killed your puppies?” 

““They’re liars,” Bert said, ** they wasours.” 

“You killed them?” 

“Yeah.” Jimmy made a face. ““What’s it 
to ya? Our old man said we could. ”’ 

(Continued on Page 158) 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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LADIES’ HOME 


JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 156) 

“Their mom gave us th’ pups,” James 
explained, beginning to sniffle. ‘‘So’s they 
wouldn’t kill ’em. They stole ’em back an’ 
murdered eight out fronta our house, Right 
in front of Dora, their mother!” 

“That’s her over there, scared about th’ 
pups Jimmy’s holdin’,” I said, gritting my 
teeth; the tears were contagious. 

Everybody looked at Dora, 

“We was tryin’ to make some money ta 
buy dog tags so they couldn’ ever touch the 
two that was left—so’s they’d be ours, 
legal,”’ James said. 

“We had thirty milk bottles,” Bob said. 

“An’ eight fishhooks an’ eleven sinkers an’ 
some other stuff—an’ a quarter, cash!” I 
said. ’ 

“Give us our pups!”’ Bob demanded of 
Jimmy. 

“‘They’ll jus’ kill em as soon as nobody’s 
lookin’,” said James, appealing to the man 
with the beard. ** Their eyes aren’t even open 
yet. They're jus’ babies.”’ 

“‘Give them to them,” said the man, mak- 
ing up-his mind. 

“Don’t do it, son!”’ said Mr. Coffee. 

Jimmy turned and threw both pups into 
the lake. Everybody gasped. 

“You're suspended, sir!”’ said the bearded 
man to Mr. Coffee. 

Then I hit the water. A belly whopper. 
It was a ten- or twelve-foot dive from the 
pier. ie s and Bob were in the water with 
me. So was a girl about twenty, all dressed. 
And so was Dora. Up on top everybody was 
boiling mad. The girl got one of the pups and 
Bob got the other. Then we got up the lad- 
der. A man came down and got Dora. 

“Who’re you, you character, you?” de- 
manded Mr. Coffee. 

““‘My name’s Randolph,” said the man 
with the beard, “‘and you're suspended!” 

The park attendant who'd been helping 
Mr. Coffee stepped back into the crowd. He 
seemed to know who Mr. Randolph was; he 
knew the name. Mr. Coffee had heard the 
name too. He looked like he’d swallowed 
something hot. 

“They’re dead,”’ wailed the girl who'd 
jumped in with all her clothes on. “* Both of 
them! They were too young.” 


Tue wet puppies were flattened out on the 
rough pier planks and Dora was licking them 
and whining. Her tail was between her legs. 
Bob squealed and made a leap for Jimmy 
Coffee. He nailed him. Jimmy hit back and 
Bob went down. I stepped in and punched 
Bert in the belly and got conked on the ear in 
return. James took my place. By the time he 
was down, I was up. A woman cried for some- 
one to stop it. Mr. Randolph said for her to 
take it easy. 

Then Mr. Scott arrived. He pushed 
through to where he could see what was go- 
ing on, and shouted for James and Bob to 
stop immediately. He was mad again. 

“Please, sir,’”’ said Mr. Randolph, “this is 
an affair of honor. I wouldn’t interfere ——” 

“T’m their father!’ shouted Mr. Scott. 
““Who’re you?” 

“You should be proud,” said Mr. Ran- 
dolph. He sighed. “‘My name’s Randolph. 
They’re outmatched, but they’ve got a 
cause and they’ve got inspiration.” 

“T voted for you,” said Mr. Scott. 

Mr. Coffee got paler. 

“Thank you,’”’ said the man with the 
beard. “Shall we proceed? Step back, every- 
body. Give them some room.” 

It lasted about five minutes. Mr. Ran- 
dolph said that this was the one time in his 
life that he’d had the opportunity to let vir- 
tue triumph over evil. He sermonized as we 
fought. He calmed everybo@y. He said—I 
heard about it later—that the dark forces 
were very strong in this world. 

‘Now, please,”’ he said as I got walloped 
again, “‘let us see if virtue can of itself tri- 
umph.” 

It almost didn’t. Mr. Scott began to rub 
his jaw and he had to turn aside a couple 
of times. Then, as Mr. Randolph was about 
to stop it, I got Jimmy a good one, strictly 
by luck. The twins and I were getting so 
punchy that by this time we frequently 
swung wide and hit each other. Jimmy went 





October, 1949 


CHAMPIONS 
START YOUNG! 





DEAN JOOST, Burlingame, Cal., is 7 
weeks old here. Not interested in base- 
ball yet/ But admiring brother Donald 
and two other brothers are already 
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ROUD FATHER OF FOUR SONS, 

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down. He bumped his head on the pier deck. 
He got up with a roar and I clunked him 
again. Then Bert went down. Bob did it. 
They had plenty spunk, the Coffee kids, 
they had too much, they kept right on fighting 
when we had them whipped. They almost won 
that way. Then I got Jimmy again and he 
didn’t get up. He just sat there. 

“Get outta my way!’ Bob yelled at 
James. He thrust him aside. 

James and I stood back and watched Bob 
whittle Bert down to his size, then chop him 
off. 

*Hallelujah!’”’ Mr. Randolph said when it 
was over. 

Then Dora yelped. One of the pups was 
trying to get into her fur. It was alive. But 
the black pup with the white spots was quiet. 
It never moved again. James and Bob and I 
hunkered down beside Dora and calmed her 
a little. She growled when the Coffees came 
close. 

A voice from the crowd said, ‘‘Get outa 
here, you. All of ya! G’wan, beat it!’’ 

“That,” nodded Mr. Randolph, looking 
at Mr. Coffee and his boys, ‘‘perfectly ex- 
presses the opinion of the majority.” 

Mr. Coffee got purple, but he didn’t say a 
word. They went away. Dora stopped growl- 
ing. 

“What will you name him?”’ asked Mr. 
Randolph. 

James couldn’t speak. He had the dead 
pup in his arms. I couldn’t think. Bob spoke 
up. 

’ “Sir,” he said, patting Dora, “‘ we'd like to 
name him Randolph, out of respect for you.”’ 

Mr. Randolph pulled his nose and 
smoothed his short beard. Some people 
laughed. Some didn’t. Mr. Randolph nodded. 

“Thank you—all,” he said. “I don’t know 
that I’ve ever been so honored. Now take 
my godchild home before it catches a chill.” 

The next morning a police car stopped in 
front of the Scott house and a cop said he 
wanted to see three kids; he had an envelope 
for them. Myrtle came and told me; I was 
still eating my breakfast. She yelled to hurry 
up, that James and Bob couldn’t wait to 
open it. It held a dog tag. Mr. Randolph had 
worked fast. On the back of the tag some- 
body had stamped RANDOLPH. 


Randolph kept us pretty busy. The sum- 
mer just galloped away. 

He was exactly two months and three 
weeks old and school was almost upon us 
when we decided to take him out to Mentor 
marsh. We decided it in the clubhouse. It 
was about eight o’clock in the morning, but 
we'd been there a good hour already. Bob 
and James and I were eating graham crack- 
ers and feeding little bits to Randolph— 
otherwise we were silent. It was Monday. 
In one week we'd be in a classroom again. 

Already the smell of education was in our 
nostrils: the combined aromas, odors, reeks 
and stinks of ink, tablet paper, pulverized 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


carbon and pencil wood from overflowing 
pencil sharpeners, eraser rubbings, chalk 
dust, the newly silvered steam radiators the 
first time they were turned on. 

Bob took the last graham’ cracker and 
split it four ways. Then we gave Randolph 
the empty box to sniff, so that he wouldn’t 
think we were holding out on him. 

“T hate it,” James said, looking at the 
sky. “I jus’ hate it!” 

“ Days gettin’ shorter now,”’ I said. “‘ Pretty 
soon th’ leaves’ll be droppin’ off th’ trees.” 

“Six-B—Six-A,’”’ Bob mused. ‘‘After this 
semester we'll be graduated to junior high.” 

“Six — seven— eight — nine —ten 
eleven—twelve,”’ James said, counting on his 
fingers. ‘*Six—no, seven more years of goin’ ta 
school. Then college. Pop says we gotta go 
ta college!” 

The enormity of it overwhelmed us. 

“Le’s go out to Mentor marsh,” I sug- 
gested. “Huh?” 

“Le’s go,” Bob said, getting up. 

We started early enough, but Babe came 
out of the house just as we were crossing to- 
ward the boulevard. We had a little diffi- 
culty getting rid of him. Then we couldn’t 
get a ride. We walked quite a distance. At 
last we crawled into a parked banana truck. 
The driver didn’t discover us until he was 
under way and three or four miles up the 
road. 

“You can’t ride on this truck!” he yelled. 
“Din’t you kids see th’ sign up here: No 
Riders?” He spoke to us throug the back 
window of the cab. It was broken. We were in 
the covered bed of the truck—with the 
bananas. He stepped on the brakes. ‘* When’d 
ya get on, anyhow?” 

“Back there, at th’ grocery store,” I said. 
“We thought you wouldn’t care. We got a 
pup here an’ he was tired walkin’.”’ 

“We thought th’ sign meant in front, with 
you,” Bob said. 

“Tl bet!” the man said. 

“We hiked all th’ way from Euclid 
Beach,” James added. We were almost 
stopped. ‘‘Our pup’s paws hurt.” 

“Pup?” the man said. The truck kept 
rolling; he’d eased off on the brake. ‘Hold 
‘im up. I c’n see ’im in th’ rear-view mirror.” 

I held Randolph up. “See?” 

“Where ya takin’ im?” 

‘“‘Mentor marsh—fishin’,’”’ I explained. 

“Hold ’im up again,” the man yelled over 
his shoulder. 

I held Randolph up again. He smiled. He 
thought it was a game. 

“Y’say his feet hurt?” 

“He was limpin’ on all four feet,” James 
said. “It looked awful. We been walkin’ 
since after breakfast.” 

“Why din’t yacarry im?” the man asked. 

“He don’t like it,”” I said. ‘He likes to 
smell things up close.” 

“Listen,”’ the truck driver said. ‘““Anythin’ 
c’n happen—an’ usually does. I’m givin’ you 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


just in case we run into my supervisor some- 
place, I don’t know, see? I'll kick ya around 
a little bit an’ chase ya off—okay?” 

“Kick easy,” Bob said. 

“Sure,” the driver said. ““When’s school 
open?” 

‘‘Few more days,” Bob said, feeling talka- 
tive. 

“Tough, ain’t it!” the truck driver said. 
All in all he was a very understanding per- 
son. 

We gained speed. Bob and James and I 
felt around in the stalks of bananas. Ran- 
dolph sniffed. They were pretty green; about 
as hard as ivory. But we were hungry. The 
sun was straight up and then some. The 
graham crackers had been used up a long 
time ago. 

“Hey,” the truck driver shouted over the 
roar of the motor, “them bananas’ll give ya 
the bellyache. Take my advice, leave ’em 
alone.” 

‘We ain’t et any,” James yelled, shaking 
his head so that the driver could see it in the 
mirror and understand. 

“But you been thinkin’ about it!” he 
yelled back. 

“How c’n he tell what we’re thinkin’?” 
James asked Bob and me in a whisper. Bob 
was over in one of the forward corners, where 
he couldn’t be seen in the mirror, trying to 
locate a ripe banana. 

“*Get me one,” I said softly. 

“Me too,”” James said. 

James and I sat there in full view, playing 
with Randolph and looking innocent. 

“’S no skin off my nose!” shouted the 
truck driver. ‘‘Only you kids don’ know how 
bad it c’n be. Y’ turn green, yer hair all falls 
out, an’ yer toenails curl up.” 

Bob got the bananas and concealed them 
in his shirt; then he crawled back and joined 
us. Then the truck slowed and stopped by 
the fork in the road that led to Mentor 
marsh. We scrambled over the tailboard and 
got out. 

‘All clear?” 

We yelled that we were. 

“Got th’ pup out?” 


We came around to the side of the cab 
and showed Randolph to the driver. He 
reached out and patted him and felt of his 
ears. 

‘Better carry ’im, if his feet hurt,”’ he ad- 
vised. ‘‘So long.’”’ He waved and started 
rolling. 

“So long!”’ we yelled. 

“Nice guy,” Bob said. 

“‘Gosh,”” James said. “I fergot th’ fishin’ 
line. I left it in th’ truck.” 

“Not mine, you didn’t,” I said. “I got it 
right here in my pocket.” 

“‘Me, too,”’ Bob said. “ Here’s th’ bananas. 
They’re like iron. You c’n watch us fish.” 

“T had it in my hand,” James said, taking 
the vividly green bananas and looking after 
the vanishing truck. “‘Doggone! I put it 
down ’cause it kept stickin’ me.” 

““C’mon,” Bob urged. “Shake a leg. It’ll 
be two-thirty before we get to th’ marsh. 
We'll only have about an hour to fish before 
we gotta start home.” 

We took the cutoff and went down a little 
dirt road with summer cottages and farm- 
houses set back on either side. Randolph 
struggled in my hands and insisted on being 
put down to smell things. 

“‘T wish we lived out here,” I said. 

Bob nodded. 

“You want some of my banana?” James 
asked. 

“Not me!”’ I said. 

“I’m gonna eat it!”” James insisted, stub- 
born. And he did. We three stood in the 
middle of the road and watched while he 
chewed and swallowed. His face was all 
puckered up, but in the end he looked at us 
triumphantly. Randolph blinked and sneezed. 
He didn’t ask for any. 

“How about the other one?” I asked. 

“T’m full,’’ James said. Bob grinned. So 
did Randolph. James went to the next mail- 
box along the road, opened the front, and 
threw the banana in. It clanged like the clap- 
per in a bell. 

Randolph barked a puppy bark and tore 
down the road after a big Persian tom that 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


had emerged from some honeysuckle. We let 
him go. He couldn’t run too fast, and he was 
going in the right direction. 

“T'll bet they’re bitin’ t’day,” I said. 

“Tl bet,” Bob agreed. 

“Wish I hadn’t forgot my line,” James 
said. 

“You ain’t gonna need it,” Bob said. 

James belched. 

“See?” Bob said. “Maybe you better 
start back right now.” 

“Nuts!” James _ said. 
chicken. It was nourishin’!” 

Randolph had vanished into a grape arbor 
way up ahead, still after the tomcat. Now, 
suddenly, he yelped for help. The grapevines 
shook and shuddered and he yelped louder. 
In fact, it became a great wail—pain, dis- 
tress and anger. 

We ran. Bob led the way through the 
fence. It was barbed wire and tore a big hole 
in his pants. The grape leaves thrashed 
around furiously. We saw flashes of Ran- 
dolph and something else boiling around 
under the leaves. We closed in from three 
sides. 

“Somethin’s slaughterin’ him!” yelled one 
of the twins. ‘Get him!” 

Bob dived and missed. It was the Persian 
tom. He had Randolph, or Randolph had 
him; it was hard to tell. Anyhow, they flip- 
flopped over into the next row of grapes. I 
jerked out of my jacket and used it as a 
shield. Bits of fur were all over the place. 

Just as I leaped, I saw a flash of something 
else coming at me through the grapevines. 


“You  guys’re 





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Then we met, head-on, James and I. We just 
lay there, in the fallen vines, until Bob’s 
voice penetrated through to us. I lurched 
up and, holding my head, went to his aid. 
He was down on the ground on top of some- 
thing he’d captured with my jacket. It was 
bouncing around quite a bit—and yowling 
to high heaven. 

“Help me, guy!” Bob gasped. “I can’t 
turn loose!” 

I let go of my head and helped him press 
down on the jacket. Not even the two of us 
could hold it. James came stumbling through 
the vines. He got down and helped us. The 
Persian quit struggling for the moment, but 
kept up the evil yowls and low, threatening 
snarls. 

““Where’s Randolph?” I asked. : 

“‘Over there,” Bob said. ‘What happened 
ta you guys?” 

““My head!” James said, shaking it sadly. 

We looked around for Randolph. He was 
sitting under a grapevine about forty feet 
away, regarding us with interest and neutral- 
ity. He was all through with the fight, except 
as a spectator. 

“You all right, Randolph?” Bob asked. 

Randolph got up and trotted another ten 
feet and sat under another grapevine. He 
licked his shoulder and belly. He licked so 
high up on his chest that he fell over back- 
ward. He got up and looked at us and smiled. 
Then he withdrew another ten feet. 

“Look,’’ I said, “le’s see if we c’n get th’ 
cat into one of th’ mailboxes an’ close it up. 
I gotta hold my head too.” 

We struggled and fought and got clawed 
a little bit, but we twisted the jacket into a 
sort of sack, with the tom snarling and spit- 
ting inside, and got to our feet. Then we ma- 
neuvered ourselves out to the road. Working 
desperately, we forced the beast into one of 
the mailboxes and slammed the front of it 
shut before it could leap out at us. For a 
second there was a furious scratching and 
thumping, then we saw that the catch was 
going to hold. 

We turned and ran. We didn’t stop until 
we were way out in the marsh and had found 
our boat. We emptied the water out of it, 





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right, and paddled out. We'd brought worms 
from home—in our pockets. 

We hadn’t even gotten to the place where 
the big bullheads lived when James said he 
wanted to go back tn. 

“What for?” I asked, impatient to start 
fishing. 

‘“‘My head hurts,” James said weakly. 

“Won't feel any better on land,” I argued. 

‘‘My head hurts so bad I got a pain in my 
stumik.” 

“That banana!” Bob said. 

We paddled back and put James ashore, 
then paddled back out again. We caught 
bullheads like we’d never caught them be- 
fore. We lost all track of time. We caught 
about forty. The sun was getting low when I 
noticed it. We’d used up our worms, except 
for those on our hooks, and the mosquitoes 
were beginning to make noises. 

“Hey,” I said, ‘Bob, we better be gettin’ 
back. If we don’t catch a ride right off, we'll 
be in for it!” 

We paddled for shore. James was there. He 
was lying on one of the dunes that separated 
the marsh from Lake Erie. 

“‘How you*feel?”’ Bob asked. 

“I’m empty, completely,” James replied 
without even opening his eyes. ‘“‘I’m so 
empty the skeeters don’t even bite me.” 

“We gotta go home,”’ I said after Bob and 
I had hidden the boat. James feebly got to 
his feet. ‘You don’t look so awful,” I lied. 

“Look swell!’’ Bob said. We were worried 
We hadn’t seen him close up since we'd put 
him ashore. 

“I’m hungry,” James said. “I’m so hun- 
gry I could eat wax paper or wet cardboard, 
I could.” A tinge of color came back into his 
face. He was all right. 

‘You want a banana?” Bob asked. 

James ignored him. 

Randolph bounced around in the sand, 
growling at the string of fish, happy to be 
ashore where he could smell things again. 

We were out of the marsh and at the be- 
ginning of the graded road when we met two 
kids on bicycles, about our same age. They 
looked shaken. Randolph growled and got 
between my legs. 

**Hello,”’ we said. 

“Hello,” they said. “ 
way?” 

“Yeah,” Bob said. ““Why?” 

“Crazy guy down there,” one of the boys 
said. ‘* He’s lookin’ fer some kids. Fer a minit 
there he thought we was them. He’s got a 
big stick.” 

“Yeah?” James sat down. 

‘*He let us go,” the boy continued. ‘‘He’s 


You guys goin’ that 


| waitin’ fer th’ other guys. He said they gotta 


come back that way sooner or later.” 

‘*‘He said he was gonna cane ’em within a 
inch o’ their lives!’’ the other boy continued. 
‘““Then he’s gonna call th’ cops. They had a 
dog along ‘at almost killed his tomcat. Druv 
it crazy, he said. You them? That li'l’ ol’ dog 


the dog?” 


“They was ‘vandals’—ruint his grapes, 
he said,”’ the first boy resumed. ** We hadda 
talk fast. You them?” 

“We better go back an’ fish some more,” 
I said. 

“‘Be seein’ ya,”” Bob said. 


We left the strangers and went back into 
the marsh. 
We went down and sat on the dunes for 


| about half an hour, then tried again. We 
| sneaked up the road until we saw the man. 


He was sitting right out on the road, by the 
mailbox, in a rocking chair. He rocked and 
rocked and rocked. Every minute or so he’d 
stop the rocking chair, look all around, and 
start again. 

We crawled back far enough so that he 
wouldn’t see us, then got up and ran for the 
marsh. 

It began to get dark. We’d been up to the 
road four or five times by then. Then he 
spotted us and gave chase. He ran us all the 
way into the swamp. Bob threw away our 
forty bullheads so that he could run faster. 
The man grabbed hold of my jacket. I ran 
right out of it. 

James was carrying Randolph. He stum- 
bled and dropped him. Randolph rolled 
along the ground right in front of James and 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


the man. They were so close that the man 
was almost touching James and James was 
almost touching Randolph, both of them 
bent over, each trying to grab hold. 

Randolph stopped rolling and James 
dropped down to get him. The man couldn’t 
stop that quick. His foot caught James in 
the ribs and he took a header into the ditch. 
He didn’t get up right away. Neither did 
James. We ran back, found James and Ran- 
dolph, and got to the highway without being 
chased. 

Some headlights came along. We stuck out 
our thumbs. The lights slowed, then stopped. 

“Hey, vou kids,” a familiar voice called, 
“yer folks allow ya ta stay out like this?” It 
was the banana truck. ‘‘C’mon, hurry up,” 
the friendly driver said. ‘‘Here, in front. 
Nobody’ll see anythin’ at night. How’s th’ 
pup?” 

We piled in. 

“He’s awful hungry an’ all scratched up,” 
I said. “He didn’ eat a thing all day. We 
been in all kindsa trouble. I lost my jacket.” 

“We're in all kindsa trouble!” Bob cor- 
rected. 

“Out so late,”” James said. 

The truck driver put the truck in high and 
we thundered down the highway. “Tell me 
all about it,” he said, “‘everythin’. How were 
those bananas? I’ll get ya home in a jiff.” 

Mr. Scott was comparatively easy on us. 
The truck stopped right in front of the house 
and the driver came to the door with us. He 
told Mr. and Mrs. Scott and my mother that 
we'd had a lot of hard luck and so on and so 
forth. Mr. Scott smiled and thanked him for 


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roared away, he took us out to the garage. 
He used the razor strap I’d heard so much 
about. 


We did all right in school that fall. I think 
it was Randolph’s influence. 

He thrived. He grew and grew. He ate 
everything. He even ate cucumbers and to- 
matoes—anything he saw us eat. Once he 
chased a cat up a tree and the fire depart- 
ment had to get him down. The firemen ac- 
cused us of putting him up there. We hadn’t. 
Randolph was just impetuous. 

James and Bob and I wanted to be fair, 
but we had a few heated discussions about 
how to divide Randolph’s time. They wanted 
him to sleep three nights at their house and 
one at mine. I argued that it wasn’t right. It 
wasn’t my fault they’d been born double, or 
that Babe was their brother—and I didn’t 
want to be penalized! Randolph decided it 
in my favor. He slept with me every other 
night. He had one ear that stood up and one 
that was inside out most of the time and 
wouldn’t. His legs were too short for his 
body and that gave the impression that he 
was longer than he really was. But he had a 
great personality. 

We grew up suddenly. In two days. Ran- 
dolph too. Winter came on. We fought it as 
long as we could. For a long time we went 
swimming just as though it was summer. 
Randolph couldn’t take it. He got so that 
he’d just watch us from the bank. Then, at 
the end of October, indigo and shuddering, 
so chilled that we could hardly move our 
knee joints, we had to admit defeat. We 
were still children then. The two days hadn’t 
yet arrived. But they were drawing nearer. 

Afternoons, after we got out of school, old 
men with rakes would be standing out in 
front of their houses talking to one another 


163 


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Jimmy. 


| stuck their heads over 


164 


Then, one day, while were we in class, the 
sky got so overcast and the world so dark 
that the janitor turned on the lights, We saw 
the first snowflakes feathering down. 

Real snow came, and we wore galoshes and 
leather jackets and our toes froze and we got 
cold just the same. We got new sleds for 
Christmas. Lake Erie turned into a solid 
sheet of ice that extended miles and miles 
out from shore. 

It got so cold that the twins and I had to 
postpone getting into fights until it got a 
little warmer. It hurt something terrific to 
hit a guy in the eye with a cold fist. It was 
something you'd never do twice, not volun- 
tarily. 

Then, right after my birthday—we'd ad- 
vanced into 6-A—the two days arrived. We 
lost our youth. Randolph led us into love. 

First, the Coffees moved away. Bert and 
Jimmy came to say good-by. The twins and 
I'were shoveling snow 
out of our clubhouse. 
Randolph and Babe 
and Myrtle were up 
on top, watching. 
Randolph was the 
first to spot the 
approaching Coffees. 
Myrtle was second. 
Randolph barked his 
angry bark; he had 


all kinds. some hills 


KK *K KK Wie ee 


MM Cow 
o ( yountyy 


By E. V. Griffith 


Life blows away among these lone- 


Like sticky maple seeds from windy 


October, I 


It was sort of tragic. Even losing enem 
was painful. 

“Want it?” 

“Yeah—sure 
yes!” 

“So long,” Jimmy said. 


a’course,”” we said. “ Hex 


We all said so long and they went awz 
It was all over. We relaxed. Randolph + 
down on the snow and watched them 
Babe kicked some snow into the clubhou 
We didn’t tell him not to. 

“Le’s go down an’ slide on the lake,” 
suggested. 

Randolph took a last look up the stre 
got up, shook himself, and looked at us 
the way that meant ‘‘Let’s go.” He lik 
sliding on the ice. 

We started out onto the lake. The ice ¥ 
coarse and humped up for about a quar! 
of a mile, then it got like plate glass. 

“We'll move 
right away,” Jan 
said, 

“Wonder what t 
catch is?” I said, 

‘‘Me, too,” B 
said. 

‘‘Where’s Ra 
dolph?”’ I asked, su 
denly missing him. 

We looked arour 
We didn’t see h 


“Ho, ho,’ Myrtle anywhere. 
said. ‘‘Ho, ho, here boughs. **Randolph!’’ 
they come!” We see all this, we know all this— yelled. ‘‘Ran 
She and Babe ran yer still dolph!”’ 
around to the far side We love as all men love, we whisper All three of 
of the clubhouse, put- vows. yelled togethe 


ting the excavation 
between the Coffees 
and themselves. Ran- 
dolph stood his 
ground, growling. 
“Hey, quick!” I 
yelled to the twins. 
‘**Here come Bert an’ 
Make snow- 
balls. Hard ones!” 
James and Bob 


reasons, 


flowing. ... 


are going. 


ranges 


the top and took a 
quick look. They 
dropped down and 
started making snow- 
balls. Randolph 
sensed the emer- 
gency. He advanced 
one step toward Bert 
and Jimmy, stiff- 
legged, teeth bared. 
They stopped. Their 
hands were empty. 

“You guys,” Bert called. “‘ Want our club- 
house? We're movin’ away.” 

“Beat it,” I suggested. One of the twins 
handed me two solid snowballs. “Scram— 
this here’s our territory!”’ 

“Aw, dry up,” Jimmy said, keeping an 
eye on Randolph. ‘‘ We didn’ come over ta 
fight. Want our tree house, or not? It’s gota 
roof, an’ a floor, an’ walls—an’ no snow or 
mud in it!” 

“Even got a stove,’’ Bert added. “‘See 
three blocks every which way from up 
there. Nobody c’n surprise ya.” 


changes, 


young. 


Arwen, James and Bob and I crawled up 
out of the dugout. We could see the tree 
house up in a big elm that stood in another 
empty lot about two blocks away. It was a 
hut made of two piano boxes that had been 
hoisted up in sections and hammered to- 


gether. 
*“What’s th’ catch?” I asked. 
“Nothin’,” Bert said. ‘‘We’re movin’ 


down ta 105th Street close to Keith’s RKO. 
Our old_man’s been transferred. We’re gonna 
see vaudeville every day! We gotta give our 
tree house ta somebody. Want it?” 

“When ya goin’?”’ Babe yelled. 

“Yeah—ho, ho?”’ Myrtle echoed. 

“T’day,” Bert said. 

Myrtle picked up her dress and blew her 
nose in her petticoat. 

‘“Cryin’?”’ Babe asked. “ Wuffor?”’ 

“Never see em again,’”’ Myrtle said into 
her petticoat. 


Life passes by, and never offers 
Like blue, eternal streams, forever 


Our days are gusts of wind, and 
transient seasons 
Are gone before we know that they 


Life goes among these dark, eternal 


Like pebbles on the bottom ofa river. 
We pass, impervious to time and 


Like moths which come but once, 
then go forever. 

For in these mountains, gaunt and 
weather-stung, 

A man may age, but never may be 


KK KOK ORR Oe RO 


“RANDOLPH!” 

“There he is” 
James pointed. 

Randolph jump 
up on a hummock 
pressure ice close 
the beach, barked jc 
ously for us to cor 
see what he'd fou 
and disappear 
again. 

“He’s got son 
thin’,”” I said. “*\ 
better see what it i 

“Girl over ther 
Bob observed. **C 
a sled.” 

““Mus’ be someth 
else,’’ James sai 
“Randolph don’ |i 
girls.” 

We had just abc 
gotten to where wi 
seen Randolph, wh 
a girl came around the piled-up ice and look 
at us. She had Randolph in her arms a 
he liked it. She was dusky and beautif 
She had immense, long eyes. She was gyp: 

“He yours?”’ she asked, looking from o 
of us to the other with her great big ey 
She had a voice like water flowing, bees bu: 
ing, deep grass rustling. 

“Yeah,” we said, spellbound. 

““Whose?”’ she asked. She babied Rz 
dolph, upside down in her arms, and 
looked up at her with lovestruck eyes. 

“‘Ours,”’ we said. “‘ He belongs to all of u: 

““He’s about got his full growth,’’ I sa 

“Gosh!” Bob said, apropos of nothing 
all. 

““What’s your name?”’ James asked ve 
gallantly. 

‘“*Tisa—I’m Tisa,” the vision said. 

Randolph licked her under the chin. S$ 
laughed and squeezed him. Randolph hat 
being squeezed, but this time he enjoyed 

“He’s kissing me,”’ she said. 

“Yes,’’ we said, weak. 

“‘T’m nine,” she said. 

““Me, too,” I said quickly, feeling the bo 
between us strengthen. “‘They’re goin’ 
twelve.” 

““So what?” James demanded. “‘Anyho 
you're ten now!” 

_‘T like you—all,” Tisa’s red lips said, j1 
in time to forestall an incident. ‘‘Especia 
him.” She hugged Randolph again. 

‘Jus’ move here?”’ James asked tender 

(Continued on Page 166) 


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166 


(Continued from Page 164) 

“Yes,”’ Tisa smiled. ‘ We're gypsy.” 

“You,” Bob said, looking Tisa right in the 
eyes, “are the most beautiful girl I ever 
saw!”’ 

“Lemme pull you on th’ sled,” I said, 
picking up the rope. 

“We'll all of us pull!” James declared, 
grabbing a handhold. 

We towed Tisa and Randolph out onto 
the smooth ice. She kept Randolph in her 
arms. 

“‘Look,”’ I said, becoming enraged, “it was 
my idea!” 

The twins ignored me. I jerked the rope 
out of their hands. 

“T’m gonna do th’ pullin’!’”’ I declared. 

“Yer loony!” James shouted, grabbing 
at the rope again. 

“You got a girl!” Bob shouted. 

““Sure!’’ James yelled. He turned to Tisa, 
spoke gently: ‘‘He’s got a girl named Mary 
Heaven in South Dakota. She’s Indian. 
They’re gonna get married. They’re already 
engaged!” 

“‘T’ve been there,” Tisa said to me, smiling. 

“T’ll bet I met you someplace,” I said. 
“We must’ve at least passed on th’ highway. 
Think of it!” 

“Pull, huh?” Tisa said. 

“Sure,” I said. 

It was a strenuous, exciting and frustrat- 
ing day. Tisa wouldn’t show any partiality. 
Before evening and parting she told us that 
she loved us. She loved Randolph especially. 
She kissed us good-by. 

I couldn’t eat any dinner. 

The next day was worse. 

The Coffees actually had 
gone. We met Tisa and 
took her up into the tree 
house. Randolph followed. 
We'd left him at the foot 
of the trunk, with Myrtle 
and Babe. Gasping and 
trembling, Randolph 
crawled up the board rungs and joined us. 
Myrtle and Babe were afraid to. Randolph 
didn’t like height, not when he stopped to 
give it any thought, but he was sold on Tisa. 

We kindled a fire in the five-gallon can 
that Bert and Jimmy had made into a stove. 
It was dark and cozy and wonderful in the 
tree house. There weren’t any windows, only 
little lookout holes that had been bored with 
an auger. 

Tisa squeezed out of her coat and we 
could see her better. She got a mirror out of 
her pocket and made Bob hold it for her 
while she smoothed her hair. She had brace- 
lets on her wrists and rings on her fingers and 
tiny earrings in her ears. She made us weak 
all over. 

Bob said, “Tisa, marry me, huh?” 

““Marry me,”’ James said, anxious. “I’m 
gonna be more successful.” 

“T’ve got two bits,”’ I said, for lack of any- 
thing else to say. “‘We been shovelin’ snow.” 

Tisa turned and looked at me with her 
beautiful eyes. She smiled. ‘You go out,” 
she said to the twins. “I want to tell a 
secret.” 

The twins glared at me and squeezed out 
of the little door. 


Tisa took Randolph in her arms, placing 
him before her in her lap. She put a few more 
twigs into the glowing stove. Then she looked 
at me. Then we kissed. I felt faint. 

“I want candy,” Tisa whispered into my 
ear. 
“T love you,” I whispered guiltily, “bat I’m 
gonna marry Mary Heaven. She's Sioux. I 
promised.” I kept my two bits in my pocket. 

“Want to kiss me again?” Tisa asked 
softly. 

“Uh-huh,” I said, unable to form words. 

We did. Blinding little explosions were 
going off inside of my eyeballs and I couldn’t 
get my breath. 

“Give me money.” She put out her hand. 

I fished the quarter out of my pocket and 
gave it to her. But something was wrong. 
Something had happened. She wasn’t the 
Tisa I’d been in love with. She was a stranger. 

The twins squeezed in the tiny door on 
their hands and knees. They were red from 
the cold. Tisa put out her hands and patted 


When some men discharge 
an obligation, you can hear 
the report for miles around, 


October, 1949 


them on the cheeks just as though they were 
dogs—and they loved it. 

“Whatcha do?”’ Bob asked, looking from 
one of us to the other. 

“Nothin’,” I said. 

“You go out now,” Tisa ordered. 

“I’m goin’,” I said. ‘You couldn’ keep 
me!” 

“What's wrong with him?” James asked. 

Tisa wrinkled her nose. 

“C’mon, Randolph,” I said. 

He was ready to go. He didn’t love Tisa 
any more. I got him under my arm and 
crawled out and got on the ladder. About 
two thirds of the way down, I missed a rung 
and we fell the rest of the way. I landed flat 
on my back. Myrtle and Babe got clear just 
in time. 

“Hurt yerself?” Babe asked, looking 
down at me. 


Ranpotpn kiyied around the lot, then com- 
posed himself and came back and barked. 
We turned. The old maiden lady who lived 
in the big house across the street was looking 
out of her window, eyes fastened on the tree 
house. Randolph dashed across and barked 
at the window. 

“How long Miss Mason been watchin’?” 
I asked. 

“Long time,” Myrtle said. “Alla time 
since you guys an’ her clumb up in th’ tree.” 

“Lissen”’—Babe nudged me—‘they’re 
fightin’ up there!” 

“Bob!” I yelled. ‘‘ James! Ol’ Miss Mason 
been watchin’ us. We better get outa here!” 
Miss Mason didn’t have anything better to 

do except get kids in the 


es neighborhood in trouble. 


There was some scuf- 
fling up in the piano box. 
Somebody yelled in pain. 

“Fightin’ a’right!’’ 
Myrtle said. 

“Miss Mason,” I warned 
again, “‘she——” 

“Looky!”’ Myrtle shrieked, dancing away 
in terror. ““Th’ house is movin'!”’ 

I looked. It had moved. I saw why. The 
nails had all been pulled out! 

“Look out! Look out!”’ I howled. “Them 
Coffees pulled all th’ nails!” 

Randolph came tearing back across the 
street to get in on the new excitement. 
Myrtle and Babe squealed and jumped 
around on the snow. 

“Get down!” I yelled. “‘ Quick!” 

A head stuck out of the door. Then a 
shoulder. It was James’. He hadn’t heard me. 
But he noticed the change in the position of 
the tree house. He didn’t need a book of 
directions to tell him what was wrong. 

“Them Coffees!” he yelled. 

“Get down,” I said. “The nails is out. 
They pulled ’em out. Get down!” 

“I can’t!” he yelled, wide-eyed and des- 
perate. “‘She’s holdin’ on ta me. I wouldn’ 
give her my two bits.” 

The piano box lurched. It creaked. There 
was a splitting sound. Then the tree house 
turned and toppled out of the tree. It landed 
on one corner of the roof and burst. It was 
just like an explosion. Smoke and all. Boards 
sailed around and the stove scattered hot 
coals all over the place. 

James sprang out of the debris and dashed 
around the lot just like Randolph had. “I 
got splinters!” he yelled. “I got splinters! 
I got splinters!” 

Bob got to his feet slowly and stood in the 
center of the debris. There was smoke com- 
ing out of the top of his head, like a volcano. 
I ran into the welter and knocked the glow- 
ing ashes out of his hair. Then we looked for 
Tisa. She was about a block away and there 
wasn’t anybody could have caught her, not 
even on a motorcycle. 

Then Mrs. Scott arrived. Miss Mason had 
telephoned. She marched usoff home—taking 
in what had happened in one horrified glance. 

“Where’s Randolph?”’ she suddenly cried. 

We stopped and looked around us, sick 
with apprehension. 

“He went home when th’ house blew up,” 
Myrtle said. “‘I seen him.” 

What with one thing and another, that 
day marked the end of our childhood. 

(Continued on Page 168) 


—MARK TWAIN, 


a= mn ae 





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(Continued from Page 166) 

We graduated from 6-A. The future lay 
before us and we filed out of Memorial Gram- 
mar School for the last time. Randolph was 
waiting in the schoolyard. He bounced 
around with joy at the very sight of us. But 
we couldn’t respond. We went slowly. We 
didn’t feel like grownups. And we didn’t feel 
youthful. 

“I’m goin’ on eleven,” I said. 

“We're almost thirteen,” James said, 
understanding. 

“Life’s jus’ flyin’ away,” Bob said, shak- 
ing his head and avoiding walking on the 
sidewalk open places, stepping only in the 
cracks and where the lines crossed. 

Randolph got depressed and walked along 
at our heels; he hung his head and didn’t 
bother to smell anything. 

“Le’s us never, never part, huh?” James 
said. 

“Always stick together !’’ Bob said, bright- 
ening. 

“No matter what happens!” 
“You're my best friends.’’ 

“Shake,” Bob said. 

We stopped and shook hands all around. 
We each of us got down and shook Ran- 
dolph’s paw. He took it solemnly. 

Then we felt much better. At least there | 
was something we could count on in this | 
changing world. Randolph perked up when | 
he saw that our hearts were lighter. 


I said. 


That night the ax fell. Right after dinner. 
We were having dessert. My mother told me 
that we were going back to live with the 
Indians. First the Seminoles—in Florida. I 
didn’t say anything. I couldn’t even breathe. 

*“Heavens!” she exclaimed. “‘Aren’t you 
happy about it? You always wanted to| 
travel again.” 

“What about Randolph?” I said. 

“He isn’t only yours,”’ she said. “‘The 
Scott boys own more of him than you do. 
They wouldn’t want to part with him. And 
it would be difficult to travel with him 
see?” 
“T don’t want to travel,” I said. “I want 
to stay with Randolph!” 

“You don’t mean that! Indians —— 

“T do!” I said. “J do! I do! I do! Heck 
with Indians!” 

She looked unhappy. “I’m sorry,” she 
said, “but we’ll have to go.” 

“When?” 

“Next week. I was keeping it as a surprise 
for you.” 

I didn’t say anything. I got sick right at 
the table. 

In the morning I was pale and shaken. 
My mother didn’t want to let me go out 
until I looked better. I talked her into it. I 
told her I felt fine. 

James and Bob and Babe and Randolph 
met me halfway. They’d been coming over 
to see why I hadn’t shown up. 

““What’s wrong, guy? You sick?” Bob 
asked. 

“We're going away,” I said. 

“What?” All three of them stopped still. 
Randolph came over and leaned against my 
leg. I hugged him and put my face down on 
his neck. Babe started to bawl. I couldn’t 
keep the tears back either. 

“When you goin’?”’ Bob gasped. 

I got my breath. Randolph snuggled up to 
me, tight. ‘‘ Next week, she said.’’ I stopped 
crying. “Maybe I won't!” I said. The cramps 
in my stomach eased. 

“Huh?” James asked. He’d been speech- 
less. 

“Tl run away, I will!” 1 said. “Randolph 
an’ me.” 

“No ya won't!” James said. ‘“He’s ours 
more’n yours. We got three shares in him!”’ 

“You got only one,’”’ Babe said, scared, 
pulling at Randolph. 

“T wouldn’ run far,” I said, hanging on. 

“How far?” Bob said. 

“Mentor marsh,’ I said as the thought 
struck me. “Him an’ me’ll live in th’ boat. 
You guys could see him whenever you 
wanted to. We’d eat bullheads an’ sleep in 
the boat.” 

Babe shook his head, but James and Bob 
were getting interested. Bob nodded; he 
wanted to hear more. 











UOectober, 1949 


eo 8 her one 






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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Tow long’d ya stay?” James asked. 

_ “Till my mother says we’ll stay here in 
Cleveland an’ not go anywhere,” I said. “If’n 
I was ta hide out a whole month, that’d 
wear her down!” 

The twins stuck their tongues out of the 
corners of their mouths and thought it over. 
Babe watched them. Randolph licked my 
hand. 

“How about it?’ I asked. “Let me take 
him. I gotta have company.” 


Randolph and I pulled out on a Sunday 
morning. I got my fishing line and put some 
matches in a needle case I swiped out of the 
sewing basket. I told my mother that James 
and Bob and I were going fishing for the last 
time. 

“Where?” she asked. 

“White Park,” I lied. That wasn’t far— 
and it was in the opposite direction from 
Mentor marsh. And a lot closer. 

“Be careful.” 

“T will,” I replied. 

“How long will you be gone?” 

“Till about four o’clock,”’ I lied again. 

She nodded, preoccupied. She had a lot of 
packing to do. “You be careful!” 

As Randolph and I went out I got a 
rolled-up Navaho blanket I’d cached under 
the back porch. 

James and Bob and Babe were waiting for 
us in the clubhouse. We didn’t want their 
folks to see us together and figure out that it 
was a conspiracy. They were dressed up for 


> Tinving is undoubtedly a great 
evil—whenonedoesn’t tip. Some- 
thing should be done to stop it, and 
the man who leads the way in this 
great reform will deserve a monu- 
ment—and need one, too—for he'll 
starve to death. 


—GEORGE HORACE LORIMER: 
Jack Spurlock, Prodigal 
(Doubleday & Company, Inc.). 


Sunday school. That’s where they were sup- 
posed to be right now. They had a tablet and 
pencil for me. We sat down in the hole. 

“You could write in blood,’’ James sug- 
gested, offering me a pin. 

“Uh-uh,” I said. “I might get an infec- 
tion.” 

I used the pencil. I wrote my mother, say- 
ing that I was running away, forever. Ran- 
dolph and I, together. I was leaving the note 
in the clubhouse for the twins to find and 
give to her. 

James and Bob read as I wrote. “Tell ’er 
yer gonna drown yerself,” James suggested. 
“That'll scare ’er!” 

““Sure,”’ Bob agreed, ‘“‘make her suffer!’ 

“No,” I said; I was feeling sad. ‘‘ Uh-uh, I 
love her.” 

‘Never mind,” Babe said. “She was gonna 
take you travelin’, wasn’ she?” 

“T like travelin’,” I said. 

“Then why ya runnin’ away?” 
asked. 

‘On account I like you guys,” I said. 
“And on account of him.” I patted Ran- 
dolph. He licked my face. “You wouldn’ let 
me take him along to Florida, huh?”’ 

“No!”’ they shouted together. 

“Well,” I said, feeling miserable, ‘that’s 
why I’m runnin’ away—so’s we c’n stay here 
an’ always be together.” 

They walked me over to the boulevard. 
When we got there they each gave me a dime. 
They didn’t say anything, just gave it to me. 
It was the money they were supposed to 
have dropped in the collection basket at 
Sunday school. 

They stood back while I went out in the 
road with Randolph. I stuck out my thumb 
and the first car that came along stopped. It 
was terrible how fast I could run away. The 


James 


| man opened the door and Randolph and I 


got in and the car started up. I looked back 
at the twins and Babe. They’d come out into 
the road. They stood there, looking after me, 
getting smaller and smaller. At last we went 


| around acurve and I wasalone in the world— 


with Randolph. 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Where you going—running away?” the 
man asked. He startled me. 

“No, sir,” I said, ‘I’m goin’ fishin’.”’ 

“All alone?” 

“Randolph an’ me, sir.” 

“His name Randolph?” 

“Yes, sir——’”’ 

“Well, I’ll be!” 

We rode along in silence for a minute or 
two. Then the man looked us over again. 
“How long you gonna stay?” 

“T’day—till this afternoon.” 

“That why you got all that food along? 
And the blanket?” 

“It’s a Navaho blanket. It’s to sit on,” I 
explained. 

“What about that sack?’ 

“Randolph eats an awful lot,” I said. 

“You got enough chow there for a cam- 
paign!”’ the man said. “‘Why you running 
away?” 

I got a tomato out of the bag and pushed 
Randolph in the ribs. He turned around and 
sniffed it. 

“Go on,” I ordered, ‘‘eat it.’ I held the 
other food under his mouth so that he 
wouldn’t drip on the 
upholstery. He made 
a face, but he ate it. 
“See!’’ I said. 

“Well, I’ll be!” 
said the man again. 

“You goin’ as far 
as Mentor marsh?” I 
asked. 

‘Past there.” 

Werodealong with- 
out saying anything 
for about five miles. 
The man kept look- 
ing at Randolph and 


OU Afyple Trees 


BY SJANNA SOLUM 


These apple trees, to all intents, 
Lean crooked elbows on the fence 
And face the winter, bent and bare, 
With empty arms and wind-tossed 


October, 1949 


“Who were you looking for—who’s he 
looking for, if that’s your name?” the man 
asked. 

“You surprised us,” I said, 
loud. We get off here.” 

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said, “not by a 
long shot! Not in this rain you don’t. My 
house is a few miles up. You can stay there 
until it stops.” 

A woman opened the house door and stood 
inside out of the rain, waiting and smiling, 
as we came up the driveway. It was raining 
cats and dogs. The man stopped the car. 

“C'mon,” he said, “‘let’s run for it.” 


‘saying it so 


HE kissed the woman—she was young and 
pretty—and both of them turned and looked 
at us; she closed the door. 

“His name is James—Bob—Scott,” he 
told her. ‘“‘And his name is Randolph.” 

I said hello. Randolph smiled. 

“Well!” she said pleasantly. 

‘“‘Umm-hmm,” he said. ‘‘We met on the 
road. They're staying here until it stops 
raining.” 

Randolph shook himself. 

“Whoa-a-a!” said 
the woman. “Don’t 
we want to keep him 
on the back porch? 
It’s nice and cozy.” 


“Please, ma’am,” 
I said, edging toward 
the door, ‘‘he isn't 


used to bein’ kept 
outside. We better be 
goin’.”’ 

“ Not on your life!’’ 
the man said. “ Ruth, 
these are guests. Let's 


have something hot. 


me. oe Cocoa, huh? Does 
“ee T , « i + 
wv hat a. pe Yet innate patience bids them wait Randolph like co- 
ae The promised springtime, at which Pe 
‘* James—Bob— . “He likes mos’ any- 


Scott,’’ I stammered. date 


“Which one?” 

“‘Allof them. James 
Robert Scott.” 

““Where d’you 
live? 

“‘In Cleveland 
here,” I said. ‘‘We 
used ta live other 
places, but now we 
live here.” 


sound. 


They shall be robed in bridal white 
And wear new beauty as their right. 


In autumn their maternal pride, 

” That they can bear the other side 
Of their old age, is sweetly crowned 
With green-gold apples, ripe and 


thin’,”’ I said. 

We had cocoa to- 
gether: the man, the 
woman, Randolph 
and I. They put a 
piece of ice in Ran- 
dolph’s to cool it a 
little; and a part of 
the Sunday paper, 
the classified ads, un- 
der it to keep it from 





“Tt’s gonna rain to- 
night,” the man com- 
mented, leaning over the steering wheel and 
looking at the sky. ‘‘ You better be getting 
home early.” 

“Yes, sir,”’ I said. The sky did look funny. 
It had been getting darker all the time. After 
a few minutes tiny raindrops speckled the 
windshield. Randolph sneezed. 

““See!”’ the man said. “You better stick 
with me. I’m coming back this way after 
supper. You and Randolph can stay with us 
until then. I’ve got the Plain Dealer and all 
the funny pages in the back seat. Then Ill 
drive you home.” 

“Tt’ll stop raining,” I said. - 

“What about your folks?” the man said. 
“Your mother and father are gonna be wor- 
ried when you don’t come home tonight— 
and it raining and everything.” 

“T’ve only got a mother,” I said. ““My 
father died a long time ago.” 

“How old are you?” 

“Goin’ on eleven,” I said. “‘Randolph’s 
not quite a year. His birthday is this week.” 

It was thundering and pouring down rain 
when we got to the crossroad that led off to 
Mentor marsh. The man didn’t slow up. 
Looking straight ahead, he yelled suddenly, 
“James! Bob!” 


‘Tue windows were closed. Randolph put 
his front feet on the dashboard and squinted 
his eyes and looked ahead through the rain- 
drops. He didn’t see anything. He jumped 
over into the back seat and looked out of the 
rear window. Then he looked out of both 


_ sides. I looked around too. 


The man said, “I thought that was your 
name?”’ 

“Tt is,” I said. “You better stop. We get 
off here.” 





getting on the rug. I 

told them that it 
wasn’t necessary—that Randolph was very 
dainty with his food. He was. He didn’t spill 
a drop. 

“They might stay here tonight,” the man 
said. 

“We'll be gettin’ along,” I said. “‘Th’ rain’s 
lettin’ up.” 

“Tt’ll be muddy,” the woman said. 

“‘Bullheads bite good after a rain,” I told 
her. 

“So they do,” said the man, nodding. 
“But it’s still raining. If it doesn’t stop you 
won't be able to do any fishing. Since you’ve 
run away from home, you won’t want to go 
back with me tonight—in fact, I might just 
cancel that drive and not go into town until 
tomorrow.” 

The woman he called Ruth still had the 
shadow of a smile on her lips, but she wasn’t 
following us very well. 

“Do you have a little boy?” I asked. 

“Not yet, but pretty soon,”’ said the man, 
looking at the woman. “Son, or daughter, 
it’s all the same to me.” 

The pretty woman smiled and looked at 
me. 

“Please, sir, ma’am,” I said to them, 
sliding out of my chair, “I think I’ve got 
to be goin’.” 

Randolph had been resting. Now he got 
up and went to the door. The woman asked 
me: 

“Where does he usually sleep?” 

“One night with me,” I said. ‘One night 
with Bob an’ ——” 

“‘James?”’ asked the man, lifting his eye 
brows. 

I opened my mouth and shut it again. I 
opened the door and Randolph and I ran. 

(Continued on Page 172) 









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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 170) 
It was still raining. We ran across the open 
fields. The man didn’t follow us very far; 
it was too wet. The weeds soaked us. He 
kept shouting after us. Then I understood. 
I’d left our sandwiches and the Navaho 
blanket. 

We didn’t go back. I had a hand line in 
my pocket and the marsh wasn’t too far 
away. The rain stopped and the sun came 
out. We were dry by the time we got 
there. 

I found our boat, the packing case with 
the sheet-iron bottom. It was half sunk. I got 
part of the water out of it and tugged it up 
on the edge of the swamp and levered it over 
onto its side and dumped out the remainder. 
Then I turned it back over again so that the 
sun could dry out the inside. Then Randolph 
and I went fishing. 

I caught four big fat bullheads before sun- 
down. I gutted and skinned them with my 
penknife and made a fire in some damp 
twigs. Everything was damp. And it looked 
like it was about to start raining again. I 
used up all the matches I had in the needle 
case before I got a decent fire going. 

My appetite departed with the sun. I 
cooked the bullheads on a twig and fed all of 
them to Randolph. 

The moon came up. I sat there in the 
smoke of the fire, hugging Randolph and 


wondering what my mother was thinking. . 


By now she had my note. If it hadn’t been 
for Randolph I wouldn’t have been able to 
bear it. I was overcome with homesick- 
ness. 

Then someone hallooed from somewhere 
farther down the lake shore. I recognized 
the voice. 

I got Randolph into the boat and crawled 
over the side and shoved away from the bank. 
I had to paddle slow. If I paddled fast the 
packing case churned around in circles. 
And I had to be careful not to turn it over. 
It was sluggish and waterlogged and top- 
heavy. 

But by the time the man got to my fire I 
was out in the center of the marsh and hid- 
den in the cattails. Even if he was to 
spot the box, which wasn’t likely in the 
moonlight—it had weathered to the same 
color as the muddy marsh water and blended 
with the reeds—he wouldn’t be able to see 
us. The sides were three feet out of the 
water. 

He had the woman with him. ‘‘He’s been 
here, all right,” he said, “that’s his fire.”” He 
turned a flashlight on the marsh reeds. 

Randolph wuffed softly; just puffed up his 
cheeks. 

“Sh-h-h!”’ T told him. We scrunched down 
and watched through a crack between two 
of the boards. 

“Hey,” the man called—the flashlight 
beam wandered around—‘‘come on back. 


October, 1 


You can stay with us. We’d like to hav 
little boy. We like Randolph too.” 

He waited. We kept quiet. 

“Well,” he called, “ we’re going home. ] 
leaving you something to eat, here. And 
raincoat. You'll be lonely. If you want 
come live with us—you know where 
house is. We’ll keep the garden light 
front-door light on all night. If you want 
go home, we’ll take you there. We’ve go 
nice bed for you and Randolph.” 

Randolph wuffed. I grabbed him. 

“Did you hear that?’’ the wom 
asked. 

“Out in the water!” 

“Yes.”” The light raked the reeds. “‘S 
anything?” 

“Nope.” 

“Listen,” the man said, loud, ‘‘are y 
two all wet out there? I’m coming after y: 
if you are.’”’ He started to unhook his rai 
coat. Suddenly he put his hands to his mou 
and cupped them. “Randolph!” 

Randolph couldn’t help himself. He hz 
to bark. 

“They’re out there, Ruth!” 

“We ain’t wet,’’ I yelled. ‘‘We’re in 
box.” 

“Well, come on back.” 

“No!” I said. 

“The mosquitoes will eat you up,” tl 
woman said. 

“We don’t care.” 

“Don’t you want to go home?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“My mom jus’ wants ta 
myself. 

“Yes, honey?” 

“She wants to take me travelin’,”’ 
blurted. The “honey” did it. ““We we 
goin’ away an’ leave Randolph an’ never s 
him again, that’s what!” 

“Tell us all about it. Why won’t sl 
take the dog? What’d she have. again 
him?” 

“She’d take him along. She says sl 
wouldn’t, but she would. But I only ov 
one share of him.’”’ Tears started coming o 
of my eyes. Randolph licked them off of n 
cheeks. I choked up. He whined. 

The man said, “He eats tomatoes ar 
people own stock in him!”’ He flashed tl 
light over us again. 

“Who owns the other shares?” Ru 
asked. 

“James an’ Bob an’ —— 

“Them again!” the man said. 

“They won't let me have him.” 

“Why not?” 

“They love him too.” 

I put my head down in my arms and wer 
Then a frog or something plunked in tl 
water, and Randolph got up on his hind le 
and looked over the side. I didn’t noti 
until too late. The box slumped over ar 





I stoppe 


” 


“We'd better put Miss Jones back in ladies’ hats!” 














jini Es ee Sa 








ANY OF THoSEY CERTAINLY, SIR. 
SWELL EVERYBODY 


DEVILED HAM ¥ LIKES THEM. 


SANDWICHES THEY'RE 
LEFT ? MADE WITH 


THEY'RE GREAT! | UNDERWOODS/ 


THE ORIGINAL! 
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TRacc 


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4 r 

PS: Mix UNDERWOOD’S with 
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He’ll warm up to 


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Qauce —the dash that 


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re Crisp, crunchy energy- 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 173 


water rushed in; it disappeared beneath 
us. The man jumped into the water as he 
heard me yell. Randolph and I met him 
halfway. 

“TI can swim,” I said. 

“T wish you’d said so,”’ the man said. 

I told them all about Randolph as we 
walked the mile or so to the road where their 
automobile was parked. Automobiles couldn’t 
come all the way into the marsh, not after a 
rain. I told them how James and Bob and I 
had planned to make my mother stay in 
Cleveland. I told them all about the Coffee 
boys and how we got Randolph. I spilled 
over. 

By the time we got to the house it was 
eleven o'clock. The man took a bath. The 
pretty woman helped me get out of my 
wet clothes. While I washed myself the 
woman asked my name and address. I told 
her. We spoke through the partly open 
bathroom door. She kept her back to me. 
I told her about Indians. I told her the 
Sioux word for soap. I talked and talked 
and talked. 

I put on a pair of the man’s pajamas that 
had been put out for me. They were pretty 
large, but they felt better than the muddy, 
sodden clothing I’d shed. 

Then, I don’t know what time it was, Ran- 
dolph wuffed and I heard car doors closing, 
and voices. Mr. Scott’s voice, and the man’s, 
and Mrs. Scott’s—and my mother’s. 

They took Randolph and me home. James 
and Bob and Babe were in the back seat, 
sound asleep. The whole Scott family had 
been over at our house when the man showed 
up. The boys didn’t wake up when Randolph 
and I got in. We went to sleep too. 






, 






aim 


0 ON 
" 
o 
LY Ma: 


SF, SVG vase 
. KAD Wa) 


#2 2h Kon 
e110 


~ 
> WM was 





One man with courage makes a 
majority. —ANDREW JACKSON. 


My mother packed all the next day. I went 
over to see the twins. They weren’t home. 
Mrs. Scott said they’d taken Randolph and 
Babe for a hike. I knew why. They didn’t 
want to see me. They didn’t want me to ask 
for Randolph. I was going away tomorrow 
and already we were strangers. 

I went over and sat in the clubhouse. I sat 
there pretty nearly all day, all by myself. 
Then the twins and Babe came home. When 
they saw me they dragged Randolph in the 
house and locked the screen door. 

I said, ‘“‘I only came over to say good-by. 
We're leavin’ t’morra.”’ 

The twins blocked the door, standing 
shoulder to shoulder; Babe blocked out the 
lower part. I couldn’t see Randolph very 
well. 

“When?” Bob asked. 

“Early, I guess,’’ I said. ““They’re comin’ 
ta take most of our stuff t’day. All except 
what we’re takin’ with us in th’ car.” 

We stood there a second—not saying any- 
thing. 

‘“‘Good-by,’’ I said. 

“‘Good-by,”” James said. Bob shut. the 
door. 

I went home. 









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I got down and put my arms around Ran- fe 
dolph. ‘‘Come ta say good-by again?” 

SOV edie 

““Where’s Bob?” 

‘“‘He didn’ wanta come. Babe either. They 
don’ like sayin’ good-by. I brung Ran- 
dolph.”’ 

“Thanks,” I said. ‘“I was wantin’ ta say 
good-by t’ him.” 

James bit his lip. ““Ya don’ have to,” he 
said. ‘‘He loves you more’n he loves us. He 


James showed up out in front of our house 
about six-thirty in the morning. The car was 
loaded and I was crying. He had Randolph 


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whined all night. He knew you was goin’ “HONE YCOMB JAR” ie 

2 jay.” eeeesereseeeeeseeee ’ ee 

© Huh?” I said. a Tal Addresses csesccseeevees 
“You c’n have him,” James said, rubbing 

his eae “You ain’t got a brother.’’ He e a @) » E Y nd Towns sc. s5 nse State 





turned and ran. THE END 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





Look what 


October, 1949 


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SIDE TRIP 















“He must find me dreadfully dull,” she 
id aloud, in sudden despair. Just an ordi- 
middle-aged housewife. 

She put the picture back and sat down on 
he couch in the pleasant living room, and 
sped her hands and went on thinking 
bout herself. This was an emotional cycle, 
e understood, and maybe other women 
elt the same way. It was like that old black 
icycle she had when she was a child; the 
heels were warped, and when she rode 
ere was always that place where the wheel 
ent bump as it turned. She thought these 
motional cycles were old bicycle wheels go- 
ng bump at intervals. 

There were a hundred things waiting for 
er: laundry to sort, cleaner to call, socks to 
end, book review to do, cake to make for 
e sale, chicken to fricassee for dinner, 
lumber to call for upstairs leak, radio to go 
© the repair shop. But she made no move, 
ven to answer the phone. She sat staring at 
the roll of dust under the cobbler’s bench and 
went on thinking. For if she died tomorrow, 
there would be scarcely a ripple. Her life was 
ninety per cent getting things fixed that 
made no slightest difference to the world. 

She wouldn’t mind getting old if she could 
paint or sing or write deathless words, she 
thought. For age enriches art. But when it 
meant having trouble threading a needle or 
getting down to dust under the bed, that 
wasn’t inspiring. 

She was sick and tired of all those books 
about life beginning at forty or fifty or sixty. 
She never wanted her pills sugar-coated. 

There were plenty of 
her women friends who 
were her age or older. There 
was Mara Hayes, who had > 
her face lifted and spent 
her time working like mad 
to seem young. She ran 
around with young men, 
laughing a little harder, dancing alittle faster, 
and looking desperately haggard and rest- 
less. And Dora Wright, who was always sick, 
and loved it. New diets, new drugs, new 
doctors, an endless procession. 

What she wanted was just as simple as it 
was impossible. She wanted a piece of her 
youth back, just for a day. She wanted to 
feel young and radiant and loved, lovely and 
gay, and blessedly free from the aches and 
pains of middle age. Oh, wonderful to run 
again, to dance! 

And it was lunchtime and she had done 
nothing. This frightened her. For she realized 
again that she was skating down a steep slope 
of days to the end of life, so fast, too fast. A 
day was no longer much of a unit; it slid 
away like mercury in a broken thermometer. 
She must hurry, hurry! 


gence. 


“Harry birthday, indeed,” she said sav- 
agely, and went out to start the chicken. 

All day she hurried to catch up, pay the 
gods for that lost time, and she had a bad 
headache by night. They went out in the 
evening and listened to a dull lecture on 
Russia, and she was dreadfully tired of eat- 
ing Russia with her egg in the morning, din- 
ing on Russia at night and going to sleep 
with the last newsman on the radio uttering 
staccato, dramatic words about Russia. 

“They'll get us in a war yet,” she said 
fiercely to Mark as they drove home. 

Mark sat cheerfully on the edge of the 
kitchen table, drinking a glass of milk. ‘‘To- 
morrow’s your birthday,” he said. 

She looked at him hopelessly. If only she 
could tell him, make him understand—but 
understand what? There wasn’t anything to 
understand. 

He went on talking as they got ready for 
bed. The garden needed raking, the daffodils 
were up. Maybe they ought to paint the 
house this season. His secretary had a suit 
with the new look. You’d hardly know her. 

His secretary was young and smart and 
had charm. Just the kind of girl a man his 
age might find more attractive than a stodgy 
old woman like the one he was unfortunate 
enough to be stuck with. 





A great fortune depends on 
luck, a small one on dili- 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


TO SPRING 


(Continued from Page 38) 


Her head was splitting. And the hours of 
the night ground on, and when she woke she 
would be a year older. If she ever got to sleep, 
that is. She ached all over, and she was more 
tired than anybody could possibly be. And 
she would celebrate her birthday by address- 
ing envelopes all day for the free dental clinic. 

Finally she got up and took a couple of 
sleeping pills that she had left over from 
last year when her appendix came out. Then 
she slept, floating into a soft gray cloud with 
all the aches smothered in the softness. 

When she woke up, it was early morning. 
Sun came in clear as brook water. She 
thought she had been dreaming too hard, for 
the room looked strange. She sat up, pushed 
back her hair and stared. The sun was com- 
ing through dotted swiss instead of ruffled 
nylon. Her bed was a four-poster painted 
apple green, and on the wall hung a series 
of football pennants in blue and orange and 
bright red and green. 


Sue jumped up and ran to the mirror, 
pushing aside a bevy of dance programs. And 
looked at herself. ‘I’m the homeliest girl in 
the world,” she cried. ‘‘Oh, how can I go to 
the dance with that awful, awful cold sore on 
my mouth? It’s unfair!” 

“Put some camphor on it and come down 
to breakfast,”’ said her mother, appearing in 
the doorway. ‘“‘No matter how you look if 
you behave all right. It doesn’t show much 
anyway.” 

“T’m a sight!” she wailed. “‘A hideous, 
hideous sight! I wish I were dead!” 

“T’ve got waffles,” said 
her mother calmly, ‘‘and 
happy birthday, darling.” 

She scrambled into her 
clothes at that, jerking at 
her middy, buttoning the 
side pleat in the wool skirt, 
straightening the seams in 
her dark stockings. Father was already at 
the table, pouring sirup over his waffles. 

“Happy birthday,” he said. ““What have 
you done to your hair?” 

“T simply put it up in rags,”’ she said. “It 
has to curl. It has to, for the dance.” 

“Doesn’t it look rather bushy ?’’ he asked 
tactlessly. ‘“Reminds me of those South Afri- 
can natives somehow.” 

She bit back the tears. Father couldn’t 
understand. He couldn’t understand any- 
thing. 

Her birthday presents were piled by her 
plate, and she opened them at once. She had 
longed, oh, so passionately longed, for a sleek 
black satin dress, very low and old-looking 
and tight as an apple peel. And a pair of long 
diamond earrings. What she got was a blue 
enamel watch and a soft blue crepe dress with 
a pink sash. 

Life, she said bitterly to herself, life is like 
that. 

The trouble was that a new girl had moved 
to town, and she was absolutely the most 
glamorous creature ever seen on the banks 
of the Fox River. She was a real honey blonde 
and her clothes came from Chicago, and she 
knew all the new dance steps, and played 
the piano divinely. And she was trying to get 
the very most wonderful boy in town for her 
steady. 

If she gets him, I'll die, I'll just die, said the 
birthday girl to herself. Why couldn’t I be 
clever and beautiful and named Penelope? 
Why should he love a plain ugly girl named 
Jane Smith? 

Twice he had stopped in the high-school 
hall to talk to Penelope. She looked up, slant- 
ing those deep blue eyes at him, and smiling. 
It was a knife in the heart to see it; it madea 
blackness in the hall. 

It wasn’t as if Penelope were a one-man 
woman, either. She just wanted to be the belle 
of Riverview. She didn’t know the agonizing 
pain when there was only one voice in 
the whole world with music in it, only one 
hand that touched your arm and made you 
tremble. 

It was the night of the dance; she had to 
wear the blue dress and the watch, and no 


— CHINESE PROVERB. 


that can 
take it!” 








Twin size they were... not the men, but 
the sheets Mrs. Eric Olson of Omaha, 
Nebraska, bought for their beds. 
Pequot sheets, no less. And thank 
goodness for that, writes Mrs. Olson, 
because: 
"...if you knew those men of 
mine...my husband and my 
youngsters. ..you'd know what 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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l earrings. Her state of mind bordered on the 


frantic as she worked at her hair, which 
looked, she thought, like a whisk broom. The 
cold sore was better, but sleeping miserably 
in sulphur paste the night before had not 
erased the five red arrogant bumps on her 
chin. She used her mother’s glycerin and 
rose water lavishly on her hands and they 
still were freckled. 

Oh, well, this was the end, she thought; the 
only thing was to go to destruction with her 


head high like Joan of Arc. She couldn’t eat 


a bit of supper and father was all for making 
her stay home and getting the doctor. She 
was coming down with something, he said, 
maybe measles. A child’s disease! 

Nothing in all the world was as important 
as this one dance. It was the sum total of 
hope and fear and excitement and glory and 
pain. 

When the doorbell rang, she ran so fast to 
answer it that she tripped on the stair car- 
peting and pitched down headlong, only 
catching herself at the last minute before 
bashing her skull in on the newel post. A fine 
graceful and elegant greeting for him. 

He was laughing, and why not? “Hi,” he 
said. ‘Going to a fire?”’ 

Despair made her numb. 

They went out and walked down the street, 
in the pale darkness under the budding trees. 
He had a new dark blue suit. His dark hair 
was newly cut. And he smelled undeniably of 
his mother’s lilac cologne. 


Now where were the lovely words she 
should speak to enchant him? She was 
smart enough in class, she always got A. This 
was the time to impress him with her wit and 
make him understand how special she was, in 
spite of not being glamorous and smooth. For 
two blocks she tried to think of something. 
Her throat was dry; her hands, inside the 
cotton gloves, felt damp. 

“Well,” she said finally, “I’m glad it 
didn’t rain tonight.” 

“Yeah,” he agreed, “I’m glad too. It 
would have been bad if it had rained.” 

“Tt’s just about right,” she said. 

“Just about,” he said. ‘‘ Maybe could be a 
bit warmer. You want to stop for a sundae 
before we get there?” 

“Yes, I guess so.” 

They went into the Palace and sat down 
beside the crepe-paper tulips. She felt so 
awful she didn’t know how she could swallow 
the double fudge with marshmallow and 
nuts. But you couldn’t waste a man’s 
money, not when he took off storm windows 
and chopped wood for every penny he had. 

“T’m going away this summer,” he said, 
when they started on again. “‘Got a job on 
the road. Up north.” 

Crash went the last vestige of her world. 
The pavement crumbled under her slippers. 
“‘Allsummer ?”’ she asked in a hoarse whisper. 


“Yeah. Got to get some money for col- 
lege.” 

“But—I thought . . . you’d be around,” 
she said. 


“Make more money at this job,” he said. 

They went into the gym. It was all as 
they had dreamed of for months: taut 
yellow and green balloons swaying above 
the garlanded baskets, lattice ceiling of 
woven crepe-paper streamers, loud jazz 
music, and the Elks’ punch bowl on a sewing 
table, filled with brilliant orange ice and 
punch. And she was too sick at heart even 
to care. 

“Well, let’s dance,’”’ he said gruffly. 

The smell of rosin and his cologne and her 
perfume mingled with the musty smell of 
past basketball games. There was Penelope 
in a red satin dress—so daring for a blonde 
to wear red—and she had pearl earrings 
and—oh, awful to see—a little red feather 
fan to look over! 

They swung into the fox trot, Dardanella. 
Now she was close to him, his arms around 
her and his hand holding her in a good tight 
squeeze. She could rub her cheek against the 
wool of his shoulder if she tried. They had 
danced together a lot, and every time it was 
wonder all over again. 

Suddenly she gave herself up to ecstasy. 
He was humming and smiling and his eyes 
had a dreamy look. His heart beat with hers, 








October, 1949 


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only more strongly. His breath stirred her 
hair, which was already flattening down. 
Oh, I love you so dreadfully, her heart cried to 
his; love me too, love me always. 

The joy was really too intense to bear; she 
felt dizzy with it. 

And then the music stopped and he dropped 
her hand and moved away, a little flushed, 
and grinning. “Bet Irene Castle would like 
to see us,” he said. 

Penelope and Thatcher Burkes came over, 
and Penelope said softly, “‘ Your slip is show- 
ing, hon.” 

And then Penelope was dancing with him 
and she was sliding around with Thatcher, 
who moved like a whale in a slow sea. And 
seeing Penelope in his arms made fhe flame 
of jealousy crackle like the north woods in a 
forest fire. She felt just as awful as she had 
felt wonderful five minutes before. 

Penelope knew a lot of grand steps, and 
was so graceful and delicate with that fan. 
She took away four or five dances, and when 
the Auld Lang Syne was played, she took 
Thatcher back as if 
she were picking up 


a forgotten book at KKK we KK kK KK 


Ancestry 


By Eleanor Vinton 


the library. 

“Maybe we ought 
to all go to the Palace 
for a sundae,” he sug- 
gested. 

So the four of them 
walked back in the 
quiet moonlight. The 
Palace was the only 
lighted building on 
Main Street, but it 
was full. They 
crowded into the last 
booth. She felt she 
might die if she ate 
anything, but when 
Penelope ordered a 
banana split, she or- 
dered one too. 

The other three hawberry, 
kidded and laughed 
and she sat back in Maine. 
the corner as far as 
possible, stirring the 
butterscotch sauce 
with her spoon. Right 
in front of her, he was 
making a date with 
Pen to play tennis 
thenext morning. Pen proud. 
was so clever, she just 
happened to mention 
how she needed help 
with her serve and 
what a wonderful serve he had—and then 
it was all sewed up. 

“Be seeing you tomorrow,” he called, as 


grandfather 


strawberry, 


descendent, 


._resplendent 


Father’s father’s great-great- 
Married his green-eyed scatter- 
brained love. 
How the townsfolk flared like a 


fannéd pother! 
What could he be thinking of? 


She was beautiful, mouth like a 


Hair the color of waving grain; 
Cheeks as soft as the bloom of 


Eyes as green as the pines of 


Children’s children from them 


Scribble verses or gaze at a cloud, gift. 
Eyes reflecting the green 


Fire of a scatterbrain, wild and 


zx*wKeKeKeKK KKK bon and the tissue pa- 






























i rig 


close to him and the dreadful pain of not 
having him. 

“Listen,” he said, “don’t cry any more. 
Please don’t.” 

She said brokenly, “‘ You’ll have to choose 
between us, that’s all. You can’t have her 
and me too.” 

“Have who?” he asked. 

“Penelope.”’ 

“What? For heaven’s sake, who wants 
her?” He was amazed. “Hey, you aren’t 
jealous, are you?” 

“T wouldn’t lower myself to be jealous,” 
she said more lucidly, “of her. But you sit 
right there and make dates with her ——” 

“Heck, I’m only going to teach her some 
tennis, but I’ll call it off if you say so.” 


Victory was no good; it made her feel 
childish and mean. “‘I wouldn’t dream of it,” 
she said. “I’ll be busy all day tomorrow any- 
way. Play tennis all day for all of me.” 

He pulled her away from the glow of the 
street lamp where the early-spring insects 
were already beating 
their lives out. He 
lifted her face, still 
streaming with tears, 
and he looked at her 
with a strange new 
look. 

“You're really in 
love with me!” he 
said, with wonder. 

“Yes,’”’ she said. 

He had kissed her 
good night before, but 


not the same kind of | § 


kiss. It burned away 
all the tears, melted 
the blade of the knife 
in her heart. 

“You're my girl,” 
he said, “‘always.” 

She was exhausted. 
It was like swimming 
out too far at the lake, 
and hardly making it 
back to shore. She 
rested in his arms, 
limp. And then he 
gave her her birthday 


“T was saving it 
until I kissed you good 
night,” he said. “I 
wish it were nicer.” 

She opened the box, 
saving the white rib- 


per and the little oval 
seal. It was a little thin locket on a delicate 
thread of chain. The most beautiful present 
of her life. 














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they finally separated into couples again. “Oh,” she breathed, holding it to her 

““She’s a swell girl,”’ he said, as they turned cheek, “‘I’ll wear it all my life!” 

down Elm Street. Happiness filled her completely. But then 
“You seem to think so.” Her words were in a few minutes they had to part and that 

sharp as winter wind. was pain again. She wouldn’t see him until 

“Why? Don’t you like her? She’s cute, I tomorrow in Vergil. No, tomorrow was 

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“Tt’s too bad you couldn’t take her home,” 
she said. 

She knew it was all wrong. You didn’t 
make anybody love you by fighting with him. 
But she just could not help it. She acted just 
like the coon father caught in the trap, biting 
and making it worse. 


night! Awful stretch of time. Blank, empty, 
useless. 

He kissed her again, and she could hardly 
bear to say good night. At the top of the 
steps she looked back and he was already 
down the block walking fast. She remem- 
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evening.” the door and slipped in noiselessly. 
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“You keep snapping at me.” ing up for her. ““Do you know what time it 
is?” he asked. ‘‘Where have you been?”’ 
Sue burst into tears. He was aghast. But She came out of her own world and saw 
she cried in torrents. She cried because him, his set mouth and stern eyes. She 
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and because he was going away and breaking “We stopped for a sundae,” she said Deptt. L10;cHankantMakcoekusates 
her heart, and because he was making dates weakly. 
with another girl, and because she had felt “The Palace closes at twelve-thirty,’”’ he W, | 
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and was so fearful of losing him. “A ten-minute walk,” he said. +m SS Street 
Then she was being held in his arms, very eae eo Oh Laie 

closely, and he was trying to get her to stop, “T told you last time you stayed out so ' Pi : 
and this made her cry more, for she felt at late,’’ he said, “that I wouldn’t have it. If Frise anne fie 3 City 
the same time the wonderful ecstasy of being the school parties close at twelve, it doesn’t oor) Bid é 

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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


take two solid hours to get a few blocks home. 
And the first thing in the morning you are on 
the phone again with the same boy. You’re 
too young.” 

“T’m not young!” 

“You only stay home to eat and sleep,”’ he 
went on, ‘‘and lately there’s hardly any get- 
ting you to do a thing but run off again. It’s 
got to stop. Now. You'll stay home every 
night the next week, including Satur- 
day.” 

“Father! You wouldn’t! You couldn’t! 
You wouldn’t ruin my whole life! Oh, 
no!” She pressed her hands over her heart. 
She couldn’t cry any more the same night, 
but her eyes were wide with horror. 

“No need to be dramatic over it,” he said 
wearily. ‘‘I’ve told you you had to come in 
on time. I’ve explained and talked and you 
don’t pay any attention at all. You're off 
stargazing.” 

“Father, you don’t understand——” 

“T understand you’re seeing far too much 
of just one boy. He’s a bad influence,” he 
said, ‘“‘and I don’t want you to spend your 
time exclusively with one boy. You haven’t 
even graduated from high school and you 
have a long life ahead to make decisions 
about your companionship with men.” The 
look on her face confused him, obviously, for 
he said in a gentler tone, ‘‘Don’t take on so, 
Janie. You'll find out I know best. I only 
want you to be happy.” 

‘Happy!’ she cried, beating her hands 
together. “You want me to be happy—well, 
I hope you'll be satisfied when I am dead. 
That’s all.’”’. And she flung herself up the 
stairs and carried her dev- 
astated self into her 
room. 


hit her right away; she 
was frantic, but she had 
been lying on the bed, still 
dressed, for some time be- 
fore it came to her that if 
father really meant it, Penelope could spend 
hours and hours and hours with him. The 
spring picnic. The boat ride down-river. The 
tennis meet. And then he would be gone for 
the summer. 

Yes, everything was over for her now. She 
would have nothing but the memory of the 
last hour, of his kiss and his giving her the 
locket. He wouldn’t just see her once in a 
while, and drag his friends to date her the 
rest. For he was too honest, and too proud. 
She knew him better than she knew her- 
self. 

He would say, ‘‘ Your father is really right. 
I’ll stop seeing you. Yes, you are too young, 
I shouldn’t do it. You'll have to wait for me 
until I have a living—five years maybe.” 

Five years. Life would be practically over 
in five years. She’d be an old, old woman. 
She’d be past twenty. As old as the Latin 
teacher. 

What had she done to deserve this fate? 
She dragged herself to the window, kicking 
off the slippers which hurt her toes. The 
moon had gone down and the sky was fading 
from black to dark gray. Her head was 
burning and her feet colder than a snow- 
drift. She began to shiver and she felt every 
bone aching like a bad tooth. 

She was probably going to die right then 
and there with a broken heart. Then father 
might see how wrong he was. She had al- 
ways done her best, and all in the world she 
wanted was to be with her own and only love. 
Just to be with him. Was that so much to 
ask? 


able supper. ~ 


A reapy it seemed years since he left. She 
felt so incomplete when he wasn’t with her, 
just half a person. -If she could just see him 
for five minutes more —— 

Her door opened, and her mother turned 
on the light. “I heard you still up,” she said. 
“Why—why—oh, dear me, baby, get right 
in bed and I’ll call the doctor!” 

“T don’t want a doctor,’”’ she cried. 

“Well, he better come and take your 
temperature and give a look,” said her 
mother. “‘I never would have let you go out 
tonight if I had had any idea —— I did 
notice a few bumps—but you have so much 
trouble with your skin anyway ——” 


The full i idn’ A bachelor’s life is a splen- 
iC Oy eu oaee aie % did breakfast; a tolerably 


flat dinner; and a most miser- 


LE a CaP ee, 


October, 1949 


She turned from the window and ran 
over and looked at herself in the mirror. 
And gave a stricken cry. . 

“Yes,” said her mother, “it’s measles if I 
ever saw them.” ‘ 

Measles! She flung herself on the bed and, 
buried her face in the pillow. Measles! It. 
really was too, too much. 

But in the end, she fell asleep that night, 
or rather that morning, and what with the 
fever and all she had been through she slept 
as if she had been drugged, and might never 
wake again to the uncertain glory of an April 
day. She did wake, however, pulling herself 
out of sleep at the sound of a familiar 
voice. 

“Hey, are you having bad dreams?” he 
asked, bending over her pillow. 


Sue sat up and ‘stared vaguely around the 
room. There was the four-poster, not green 
now at all, but taken down to its natural 
maple. The good water-color print was on 
the wall, and the pictures of the children 
over the chest of drawers with the pressed- 
glass pulls. The wallpaper was not pink rose- 
buds, but a Colonial reproduction in soft 
greens and blues and terra cotta. 

“Are you feeling all right?”’ asked Mark. 
“T brought your breakfast. Happy birth- 
day!” 

“T’ve got a little cold,” she said. “‘That’s 
why I overslept. Is it very late?” She 
pushed back her hair. “I’ve got lots to 
do ——” 

“Not today,” he said. “‘We’re taking the 
day off, both of us. I feel like celebrating.” 

He had fixed her a very 
nice tray and she was rav- 
enous. She broke the crisp 
buttered toast in two and 
spread marmalade on it. 
Mark sat beside the bed, 
drinking his coffee black. 

She said, ‘‘Celebrating 
my getting old?’’ She 
didn’t feel so old as she had yesterday; she 
felt comfortable and serene and a little 
dreamy. 

He laughed. ‘No, just celebrating another 
year together. It’s kind of nice, you know, 
to be more in love with your wife every 
birthday.” 

“T don’t deserve it,’”’ she said humbly, ‘‘I 
honestly don’t.” 

“But it’s time you began to get the general 
idea,”’ he said. 

The spring sun was bright again. It fell on 
the good strong lines of his face, the clear 
steady eyes, the humorous and understand- 
ing mouth. 

“Mark,” she said, “I felt simply dreadful 
all day yesterday. Lost. I’m getting to look 
so old—and drab—and I’m so dull.” 

“Why, I can’t see that you’ve changed at 
all,” he said. ‘‘ You look just the same as far 
as I can tell.”’ He took her tray and set it on 
the table. Then he came back and sat down 
on the edge of the bed. “‘I was thinking 
back,” he said, “‘to when I first knew you. 
The first present I ever got you. Maybe 
you'll think I’m silly, but I got you a remem- 
ber present for this birthday.” 

He gave her a small box, tied with white 
ribbon. She took off the ribbon, smoothed 
out the tissue paper and opened the cover. 

“Hey,” he said, “‘it’s nothing to cry 
over!” 

She put the locket on, feeling the thin, cool 
touch of the gold. 

“Maybe you don’t remember.” 

She remembered everything: the quick 
rapture and the awful pain, the rapid alter- 
nation of hope and fear, the insecurity and 
the brief glory, the agony of youth. And sud- 
denly the deep full tide of happiness lifted 
her up; she felt the sum of their shared lives, 
the richness of experience. i 

She got up and went over to the window 
and looked out at the pale silk sky, the misty 
green trees and the strong, hopeful spears of 
the daffodils thrusting so urgently through 
the dark soil in the border. 

Mark came over and she reached for his 
hand. “‘It’s a wonderful spring day,” he said. 

She put his hand to her lips. ‘Spring is all 
very well,” she said, ““but give me summer 
every time.” THE END 


—ANON. 












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October, 1949 


The puppies look earnest and important, wait- 


ing for a nice game of 


\ ° c 8 
ory of 
idly OLE 


ball with a tulip bulb. 


domesticity 


2 


By GLADYS TABER 


WOULD be hard put to it to think of 

anything better on earth or in heaven 

than October in New England. The world 

is lit with splendor, there are surely more 
colors than on any artist’s palette, and you 
can walk down the shining glory of the 
lanes breathing deep of an air that is cool 
wine to the lungs. 

It is a fine time to be in the country, for 
the heavy garden work is done, the bins 
full, the shelves ranged with bright jars of 
jams and pickles and jellies, the freezer well 
stored against the long cold. The lawn is 
green and pleasant and not always and for- 
ever ready to mow. A fire in the fireplace 
gives just the right warmth for the clear 
deep evenings, and we can still breakfast 
outdoors on the terrace. 

I have more energy in October, I think, 
than in any other month. It is easier +o get 
up in the morning and start one of those 
jobs I didn’t get to in summer or in the lazy 
September days. I am fired with ambition! 
Clean the attic? Wash all the cockers? Sun 
the blankets? Oh, well, I have time enough 
for everything on such a day! 

Jill is working in the garden, trimming 
and pruning and raking and transplanting. 
The puppies are helping her, digging and 
running around with small clumps of this 
and that in their mouths. They look earnest 
and important, and every nose is frosted 
with dust. Bulbs are their delight. Junior 
comes lolloping around the house with a 
fancy tulip bulb held nonchalantly, a nice 
ball. Junior is Linda’s plump black child. It 
was simply awful to part with any of this 
litter, but five we could not keep. We kept 
Souvenir too—known as Sue or Susy. The 
three others went to special people. 

At the end of October we may get Indian 
surmmer, and these are days to stay out-of- 
doors all day long, for the whole world is 
enchanted. There is always a lot of pleas- 
ant argument in the village as to whether 
this is Indian summer or whether it comes 
later or we have already had it. I am always 
willing to believe in it any time. And to 
pack the picnic basket and drive away 
to that special place by the leaf-strewn 
stream. 

For these fall picnics a casserole is a good 
thing; wrapped in newspapers, it keeps hot 
quite a while. One we like is a Mexican 
adaptation. I mix equal parts of cooked 


grated cheese, bake slowly until it bubbles, 
then into the basket and off for supper. 

Collecting recipes is always exciting, and 
browsing through cookbooks is always re- 
warding. Some of the best recipes I find in 
those small paper-covered booklets which 
various women get out. This summer I 
came on the Cape Cod Kitchen Secrets 
which the hospital-aid association sells, 
and I found enough wonderful fish recipes 
for a lifetime. And now that freezing is 
here to stay, fish is always in season. 
Who wouldn’t like croustade of oysters the 
way these Cape Codders make it at any 
time? 

You use 1 three-day-old loaf of bread, 
and cut the inside out. You need 3 cups of 
bread crumbs, and you dry them out in the 
oven and then brown them quickly in 2 
tablespoons butter or margarine. Next you 
scald 1 quart cream, add 3 tablespoons 
flour mixed with 14 cup milk. Cook this 8 
minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Put 
a layer of cream sauce in the croustade (the 
hollowed loaf), then a layer of fresh or 
frozen oysters, seasoned with salt and pep- 
per, then a layer of sauce and bread crumbs. 
You use about 3 pints of oysters for this. 
Bake slowly 14 hour and garnish with pars- 
ley. Lacking the cream, you might use a 
regular cream sauce. 

Most of the Cape recipes reflect the days 
of the clipper ships or the whalers and are 
good rib-sticking dishes; they use cream 
and eggs and butter as country cooks do. 

Flounder Hyannis is a gourmet version of 
the simple fillet. It calls for 2 pounds floun- 
der, dressed in fillets. This is the way you 
buy them when frozen. You lay the fillets 
in a frying pan and cover with a scant 2 
cups thin cream. Add 14 cup sherry, if you 
like, salt and pepper to taste and cook 5 
minutes on top of the range. Then you 
remove to a baking pan and add 1 pound 
shrimp or lobster meat. (I use canned—a 
large can will do.) Bake in a hot oven, 
400° F., until the cream and sherry are 
thick, then add 14 cup buttered crumbs! 
and put the pan under the broiler until the 
sauce bubbles and browns. 

This is a company dish with us, and I 
serve a sliced-onion-and-orange salad with 
it, plenty of hot coffee, and a platter of 
cheeses, toasted crackers and wild black- 
berry jam for dessert. 


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See ee a ee 


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LADIES’ 


an innovation, but usually we creamed the 
salmon and had it on toast points. I felt 
very sophisticated when I first made creamed 
canned shrimp with peas and served it on 
crackers! , 

Probably it was the war with its meat 
shortage which made us so conscious of the 
lovely dishes you can make out of just plain 
fish. The mushrooms, the sherry, the chopped 
eggs—all the things you can do are a revela- 
tion. But in my childhood, father thought 
anyone who ate a mushroom was asking for 
the grim reaper. 

The change in our national cooking is a 
very good one, and shows American women 
really do have imagination. Steaks and chops 
and chicken did a lot for us in their day, but 
there is a mort of good eating without looking 
at the meat counter. The Victory gardens 
did their part too. For we grew to know so 
many lettuces and squash and types of beans 
that we enlarged our menus considerably. 

We had two kinds of lettuce when I was 
growing up. Leaf and store. Now in my salad 
bowl I may toss two kinds of endive, Oak-leaf 
lettuce, Bibb, bronze beauty, New York 12, 
and Mayking. And what a salad with a garlic 
dressing and a little crumbled blew cheese! 

We have fresh lettuce, chard and chickory 
late in the fall and early in the spring. Jill 
starts them in the cold frame very early with 
the radishes. 

Ina dry season we watch the sky anxiously 
for smoke. Forest fires are the great enemy. 


» The other day, depressed on the 
underground, I tried to cheer 
myself by thinking by myself over 
the joys of our human lot. But there 
wasn’t one of them for which I 
seemed to care a button—not wine, 
nor fame, nor friendship, nor eating, 
nor making love, nor the conscious- 
ness of virtue. Then I thought of 
reading—the nice and subtle happi- 
ness of reading. This was enough, 
this joy not dulled by age, this polite 
and unpunishable vice, this selfish, 
serene, lifelong intoxication. 
—LOGAN PEARSALL SMITH. 


This past summer when we went forty-five 
days without rain, the sound of the fire bell 
made us break into the cold sweat of terror. 
Fires do not start by themselves, and when I 
think of the devastation a single tossed ciga- 
rette can do on a dry roadside, I feel posi- 
tively murderous. 

Last fall we were on Cape Cod driving 
home when the great smoke pall darkened 
the whole sky and we drove in a thick gray 
cloud. The hot ashy smell choked our lungs, 
our eyes were red and aching. Here and there 
areas of the road were cut off, and smoky 
men waved the traffic away. 

All modern cars have ash trays, so motor- 
ists do not have to fling their glowing stubs 
to the grassy roadside. Picnic fires can be 
made in portable grills, not in beds of autumn 
leaves. If you do cook over a campfire, you 
should always dig down deeply in the earth 
and make the fire on dirt and not on dry 
grass or sod. A bank of fresh earth can be 
built without too much effort to keep sparks 
from creeping underneath. 

We do not try to cook our picnic meals 
out-of-doors when we are short of rainfall. 
We cook at home and wrap the dishes in 
thick papers and carry them to the picnic 
spot, and we can watch the splendor of the 
falling leaves without worrying about set- 
ting them afire. 

And how beautiful the woods are when the 
picnic is over and the light is a soft glimmer 
through the red and gold of the leaves that 
will not fall until tomorrow. Honey dreams 
at my feet—her fur is the color of the golden 
maple leaves; Maeve dashes by, with the 
light shining on her coppery red coat. A set- 
ter belongs to autumn—she is all wind and 
color and excitement and mystery as she 
sniffs the hunting air. 

And at such a moment, I wish October 
might last forever, dazzle of blue days, glim- 
mer of white moon, bright leaves falling— 
falling —— THE END |. 


HOME JOURNAL 


161 













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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL October, 1949 


MEAT IS THE HUB of your most important You can be quick to pick the day’s best values. 
meals. And at your A&P you can decide the And if your taste tends to poultry or fish, 


= 





kind and cut you'll have...and what yowll because of meal preference or cost. displays 
spend ... right on the spot. because selections. of these, with each item prominently priced, 
together with prices. are always in plain view. | make comparing and choosing simple. 


CARE? 





FRESH FRUITS AND VEGETABLES, the best the season affords, 


are always on hand at your A&P. Prices are plain as day here, 





“JUST LIKE A GIANT ICEBOX” say women WHAT FOR DESSERT? A tempting cake, pie 


too...to enable toc are what you'll pz - the differ- q ; j 
p, euabie 7 om tecompare what you'll pay for the: differ about A&P Dairy Departments. They instantly | or some pastries, or shells for a shortcake are 


ent things you can use for the same se in your “meal : : : 
an se Re ay a ee remind them of what they need...in butter, yours in the Baked Goods Department of your 
building.” You can choose the best buy in the wink of an eye. 7 Jaa , atc . . 
eggs and cheese. And everything in the Dairy | A&P. You can “whip up a nifty, thrifty dessert 
Department is “Daisy fresh” any day you in your mind”... and know what it costs, too. 
shop... like in all other Departments where right while you shop. It makes planning a 
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oceans | 


1859 ~ 1949 


90" "YEA AR 


oF SERVICE 


a 











LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


EDUCATING THE YOUNG 


(Continued from Page 48) 


education, and a fifth of The Republic is 
devoted to the subject. Here, omitting his 
detailed scheme, are some of his leading 
principles. 


Some Principles of Education 


The object of education is the training of 
character in the widest sense of the word— 
making men in character, mind and body 
what they should be. As he says elsewhere, 
the aim of education is to bring people up to 
love what they ought to love and to hate 
what they ought to hate—not a bad sum- 
mary definition. 

To do this you must bring the young up in 
the right atmosphere. ‘Shall we not,” he 
says in a famous passage, “prevent our art- 
ists from imprinting the mark of what is vi- 
cious and immoral and ignoble and unseemly 
on their portraits of living things, on their 
buildings, and on all that they create, in or- 
der that our future rulers may not be brought 
up among images of evil, and like cattle in an 
unhealthy pasture, browsing and feeding, 
day by day, and little by little, in the end, 
without knowing it, ac- 
cumulate a mass of evil 
in their inmost souls? 

“We must search out 
artists who have the gen- 
ius to discern the true na- 
ture of beauty and grace, 
that our young people may 
live in a country of health, 
among beautiful sights and 
sounds, and drink in good from every 
quarter; and that beauty striking on the eye 
and ear from beautiful creations, like a wind 
that brings health from healthy lands, may 
draw them insensibly, from youth up, to re- 
semble and love and sympathize with the 
beauty of reason.’’ You see the emphasis he 
lays on bringing children up in the right at- 
mosphere. 

And then you must pay equal attention to 
the body and the soul. (‘“Soul,” for Plato, 
includes the mind.) Body and soul are like 
different strings in a musical instrument; 
they must be attuned, if you wish for har- 
mony and not discord. If you neglect the 
mind, you will produce an uncivilized type, 
“‘a wild beast, all violence and ferocity, who 
gains his ends by force and not by reason.” 
If you go to the other extreme and fail to de- 
velop and train the body, you have a mere in- 
tellectual, either a spiritless creature or an 
emotional one lacking stability and staying 
power. 

Finally, education must lead up to a view 
of the world, a philosophy—one may call 


Nothing 


* 


ever 
married man as much as 
telling him he doesn’t look 
like a married man. 

— WILLIAM FEATHER, 


it—of life. The conclusion of it is that the 
student must lift up the eye of the soul 
to see what Plato calls ‘‘The Idea of the 
Good’’—that which makes the universe in- 
telligible and gives it meaning and order 
and goodness—so that he may go out in 
the world with this as a pattern by which 
he can regulate his own life and the life of 
the state. 


Education and Right Type of Rulers 


The aim of such an education is to pro- 
duce what Plato calls a “philosopher ruler.”’ 
One of his paradoxes is that the world will 
never have peace until rulers become philos- 
opher rulers. But he did not mean by philos- 
ophers what we usually mean. He meant 
men whose characters and minds had been 
formed by the kind of education he pre- 
scribes. He would, I think, have said that 
President Masaryk, in the last generation, 
and General Smuts, in our own day, were 
philosopher rulers. 

Where most of us would differ from him is 
in his belief that the world should be ruled 
by an elite—however 
well educated. The sight 
of Athenian democracy 
in his time had given 
him a disbelief in the 
masses. He did not think 
them capable of ruling a 
state. But his remedy is 
worse than the disease. 
Prosperity tends to cor- 
rupt human nature; but power corrupts it 
more. And even if we could trust his elite 
of philosopher rulers, they would risk be- 
ing too far out of touch with the common 
man. 

Here Plato has raised a problem and not 
solved it. But that does not impair the pro- 
found truths which he urged; that the evils 
from which we suffer will cease only when 
we can produce men with characters rightly 
trained, and with the right view of life, 
clearly seen and strongly held; and that we 
must have an education which will produce 
them. 

I have given only some glimpses of this 
great book. To do it justice, one must read 
it as a whole. 

- There are several good translations avail- 
able. Much the best for the English 
reader is that by Professor Cornford, pub- 
lished by the Oxford University Press. The 
translation is brilliant, and unlike other 
versions it has excellent notes—and with- 
out notes an English reader is apt to miss 
much of it. 


pleases a 


JUST ONE OF THE BOYS 


(Continued from Page 51) 


anything less than a $60 suit, even though 
it means that only one good suit, a gray gab- 
ardine with a one-button roll, now hangs in 
his closet. 

But Chuck’s preference for the best and 
his high ambitions are neither neurotic nor 
impractical. He has simply learned that he 
can usually get what he wants if he works 
hard enough. Right now he studies two and 
a half hours every school night (‘I’m kind 
of a bonehead and I have to concentrate’), 
reads law books in his uncle’s law office 
whenever he can and works nineteen hours 
every week doing housework and gardening, 
giving up every week end, to earn $19 to help 
his family and to put himself through high 
school. 

Most of Chuck’s easy confidence and his 
personal charm can be traced directly to his 
mother, a good-looking, warmhearted woman 
who has never let the fact that she must 
work as a hotel clerk to support her family 
interfere with her feeling that ‘children 
should have a home that’s fun.”’ 

The Swanman home is a five-room walk-up 
flat above a store in a semibusiness section 
of San Francisco. Last year, after sixteen 


years in Portland, Oregon, the family moved 
to San Francisco so that Mrs. Swanman 
could be near her mother and younger sister, 
married to a local attorney, and so the two 
Swanman daughters, Dorothy and Marjorie, 
19 and 20 and as pretty as two blond movie 
starlets, might go to San Francisco City 
College. 

For the Swanmans the $85-a-month rent is 
high (they were turned down for several 
apartments because, as one landlord said, 
“a boy as big as your son is bound to make 
too much noise’’). But the apartment itself 
reflects the family’s philosophy of living. 
One window in the living room is broken and 
patched with brown paper (“Chuck threw an 
orange through it one night clowning 
around—it will stay that way till he gets 
money to fix it’); but there are always gar- 
den flowers on the coffee table (‘usually 
from the girls’ boy friends’’) and a fire in the 
fireplace for damp, foggy days. In the girls’ 
bedroom, the decorating is unfinished and 
brown rug padding takes the place of a rug 
on the floor, but on the wall is a small bulle- 
tin board covered with snapshots of football 

(Continued on Page 185) 


183 





((TS REAL MINUTE TAPIOCA—FULL OF COUNTRY-KITCHEN Goooness ) 





CARA-MOCHA TAPIOCA 


as directed on the back of the package, 
Y, cup of evaporated milk for the 2 cups 
fait glasses with Caramel 


Prepare Minute Tapioca Cream 
substituting 2 cups of coffee and ¥ 
of milk called for in the recipe. Chill. Serve in par 
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CARAMEL SAUCE , 


1 cup boiling-water 





1 cup sugar 
Cook and stir over medium heat until sugar is 
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prepare. Try it on your most special dinner 
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Place sugar in skillet. 
melted and golden bro 


Note to beginners: It you’re new at this cook- 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL October, 1949 


NEW PACK! 


Now at your Grocer’s 


Look what 
you can do 


with Niblets 


aa ee 





3 bright main dishes at low cost... 


A meaty pie—a flavory casserole—a hearty meal 
of chowder... you give to each a new enrich- 
ment of flavor when you build it around Niblets 
Brand whole kernel corn. 


















These are the tender, golden kernels that are 
the result of Farming for Flavor (the Green Giant 
way). Kernels with a summer-fresh quality that 
makes any dish, any meal more fun to eat. You'll 
find them, “picked and packed at the fleeting 
moment of perfect flavor,” at your grocer’s. 
You'll know them by the friendly Green Giant 
on the label. 


LOOK FOR THE JOLLY GREEN GIANT ON THE LABEL 


e 
: 


* ¥ 3 

SCALLOPED CORN AND SAUSAGE 
¥% pound pork sausage meat 1 teaspoon parsley, finely chopped 
3 tablespoons flour Brown sausage meat. Pour off all fat except 2 table- 
1% cups milk spoons. Add flour; stir until blended; add milk and 
1 can Niblets Brand whole kernel corn (1% cups) stir until mixture boils and thickens. Add corn and 
Y, teaspoon salt seasonings. Turn into shallow casserole with tomato 
1/16 teaspoon pepper slices over top. Heat 3 or 4 minutes. Sprinkle with 
Thick tomato slices parsley. Serves 4. 





CORN AND FISH CHOWDER 


Put 2 pounds fresh boned fish cut up in saucepan; add 
1% cups cold water, 1 bay leaf, 1 cup sliced carrots, and 
3 stalks celery, with leaves; cover, simmer 15 to 20 
minutes. 

Drain, measuring liquid; add water to make 1 cup. 
Return to pan with fish, cover, simmer 15 to 20 minutes, 
until tender. Remove skin, flake fish coarsely. In an- 
other pan, cook 4 cup chopped onions, 1 cup chopped 
celery, 1 medium potato diced, with 1 teaspoon salt in 
1 cup boiling water (about 10 minutes). Combine un- 
drained vegetables with fish, fish broth, 1 can Niblets 
Brand Corn, 1% cups cooked tomatoes; heat slowly. 
Add 1 tablespoon lemon juice; serve. Serves 4. 


HAM AND CORN PIE 


To 1 cup ground cooked ham add 1 can Niblets Brand Corn. Season 
with salt, pepper, and prepared mustard; moisten with mayonnaise. 
Spread on very thin sheet of baking powder biscuit dough in greased 
square pan. Top with another thin layer of dough; bake 20 minutes 
in hot oven (450° F.); cut in squares; serve hot with creamed peas 
(Green Giant Brand, of course) or oysters poured over. Serves 4. 


Listen to the Fred Waring Show on NBC Saturday mornings 





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) “Niblets’’ and ‘Green Giant’’ Brands Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. © MVCCo. 





(Continued from Page 183) 

players, sorority friends and dance and 
theater programs. There are chintz covers on 
the chairs in the kitchen, two small Angora 
kittens that scratch the furniture and swing 
on the net curtains, and a general air of busy, 
good-natured confusion. From seven to eight 
on most evenings, the living room is seated 
with young men waiting for Marjorie and 
Dorothy; the back bedroom is filled with 
ironing boards, dresses hanging from the 
overhead light bracket and the noise of two 
girls, and possibly a girl friend or two, getting 
ready for big dates. 

Between Chuck and his mother there is a 
kind of tacit understanding that, though 
each of the four members of the family holds 
at least a part-time job, she and he are the 
breadwinners, the stable members of the 
family, since “the girls are just dating and 
on the go all the time.’”’ The two of them 
often go to movies together in the evening; 
two or three times a week Chuck rushes home 
from school to clean the apartment and start 
the supper for the others. He is allowed to 
spend whatever money he earns as he likes: 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


ture on a post card. The school is cosmopoli- 
tan in both feeling and student body. In San 
Francisco, students may go to the high 
school of their choice, regardless of location, 
and many flock to George Washington every 
morning from Chinatown, the Negro areas 
and from the blocks immediately surround- 
ing the school, where business and profes- 
sional men and their families live in pastel 
stucco houses lining the hills. Many of the 
boys and girls have lived in San Francisco only 
since the war years—refugees from Hawaii, 
students who were just children when their 
families came west for war jobs, or children 
of families who followed the lure of Califor- 
nia and settled in San Francisco. 


Bur almost all the students have two 
things in common: interest in the school and 
a respect for good grades. Many of them are 
already training for professional careers, 
some in such specialized work as anthro- 
pology, social work and psychiatry. Through 
the vocational-guidance department, each 
student has his choice of courses carefully 
guided from freshman year to graduation. 


You, too, can make the 


you ever tasted... 


- B-V GRAVY 


185 


















—every time and 
the easy B-V way! 


There are many times when a delicious, 
creamy brown gravy is needed even when 
you’re not serving hot meat. With mashed 
potatoes or rice or noodles and cold meat, 
for example. Or, over thick slices of bread 
for a lunch or a light supper. You can 
have any amount of that gravy any time 
by making it the B-V way. Get a jar of 
Wilson’s B-V. Then just follow this sim- 
ple, never-fail, fool-proof recipe: 






and blend in 2 tbsp- 


Melt 2 tbsp. fat 









Z o ter, milk 
1 cup liquid Gres ; 
pe ale water) and stirf until 


Wilson’s 

h nhot,add ESSP: 
smeoet yy ei in small amount of ue 
B-V dissolv i] thickene¢- 


or ve 


Cook until 


UAE 











Most states bar from night clubs minors unaccompanied by adults; 
some proprietors accept youthful-looking patrons’ claims to be of age. 


70 cents a week for streetcar fare, 25 cents 
a day for spaghetti and a soft drink he 
usually buys to eat with his home-packed 
lunch, 50 cents a month dues for his Hi-Y 
club—plus money for his own clothes, school 
supplies, movies, golf fees and other expenses. 
Last fall, glasses cost him $38; his specially 
made shoes are $20 a pair. For Christmas last 
year he bought his mother an electric mixer; 
for Easter, a black-and-white print silk for 
$22.95; and now he is saving $1 a week to- 
ward a set of silverware for her for next 
Christmas. Also he takes care of all his own 
personal expenses, including dry cleaning 
and laundry. 

Because of his economic responsibilities, 
Chuck’s life and his interests are distinctly 
divided: he is both high-school senior and the 
young man working for a living. Each morn- 
ing he takes a streetcar to George Washing- 
ton High School, about a mile and a half 
away, and by 8:45 is lost among the 1800 
students who scatter themselves through 
the 80 classrooms, 5 shops, 2 gyms, library, 
auditorium and rifle range that make up the 
vast L-shaped school plant. 


Georce WASHINGTON, outstanding for its 
beauty even in picturesque San Francisco, 
sits high on a hill toward the rim of the city, 
looking out toward the Pacific Ocean and the 
Golden Gate Bridge. On murky days the fog- 
horns from the bay echo through the class- 
rooms and the mist rolls up round the win- 
dows of the school; but on clear days the 
white stone building stands dazzling in the 
sunlight and the bright azalea and shiny- 
leaved gardenia bushes around the school 
make it look as flawless and colorful as a pic- 


All seniors who do not plan to go to college 
are given special interviews to determine their 
interests and aptitudes, and the school tries 
to place them in jobs before they finish 
school. As a senior, Chuck Swanman’s course 
includes civics, physics, Spanish I, trigonom- 
etry and physical education. He was disap- 
pointed because, with a C-plus average, he 
was not allowed to cram English also into his 
course as a fifth “‘solid.” 

Principal O. T. Schmaelzle, as tall and 
muscular as any fullback that ever made his 
football team, keeps the school moving at a 
briskly adult pace. He is an astute teacher, 
careful to include in the school program just 
as much relaxation as is necessary to produce 
a reasonable balance of good work. The year 
before last the school won second-place honors 
in the all-city football championship and the 
school hero, Ollie Matson, a young Negro ath- 
lete, now has his track shoes bronzed and in 
reverent display in a case in the school lobby. 
Once a year the school holds a May Day fes- 
tival with no classes, a carnival on the 
grounds, a picnic lunch instead of service in 
the cafeteria, and a dance in the evening. 
Each Friday night the two gyms are open to 
the school crowd, either for a juke-box dance 
or a sports evening with games as entertain- 
ment. The big dances draw the whole school; 
the record dance and sports nights draw the 
same crowd each time—chiefly upperclass- 
men and students who live near the school. 

But like many of the students who live too 
far away or confine their social lives to their 
own neighborhoods, Chuck Swanman works 
hard during the day, comes to an occasional 
planned activity in the evening, but is not 
dependent on the school for entertainment 









For the best "Beef Tea” 
use Wilson's B-V 
and boiling water. 


hot mixture. 


Serves 9 OF 4. tchens 


—from the Rector Ki 





B-V is a highly concentrated combination of rich 
meat juices and selected vegetable flavors. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





| dreamed 


| went strolling 


d for pretty 
bli you beautifully ; ve 
aie Maidenform’s Allo-e 
a 


fi 
Send for “maiden, Fa for Every We 
There is 9 - 


F. 
nue y. 6. PAT: OF 


outside school hours. Though he is popular 
and well liked by both students and teachers, 
Chuck belongs to no activities clubs and 
holds no class offices. During the first week of 
school last year, and his first week at the new 
school, he went out for football practice, but, 
as he says, “‘I don’t seem to have co-ordina- 
tion yet so I just didn’t get anywhere.” Also, 
on his first day at scrimmage, someone stole 
his shoes from the locker room (‘‘Maybe it 
was just a joke, but I never got them back’’), 
and for several weeks he had to wear work 
shoes, bought at an Army-surplus store, to 
school until he raised money for a new pair. 
A few days after the shoe-stealing incident, 
someone took the $22 pair of glasses Chuck 
needs for studying. Since he was still paying 
on the glasses, a sympathetic optometrist 
gave him a new pair for $16 and a longer time 
to pay off the debt. 

Those two thefts, subsequently reported 
to Mr. George Klingner, Dean of Boys, made 
Chuck feel ill at ease in the new school and 
“‘as if someone was making a fool out of me.” 
Says Mr. Klingner, “‘He came bumbling in 
here like a St. Bernard puppy to tell me 
what happened and I could just tell he was 
feeling like a lonely kid.”’ From that day on, 
Chuck has spent his free study-hall period 
running errands and helping out in the dean’s 
office. Since he makes friends easily, he soon 
began to know many of the students by name, 
stopped for an occasional after-school Coke 
at the school hangout, The Flying Saucer, 
and lost his feeling of being an ‘‘outsider.”’ 

But chiefly it is Chuck’s need to keep an 
outside job that allows him to take only 
class-time interest in his 









October, 1949 


* Chuck himself likes to work and his mo 
has taught him the importance of responsi 
bility. Once, when he was employed as a 
livery boy for a florist, Chuck decided 


hole and said, ‘Chuck Swanman, if you 
promised you’d work today, get right home 
and into your work clothes.’ And he was 
home and dressed before I even got there.” 


Now, between schoolwork and his jobs, 
Chuck usually allows himself just two nights 
a week ‘‘to go out and find some fun.’’ On 
Tuesday night, that fun is a meeting of his 
club at a local Y.M.C.A. During his first 
month at George Washington High, Chuck 
was asked to join the Rogues, one of seven 
Hi-Y clubs for boys in the school. These clubs 
have unlimited membership and individual 
faculty sponsors and were formed to replace 
the fraternities (and sororities for girls) that 
were outlawed by city ordinance in San 
Francisco about two years ago. The Rogues 
wear dark green jackets, meet at the Y one 
night a week and occasionally plan Y dances 
or sports nights at the Y with girl guests. 


On Friday night, his “one night of the 


week to raise Cain,’’ Chuck usually goes out 
with five or six other Rogues. Sometimes 
they just put on sports shirts and sun tans, the 
routine school-day outfit, and go to one of the 
gym dances at Washington High, where they 
stand around in a group, talk to the same fel- 
lows they see in school each day, but rarely 

_aska girl to dance. (‘‘A girl 


school. Though jobs are in- 
creasingly scarce for high- 
school students in San 
Francisco (as one boy 
said, ‘Now they can get 
grown-up delivery men 
who need that work full 


® Politeness doesn’t cost 

anything. It wouldn’t be 

worth anything if it did. 
—ANON, 


who’s going steady won’t 
dance with you,” explained 
Chuck. “I got turned down 
once and that’s enough.’’) 

Sometimes the Rogues 
gang goesdowntown. None 
of Chucl:’s boy friends 


time’’), Chuck still holds 

two jobs. Every Tuesday and Thursday 
after school, he goes to his aunt’s house 
to scrub floors, wash windows and lift all the 
heavy furniture for vacuuming and dusting. 
On these days his Swedish grandmother, who 
lives with this daughter, greets him in the 
kitchen with a pot of hot coffee and kaffee- 
kaka (Swedish coffeecake topped with sugar, 
cinnamon, butter and vanilla) and then fol- 
lows him about while he works, giving house- 
wifely advice and a little affectionate scold- 
ing about his schoolwork. His earnings here 
come to $3 a week. Every Saturday morning, 
with his schoolbooks and a lunch in a brown 
paper bag, Chuck catches a 6:30 bus for a 
ranch town about fifteen miles outside San 
Francisco. For two days he works on a small 
farm there, mowing lawns, laying cement, 
cleaning out the pasture and caring for the 
horses. Before he got this job, Chuck never 
missed a Sunday at Lutheran services with 
his mother and sisters. But now he starts at 
8 o’clock on Sunday morning and works till 
it is time to catch the 6 o’clock bus back to 
San Francisco. For this, Chuck earns $8 a 
day, a quiet Saturday night for studying and 
muscles as hard and knotted as a boxer’s. 


Since he took his first job six years ago, 
Chuck has done at least ten different types of 
work and feels he can do “‘just about any- 
thing as well as most fellows.” At 11 and 12 
he hired out to a farmer for $43 a season to 
help spray berries and tie sacks at threshing 
time. The farmer was an old friend of the 
family, so Chuck was allowed to live in a tent 
on the side lawn and his grandmother ar- 
ranged to stay at a farm nearby ‘“‘just to 
watchthe/in poyk (fine boy).’’ Laterhe washed 
glasses at a hotel, worked at cutting on a holly 
farm during season, clerked in a grocery 
store and helped out in a meat market, learn- 
ing to butcher from the charts. He worked 
for a while whitewashing windows at a 
greenhouse, but was asked to leave because 
his Size 13 shoes, sticking out from the ladder 
rungs, broke too many panes of glass. In Port- 
land, his size and broad shoulders got him an 
evening job as doorman ata theater, his favor- 
ite jobbecausehe sometimes wore cowboy out- 
fits to advertise westerns and “I could always 
fix my boy friends up with the usherettes.”” 


PS a TTY 
owns a car, but occasion- 


ally someone gets the family car. Then 
they usually drive down to the Inter- 
national Settlement, a gaudy Bohemian 
night-club strip, to sit in one of the girly 
shows, listen to a bebop combo and have a 
few glasses of beer or a couple of Tom Col- 
linses. Though the legal age for the purchase 
of liquor is 21 in the state of California, 
Chuck explains, ““We all look older when 
we’re dressed up, and, besides, along that 
street nobody seems to care much how old 
you are.” (Chuck is never allowed liquor at 
home and gets a “pabulum punch’’—ginger 
ale with lemon peel—when with family 
friends. When his mother scolds him for 
drinking with the boys he answers, “Okay, 
warden, you asked me what I did last night— 
did you want me to lie to you?’’) However, 
with $1.50 admission charge and drinks at $1 
each, such night-club evenings are rare. 
Sometimes the boys just “‘go out looking,” 
occasionally follow a pretty girl down the 
street to call out after her ‘‘There goes 
curves!” or “‘Say, sugar, what’s cookin’ to- 
night?”’ More often the gang just go to a 
movie, stop for a hamburger and a malted 
afterward and get home around one o’clock. 

Chuck has dated no high-school girls since 
he moved to San Francisco, but is a prized 
blind date for girls in his sisters’ college so- 
rority who need “‘a tall fellow—a good dan- 
cer’ for one of the college dances. One 19- 
year-old tried to get her friends to say she 
was only 17 so Chuck would take her out 
again. Last year he took one girl to a 
Christmas dance. It was his first formal 
dance. He planned to wear his uncle’s eve- 
ning clothes, but found he couldn’t get his 
shoulders into the jacket, so sister Marjorie 
lent him $10 to rent formal clothes. Dorothy 
bought him an orchid to give his girl. Two 
hours before the dance, the only thing left 
unsolved was the problem of dark shoes. 
Chuck’s feet were larger than those of his 
uncle or any of the boys he knew at school. 
At the last minute a pair of shoes was bor- 
rowed from a friend of a fraternity friend of 
Marjorie. But they were 11’s, two sizes too 
small. By midnight Chuck was so tired from 
trying to dance in tight shoes that he fell 
asleep in the car coming home and was too 

(Continued on Page 188) 














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188 


FALL CLEANING 


Must Fight Germ Threat 














MRS. FRANCIS BARR and son Gregory in their 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 186) 
embarrassed to try to date the girl again. ‘I 
was a regular Henry Aldrich that night,” he 
laughs. “‘I just couldn’t get started.” 

When Chuck lived in Portland, things were 
different. Most of the students with whom 
he went to school had known him since he was 
a little boy. He had gone to dancing classes 
in eighth grade with “‘the good bunch of 
kids,”’ belonged to one of the Big Six high- 
school fraternities, and was known as “‘real 
sosh,”’ short for “‘social.’’ That meant that he 
was considered one of the right crowd, dated 
the right girls and went to the right dances. 
His sisters both belonged to a sorority of 
equivalent rank and had gone to the same 
high school before him. “‘The kids up there 
went in big for fads,’’ Chuck explained, “and 
they didn’t work so hard at school as the 
crowd at George Washington.” Like the 
other boys in his fraternity, Chuck then wore 
his suntan pants tightly pegged (he did the 
tailoring himself), sometimes alternated 
these pants with ordinary cook’s trousers, 
dyed a light powder blue, affected thick, 
heavy-soled shoes and wore his hair slightly 
long and combed into a low point in back. 

He often dated five nights a week in the 
summertime, taking his date swimming, to a 
movie or just visiting at friends’ homes. On 
his one big crush, he dated the same girl five 
nights in a row, borrowed a car, took her to 
hear the Ink Spots, bought her an orchid and 
then, on the sixth night, asked her to ride to 
a date on the streetcar. Next day she “‘catted” 
to one of her friends that “‘he’d better not 
think J’m going to take streetcars’; Chuck 
heard about it and never 
dated her again. But, ac- 
cording to Chuck, most of 
his social life and the life 
of other students in that 
high school revolved not 
around individual dates, 
but the activities of the 
sororities and fraternities. 

Chuck was asked to join his fraternity as 
a 15-year-old sophomore. It was one of the 
Big Six among high-school fraternities in 
Portland. Including Chuck, the fraternity 
had asked ten boys, from whom they ex- 
pected to select five for membership, to at- 
tend a “rushing dinner’’ at the home of one 
of the members. ‘‘It was the works,” ex- 
plained Chuck. “Chicken, ham and every- 
thing. Some of the old members even wore 
formal clothes.”’ The boys invited to the din- 
ner knew that membership in the fraternity 
would demand from them $6 for a pin, $5 
initiation fee, 50 cents a month dues and 
their undying loyalty to fellow fraternity 
members. In turn, the fraternity would 
guarantee for them social prestige among 
the ‘‘right crowd” at school and the assur- 
ance that they would “get around.” 


doing. 


TmmepraTey after the rushing dinner, the 
potential pledges were sent upstairs to be 
called down, one by one, for questioning by 
the old members. “It almost scared the 
britches off me,”’ said Chuck. “‘ They told me 
to sit in a chair next to a table with a lamp 
on it. The shade was tipped so the light was 
on my face. Then they began asking me 
questions: did I drink, did I smoke, did I have 
a job, who were my friends at school, what 
about girls and how was everything going at 
home?”’ (If things were not “going well” ata 
pledge’s home, a fraternity member might 
call on the parents to see what could be done 
to help.) Since two members of the frater- 
nity, knownashistorians, hadalready checked 
the backgrounds and reputations of all boys 
asked as potential pledges, these questions 
were simply a formality, a test to see whether 
a boy was candid enough to tell the truth. 

After each boy is questioned separately, 
the ten are closeted upstairs while the fra- 
ternity brothers decide which five to take as 
pledges and which five to “ding out.” A 


“ding” is a statement by one fraternity’ 


member that he does not want a particular 
boy in the fraternity. The “ding” may be 
based on personality differences or a personal 
prejudice; no reason for it need be given. In 
most fraternities, “two dings and you’re out” 
is the rule. When the decisions have been 
made, the boys are again called down one by 


Our chief want in life is 
somebody who shall make 
us do what we are capable of 
—THOMAS CARLYLE, 


October, 1949 


one, told whether or not they have been ac- 
cepted as pledges and then dismissed. 

For the pledges, six weeks of daily ‘‘pledg- 
ing’’ lies ahead, during which time they must 
shine shoes, press pants, wash cars, do dishes 
at the homes of full-fledged members upon 
request, and show a general respect and 
good will around school. The final week of 
pledging is known as Hell Week, culminated 
by Hell Night, held by Chuck’s fraternity on 
a golf course outside town “where the cops 
can’t hear you yell.” For some final initia- 
tions, each pledge is required to bring his own 
hack paddle with him. These hack paddles, 
often made secretly in manual-training 
classes at school, are about two feet long, 
eight inches wide and an inch thick, carved 
with the Greek letters of the fraternity and 
bored with small air holes to “give it a sting.” 


In Chuck’s fraternity, the old members 
brought the paddles. Old members and 
pledges met at 7:30 and then split into small 
groups. The older members carried flash- 
lights. As a first step, pledges were given bot- 
tles of hot sauces mixed with garlic and pep- 
per and were told to start drinking. ‘‘ Next,” 
said Chuck, ‘‘ we each got a bottle of beer to 
drink and five cigars to smoke, inhaling, un- 
til we all gagged and were sick. Then we had 
to eat a couple of raw eggs and swallow a few 
oysters until we were sick again. After that 
the hackers got to work—we had to bend 
over and walk the gantlet back and forth. 
We got hacked fifty or sixty times each. 

“One kid who was dinged out at the first 
meeting kept pretending he was a pledge and 
even showed up on Hell 
Night. They just dinged 
at him till he went home. 

“But our fraternity 
wasn’t hack-crazy like 
some. Some of the frater- 
nities keep hacking a 
fellow until he starts bawl- 
ing or faints. One of the 
Big Six fraternities is called the Mad Hack- 
ers—they gave 365 hacks apiece on one night 
and broke two paddles on one kid. Some of 
the kids give themselves shots of Novocain, 
but that just hurts worse when it wears off.”’ 

Chuck’s initiation lasted till 11 o’clock, 
when one fraternity member said to him, 
“Get out of here; come to the next meeting.” 

After Hell Night there is just one more rule: 
each initiated pledge must show up for school 
next day “‘just as if nothing happened.” 

Said Mrs. Swanman, ‘“‘ He came home look- 
ing as if he’d sat on a hot stove. I was never 
so mad in my whole life.” 

Now, two years after his initiation, Chuck’s 
opinion of fraternities is unchanged. “If 
there are fraternities or sororities in the high 
school you go to, you have to belong or 
you’re just out of everything. Even the girls 
snuff you out. Kids don’t mean to be snob- 
bish. It’s just something that everybody 
does. And at least you’re organized to have 
some fun. I kind of got respect for myself, 
too, for getting through Hell Week okay. If 
I had to do it over, I’d join again.” 

Next year, after graduation from high 
school, Chuck expects to go to Menlo Junior 
College for a year to raise his grades to the 
average B necessary for entrance to Stanford 
University. Then three years at Stanford and 
three years at law school, with his attorney 
uncle paying the bills ‘‘as long as Chuck keeps 
trying.” (Tuition at Stanford is $200 per quar- 
ter, while room, board and fees in a fraternity 
house are approximately $145 per month.) 

Chuck would like to get married at about 
28; the girl must be good-looking (“I’m used 
to good-looking women with my mother and 
sisters around’’), and “‘she’s got to like kids a 
lot because I do” (in Portland, Chuck was a fa- 
vorite baby-sitter, usually came early enough 
to bathe the children and put them to bed). 

Beyond that, Chuck’s ideas about his fu- 
ture get less positive. “‘Maybe I’ll just keep 
on living in San Francisco. Maybe I'll get 
into politics somewhere in the state. My sis- 
ters will get married—that I know. My 
mother always gets along—and she’s good- 
looking enough to get married any time she 
wants to. I guess all I’ve really got to worry 
about is myself. I’m sure not worried about 
that.” THE END 





19] 









Meet the Holcombes, 
of Spartanburg, 
South Carolina, 


experts at putting 
first things first 





“We want books, music and all the cultured things our children should grow up with.” 







By RUTH SHAPLEY MATTHEWS 


Photographs by Edward Burks 


If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft, Sell one, and with the dole 
And of thy store two loaves alone are left, Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul. 


HE Neville Holcombes live in a white-pillared five-room cottage in Spartanburg, 
South Carolina. It was their honeymoon house. After fifteen full years that have 
spanned a depression, the Second World War and a period of turbulent readjust- 
ment, the cottage, which cost $4500 in 1934, is now crowded home to an energetic 
family of six. It is also a sort of symbol, a compromise between material comforts and 
intangible things of the spirit. 

In the four lines above, a Persian poet who lived seven centuries ago expressed 
satisfactorily for the Holcombes why they have stayed on in a bungalow of 1925 vintage, 
several sizes too small, on a street outmoded by Spartanburg’s pleasant, wooded suburbs. 
When Fannie Louise Vermont Holcombe was a high-school girl, blond and pretty enough 


The Holcombes’ five-room cottage is crowded with a lively 


to disguise a certain serious-minded intensity, a teacher read the verse in class. It stuck family of six who chose a holiday house in the mountains, 
throuch the vears and has motivated more than one decision during her married life. a trip to Europe rather than a larger home in the suburbs. 
5 ¢ 


While not confronted by any such acute crisis as the poet described, Neville and she 
agree on the principle. Accordingly, in 1939, when his law practice was progressing and * HO . rR - 





Elodie, the eldest of the four Hol- 
combe daughters, was three, they 
postponed building a house farther 
out in Converse Heights. 

Neville was then a partner in the 
law firm of Evans (the late ex-governor 
of South Carolina), Galbraith and 
Holcombe. Adjoining the Evans’ home 
on the edge of Converse Heights was 
a very desirable tree-shaded corner 
lot which the Evanses proposed that 
the Holcombes buy. It was a great 
temptation, but instead, Fannie Lou 





City Manager Temple and Nev- and Neville passed it up for a trip to 
ille meet on square, talk politics. | Europe. 

Elodie was left with Fannie Louise’s 
parents, who had summered many years at Lake Summit in the Blue 
Ridge Mountains, just across the North Carolina border from Spartan- 
burg. Neville had never been to Europe, but Fannie Lou had spent a 
summer there several years before. Her father, the late Dr. Adolphe 
Vermont, professor of romance languages at Spartanburg’s Converse 
College, was Belgian by birth, and there were close family ties in 
Europe. 

After an absorbing though precarious tour during the summer of 
1939, the Holeombes made it back to America on the last civilian 
voyage of the Queen Mary after Britain entered the war. 

In 1940, Anne Lynne was born, and space to live comfortably be- 
came even more important to the Holcombes. Again they considered 
building a larger house in town. They 
eyed the lot beside the Evans’ house spec- 
ulatively and balanced it against their pet 
philosophy. Instead of the new house in 
Spartanburg, they chose the counterpart 
of the hyacinths: the white dogwood, the 
yellow bell and the lavender-flowering 
Judas trees of spring week ends in the 
mountains; long, lazy summer months of 
comparative cool beside Lake Summit, a 
holiday home in the Blue Ridges. 

This was built to their own blue- 
print for comfort and fun, eight airy 
rooms and a wide screened porch, 





How much time should a man take from his own business to serve in municipal affairs? 


Neville Holcombe left his law practice to enlist in 1942, returning in 1945 to find seat with the grounds sloping to the lake. Anne Lynne and Elodie collect 
on city council and committee work added hours to job of re-establishing himself. Here, during the long hot season, they magazines for the Red Cross. 
Sharing is important too. The Holcombes made Gone are the days of plentiful, inexpensive servants in the South. The Holcombes’ busy life frequently calls 
their home collection-center for American Aid to Neville finds that mowing the lawn can substitute for his weekly for quick change into formals. Fannie Lou 


France; “Spartans” adopted 75 French war orphans. 18 holes on the golf course, but it works a different set of muscles. does her own cooking, has part-time maid. 





e 





How much time and energy can be spared 
from home and family? Fannie Lou says 
civic service sharpens a mother’s ability. 





Duties as president of her Brownie Scout troop weigh as heavily upon Anne 
Lynne as her Brownie Scout beanie. She aspires to Converse, her mother’s 
alma mater: sister Elodie prefers North Carolina, for its football team. 


swim and relax and the four little Holcombe girls grow healthy and 
brown. Neville drives up for long week ends, spends his two-week va- 
cation there, and they entertain alfresco, cooking over the grill on the 


shore 





a wonderful short cut for the problem of giving parties in 
town, and twice the fun. 

Neville Holcombe is a lawyer who has had a hand in local politics; 
recently he assisted two other ex-servicemen from Spartanburg to estab- 
lish the new Piedmont National Bank in their city. He is a quietly 
distinguished-looking citizen with keen gray eyes, crisply curling hair, 
and an active sense of responsibility where his community and its 
affairs are coticerned. 

And Fannie Louise Holcombé, a graduate of Converse College in 
°32, is a dynamo of energy with a lively mind. She shares Neville’s 
interest in the Piedmont country to which by heritage and education 
they’re both so closely bound. As she sees it, theirs is the problem 
of a whole stratum-of American life: 

“We college graduates who struggled through the depression, had our 


babies ten or fifteen years ago. just began to see daylight when we had to 


ennai saul 








A schedule that sometimes absorbs every hour from 9:45 straight through the day calls 
for careful planning. Fannie Louise lives by that little black date book. Spartans enter- 
tain frequently, often formally, more often at simple “Coke” parties on the lawn. 


Fannie Louise, substitute teacher in Spartanburg 
High School—from which she graduated—taught 
70 days last year, earned $420 at rate of $6 a day. 


Creating—or judging—an attractive flower arrangement is an art. 
\voiding executive posts, Fannie Louise works hard on committees 
ranging from garden clubs to church work to political campaigning. 





ae ee 


ae 





Anne Lynne takes weekly violin lesson at Converse College, gets some pointers on fin- A budding flutist, Elodie takes lessons and plays in the orchestra at Jenkins Junior High 
gering from Professor Cavallaro, here; made her first public appearance in garden re- School. Eventually there'll be a four-piece ensemble in the Holcombe household; Fannie 
cital this spring; and did her turn as concert mistress with the children’s orchestra. Louise plans a soundproof music room in the dream house they hope to have soon. 


go off to war. Our husbands, lawyers and doctors and the like, left good 
practices and came back to start all over,” 
The C 


hJoins’ The Holcombes met in 1932, married in 1934 in mid-depression. 
LSU UI US 
4 





Neville had scholarship honors at Wofford College in Spartanburg 
(occasionally he wears his Phi Beta Kappa key) and followed with a sim- 
y ilar record at Harvard Law School. He worked his way through both. 
‘§ — MUSIC ANA Taking the prewar years in enterprising stride, he pitched into a 


tvoney for 
eid 





corporate and probate law practice, and by 1942 had jacked his income 
into the five-figure bracket. 
(ne The fact that the community was developing by leaps and bounds, 





pwr both industrially and agriculturally, and that good, sound legal intel- 





ligence with a capacity for driving, hard work was needed contributed 
much to the rapid rise. He had passed up a bid from a New York law 
firm when he got his Harvard degree, preferring the quieter way of life 
in Spartanburg. 

When Pearl Harbor blasted the U.S.A. into war, Neville was nearly 
forty, had two children, and nearly everything at stake in his law 






Everybody lends a hand on baking day. By 
doing her own cooking, Fannie Louise 
saves $442 a year, teaches the girls too 








Dancing costume for Anne Lynne tests Fannie Louise’s sewing ability and patience; she 
cuts the children’s clothing budget in half by dressmaking, often thinks she would gladly 
trade her college Latin credits for more know-how and skill with pattern and needle. 


practice. [t was a wrench to volunteer early in 1942 and go off into 
service, just as it was for many others similarly situated. Three years 
later, a lieutenant commander’s commission in Naval Intelligence and 
more drudgery than excitement behind him, he returned. 

“With families at the demanding age and houses too small for teen- 
agers, we find starting over is a hard job because of our ages—around 
forty or more.” 

Having four growing girls to prepare for the uncertainties of the 
late twentieth century is enough to make any parent pause for thought. 

The Holcombes’ eldest, Elodie Louise, age 13, is in junior high, 
squarely at the “between stage.” Her dark-fringed eyes should flutter 
the stag line later, but at the moment interests run to big-league 
baseball. Last semester she captained her school softball team, a 
doubtful honor at the price of a broken little finger that had to be 
reset twice. 

Anne Lynne, age 9, has flyaway blond pigtails, is droll and leisurely 
conversational, and wears her Brownie Scout beanie with the dignity 
befitting a president. Pammie (Frances Caroline), a mischievous 

1-year-old who recently parted with her front teeth, has social impulses 
that involve pantry raids; her favorite delicacy at the playhouse tea 
table is dry Jell-o powder without benefit of spoons. Martha Wofford, 
age 2, does her concentrated best to keep up with the whirl around 
her, and even on baking days holds up her end of the cooky dough. 

As though managing this lively household with the help of a part- 

time maid who comes in at eight A.M. and departs at three were not 
enough, Fannie Louise has taken on an added responsibility. She 
substitutes in the Spartanburg senior high school from which she 
graduated. 
Her interest in teaching is inherited. She loves it and is deeply 
concerned by Spartanburg’s shortage of teachers. Somebody has to 
help, she maintains. High-school-teachers’ pay starts at $1728 a year, 
and after two years and graduate summer-school work may be in- 
creased by $68 a year for the next six years. This does not compete 
with the ‘pay for good factory jobs in the 41 textile mills around 
Spartanburg. 

Last year, Fannie Lou taught about 70 days, earned about $420, 
most of this during the period from November through February, 


* HOW AMERICA LIVES * 


Talet 





Pammie, age 4, and ‘“‘Marfa,”’ age 2, are inseparable, hold open house sociably to 
swarm of neighborhood children. Impish Pammie often throws planned menus into 
confusion by pantry raids for tea parties, is spanked only for crossing streets alone. 





Mamie, part-time maid, does housework Play and storytelling hour is 7 to 8 before 
but no cooking. She works from 8 to 3, bedtime, an hour that belongs to Little 
does extra baby-sitting for 35¢ an hour. Folks alone, no matter how busy the day, 


wy ap 


a 


The Holcombes’ summer home at Lake Summit, where friends and family gather, is a favorite spot for entertaining, a cool haven only forty miles from Spartanburg. 


Time always can be found for the things that matter. 


when colds play havoc with the staff. Substitutes will get $7 a day 
next year. Last year pay was $6—scarcely an incentive for pinch- 
hitting in classes from Latin to shopwork, while running a household 
by remote control. However, the pin money comes in handy for such 
things as Elodie’s silver flute, and camp fees, and music books for the 
Glamour Girls, Fannie Louise’s name for the older two. (The pre- 
school twosome are the Little Folks, This keeps the seniorities straight.) 

The home-and-school schedule complicates her existence and calls 
for careful planning. She lives by that little black date book near the 


telephone, and on Saturdays plans the menus clean through the week 
when she and Elodie do up the baking with Anne Lynne and the Little 
Folks playing outfield. 

Two young parties, age 2 and 4 (one in a crib by her parents’ bed, 
the other next door in the sleeping porch-bedroom with her two older 
sisters) can shatter the peace in a congested household. That being 
the case, Fanny Louise sleepily tumbles out of bed at an early hour 
and resigns herself to getting a head start on the day’s activities. 


(Neville’s unsuccessful attempts at KP, (Continued on Page 208) 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


hese flags should pen bh cys of 


query peuvent 










“To get a child to eat foods that are good 
for him, set a good example and eat them 
yourself. The important nutrients con- 
tained in modern enriched bread and flour, 
for instance. Since you get them with 
such great economy in these foods, not 


says MRS. DORA S. LEWIS 


. Past President, American Home Eco- 
nomics Association, and Chairman of 
the Department of Home Economics at 

Hunter College 


only the family meals but the youngsters’ 
snacks too, can carry their valuable con- 


tributions to health and fitness.” © 


: atta 


POM eC Lil see Vea a 6-way nourishment .. . that’s the quickest way to sum up 


Ba gta Nee oe what your family gets every time they eat delicious en- 
Bae riched bread and all the good things made with enriched 

a flour. Those flags tell you what the six benefits are— 

essentials we need every day to keep healthy and trim. 

NTP Van. | So whether you bake at home or buy from your baker 
RIBOFLAVIN or grocer, be sure you get plenty of that valuable 6- 


Helps keep tissues 
healthy and An important 


PONE Cl Lit vitamin for WILE AT FEL OU Ro DNS ELT UTE 
Pa Cele eM mee Teka lh 


way nourishment from enriched bread and flour. 





ae 
FOOD ENERGY Helps build the red | 


tells mit tte Clem fed 
To maintain eit 


proper weight 
and vitality 







CEP ae 
OKC tak 


COUNTILON Ty 
aT I 
NUTRITION Je 
9, Ss 


ys 
* meDicat 8 


Vu ny 











DELICIOUS MAIN DISH FOR SIX with only 1% pound of meat! Sift 
together 3c. sifted enriched flour, 4 tsp. baking powder, 7 tsp. salt. Cut in 6 T. 
shortening. Add 1 cup cooked meat cut in ¥% inch cubes. Add milk (about 134 
cups) to make thick batter. Mix with fork until flour is well moistened. Bake in 
greased 81-inch ring mold in moderate oven (375 degrees F.) about 50 min- 
utes. Unmold on hot platter; fill with cooked, seasoned vegetables in cheese 
sauce. Serve with additional cheese sauce. 






The nutritional statements in this advertisement are acceptable to the 
Council on Foods and Nutrition of the American Medical Association. 








We e i ch ie : . ef ake e f f : os is 3 of a . Pa fi 
s t ‘ fy) eV) / My / Copr, 1949 by Wheat Flour Institute, 309 W. Jackson Blyd., Chicago 6, Ill. 
here’ Well) NOUSHINCH 
rp ET IF YOU'RE DIETING TO LOSE WEIGHT, remember that 
| 


calories are what you want to cut, not essential vita- 


5 { 4 : i az mins and mineral nutrients. The thiamine, niacin, 
/// i HI, 1b) Téa AM OU. riboflavin and iron in enriched bread and flour help 
A fe f 


keep you fit while you’re reducing. 








- 


Yfyyyy 
YY 
77 


< 


rdley English Lavender, $5.75, $2.85, $1.75, plus tax 
Yardley English Lavender Soap, 45c. Box of three tablets, $1.35 


Lavender Dusting Powder, $1.50, plus tax 


Yardley products for America are created in England and finished in the U. S. A. from the original English 
formulae, combining imported and domestic ingredients, Yardley of London, Inc., 620 Fifth Avenue, N. Y. C. 








Let’s Hope They'll 
be Pretty Too! 


Although Mrs. Holcombe’s first interest. is in 
bringing up popular, lovable daughters, she is 
human enough to want them to be pretty too! 
Mrs. Holcombe encourages her daughters’ min- 
iature “beauty” attempts, and sees that they: 


BRUSH THEIR HAIR. A hundred daily strokes to 
their own, and Elodie and Anne Lynne take turns 
caring for little sister’s topknot. 


HAVE WEEKLY SHAMPOOS. One evening a week de- 
voted to shampooing four little Holcombe heads! 
Two shampoos with mild soap, lots of scrubbing, 
three clear-water rinses. 


BATHE REGULARLY. A bright bubble bath is an in- 
centive for any little girl to keep spanking clean. 


KEEP CLOTHES IN GOOD REPAIR. Wash and iron 
hair ribbons, hankies and “‘little laundry’’; main- 
tain order in clothes closets, dresser drawers. 


TIDY UP ROOMS. Ten minutes each morning for 
dusting and straightening up—good basic train- 
ing for becoming efficient housekeepers. 


LEARN ABOUT GROWN-UP GROOMING. Elodie, just 
old enough to have her own pink lipstick and 
fragrant cologne, keeps track of ‘what makes 
mother pretty,”’ for future use. 





PHOTOGRAPH BY FRANCESCO SCAVULLO 
Elodie Holeombe, shown braiding her sister’s hair, can always count on Anne Lynne to return a favor. 


b es inner ’s - uck starts with farsighted parents 


By DAWN CROWELL NORMAN 
Beauty Editor of she Journal 


N elderly college professor was asked recently, “If you were to pre- 

dict the future of our nation, where would you look for your key 

source of information?” And he answered, “In the nursery of every 
home in America.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Neville Holcombe, lawyer and teacher and bright young 
parents of four lively daughters, have the same idea. “We're not train- 
ing our children to be geniuses,” says pretty Mrs. Holcombe, “‘but 
we want them to be on friendly, capable terms with the rest of the 
world.” « Training for tomorrow. Ever since their oldest girl, Elodie, 
was the sole occupant, they have treated their nursery as a sort of 
pint-size preparatory school where building character goes right along 
with building blocks and where affection, understanding and intelli- 
gent training are the main courses for the future happiness of their tiny 
students. « They ll make good mothers. Elodie and Anne Lynne, 13 
and 9 years old, are sisters-in-charge of Pammie, 4, and Martha, 2 years. 
Together they see that the little girls have their faces and hands 
washed before mealtimes, tie on their bibs, keep an eye out for spilled 
milk or food that needs “grownups’ attention.”? After dinner the older 
girls conduct, with authority, the business of brushing teeth, bath- 
ing and getting ready for bed. Elodie is not above braiding Anne 
Lynne’s hair in pigtails “when mother’s busy,” and Anne Lynne gets 
a kick out of laying out fresh party clothes for Elodie when the 
occasion demands. “As soon as the girls had a taste of grownup 


responsibility,” says Mrs. Holcombe, “they began to enjoy taking 
over!” ¢ Social obligations at six turn into social talents at sixteen. Since 
good manners have always been neatly packaged into their daily activities 
at home, the Holcombe girls mix with others easily and graciously. Their 
appealing shyness, normal to all little people, does not result from a lack 
of knowing how to act or what to say in the presence of strangers. On 
the contrary, Elodie, who plays the flute, and Anne Lynne, who is learn- 
ing to master the violin, are often called upon to entertain at school or 
community affairs. ‘““The fact that the girls take pride in their little 
musical talents and that they will have something to contribute to 
their own future social gatherings means more to me than whether 
or not they turn out to be great musicians!” says Mrs. Holcombe. Here 
are some more of their social steppingstones: « Writing thank-you 
notes. Elodie considers herself old enough to handle this on her own, 
but Anne Lynne welcomes parental suggestions on spelling and choice 
of words. « Paying social debts. Every summer the two older girls are 
allowed to have a house party and can invite six girls to visit for a 
week. In complete charge of entertainment, the youthful Holcombe 
hostesses see that all beds are made, get breakfast for the girls, and 
assign one guest a day to help wash and dry dishes. Picnics, parties 
and all activities right up through bedtime are arranged by the young- 
sters, allowing Mrs. Holcombe comparative freedom except for keep- 


ing an eye on how things are going. (Continued on Page 225) 


* HOW AMERICA LIVES x 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL October, 1949 





Hathaway Nylon Marquisette, the original Nylon Marquisette, luxuriously sheer and cloud-soft, 


is now available in luscious colors that tub and resist sun beautifully. Shrinkage is less than 1% because of a 
special process used only by Hathaway. And Hathaway Dots, always in demand for their crisp, white beauty, bring fresh 
informal charm to any room. Be sure to look for the Hathaway trademark, and write 


for our booklet ‘“‘How to Buy Curtains.”’ Address: Dept.L-10 Hathaway Manufacturing Company, New Bedford, Mass, 








By HENRIKTTA MURDOCK 


Interior Decoration Editor of the Journal 


\ Viner our family of six sits down to eat, there isn’t 


room for a single guest,” Mrs. Holcombe explained. “Bride-and-groom 
dining-room furniture should be family size to start with.” 

We think so, too, but in case you have made the same mistake or 
are planning to buy new, here is a practical dining room based on Mrs. 
Holcombe’s suggestions and using the actual furniture she chose. 

The newest tables. like the one shown in the photograph, can grow 
from young-married size to banquet proportion while retaining their 
graceful lines. The pedestal supports leave leg clearance all around and 
the top will extend to 102 inches. If you buy eight or more chairs to 
start with. they can be used in other rooms and you will have extras. 

Notice the credenza-ty pe sideboard Lo hold linens and silver. 

You can add this type of bay window to any small, dark dining room, 
to give extra sun and space, and at moderate cost. Remember that din- 
ing rooms always need decoration to be attractive. Put beautiful color 
alls, make an important feature of your windows and arrange 


on the w 


your cupboards artistically, using some of your collected treasures. 


* HOW AMERICA LIVES x 


201 


PHOTOS BY HAROLD FOWLER 








Draw back the curtains, open up the double-top server and use the bay for breakfast. 


® Select an “‘Easy-to-Make” pat- 
tern. The lines are simple . . . the 


directions are clear, easy to follow. 


e Use a buttonhole attachment for 


* HOW AMERICA LIVES x 


very professional-looking button- 


holes. Makes different-size holes. 


e@ Machine top-stitching gives a very PHOTOGRAPHS BY FRANCESCO SCAVULLO 


smooth, finished look. To make even, 


se 


use notched plastie rule as a guide. 


‘ 


e@ Patch pockets are the easiest to 
make. Top-stitch around flap first, 


then baste pocket to coat and stitch. 


e Use imagination when it comes to 
linings. Perhaps gingham or plaid. 


For cold climates, a simulated fur. 


e The newest hem marker marks 
both the hem and the amount to be 


turned up. It’s quick and easy to use. 





HINTS FOR SIMPLE TAILORING 


Lou Holcombe said she would like to tackle winter coats for daughters Elodie and 
Anne Lynne, and asked what helpful hints we could give her. In the first place, we sug- 
gested, pick out an ““Easy-to-Make” pattern. Select a sturdy fabric that is easy to sew. 
Resort to your gadgets (buttonholer, hem marker, and so on) for a professional look and 
finish. Anne Lynne’s coat cost about $15 (using a $5 coating), the larger sizes relatively 


more. A dramatic enough saving to warrant making winter coats. @ By Nora O’LEARY 





Lou Holeombe’s chinchilla coat is accented by bright cor- 
duroy hat. ‘“Easy-to-Make” Vogue Design No. 6526, 12 to46. 


Gingham dresses to match lining of the 
girls’ coats. Have their own plain-color 


weskits. Vogue Design No. 2564, 8 to 14. 


Vt, i NEDS 


A fi YA \ 


oop sp eee ae 


ah 


| 
rile 


a 


Pe 





© VOGUE 





Back views and prices of these patterns are on Page 245 


Buy Vogue Patterns at the store which sells them in your city. Or order them by mail, enclos- 
‘ Bey 4s ing check or money order*, from Vogue Pattern Service, Putnam Avenue, Greenwich, Conn.; or 
Design No. 3230, 9 to 17. Anne Lynne’s to match, No. 2447, 10 to 14. in Canada from 21 Dundas Square, Toronto, Ontario.* Connecticut residents please add sales tax. 


Elodie’s coat in the same chinchilla. “Easy-to-Make”’ Junior Vogue 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 








From experience comes faith... 


UAL AAAS 





} A young adventurer goes out to sea, with love 


and vigilance behind him. A sudden wave may turn 





{UASUODLCAEHNONETOLS HANNAN NAS 


E-R: SQUIBB & SONS 


Manufacturing Chemists to the Medical Profession since 1858 


him back, but he will try again. 
We are all adventurers in the plan of life. Big 


or little — young or old — ideas born of courage are 


E 
E 
E 
E 
2 


Anesthetics + Biologicals ,- Antibiotics 





proved through experience. cl eMtneMIe aoe 
Little adventurer to man of the world... from Nutritional ae? Medival’ Specidinibs 

: oy. [ 
experience comes faith. 
ae a vinninmiinkomasoaninnieomiomiaaneesnel 


The priceless ingredient of every product is the honor and integrity of its maker 


©e.R. sas 









Sf. 


% oh bin. gee 


rae f 
e assortment 2 


gler - - 
putter selecte 


; hot from the 


with plenty of d 
: d by Swift 


delicate in flavor, 
witt all the way 


delicious 
Mrs. Ame 








October, 1949 





PHOTO BY STUART 
Elodie Holcombe bakes a cake most every week. Little sister, Anne 


Lynne, gets to lick the frosting bowl as reward for greasing the cake pans. 


By LOUELLA G. SHOUER 


lodie Holeombe’s ambition is to have an ice-cream factory when she 

grows up. She’s going to make sure she has cake with her ice cream, 

as she’s been baking cakes since she was nine years old. At thirteen, 
she is quite an expert—recently won a prize at the county fair for the best 
decorated birthday cake. 

If you’ve never known the thrill of eating a cooky or a piece of cake 
that you have made yourself, or had your efforts praised by the family, you 
don’t know what you’re missing. I still remember my first pie, which was a 
cherry pie. It was slightly misshapen and the juice ran all oyer the oven, 
but I thought it was wonderful because I had made it myself. If you’re 
timid about pitching in on a recipe, practice on the cake, cooky and muffin 
ready-mixes; but baking is easy if you measure carefully and follow direc- 
tions. Without any previous acquaintance with batters and bowls, you 
should have good success with these recipes. 


Secrets of Success 


Of course you'll read recipes through to make sure the ingredients you 
need are on hand. Since it takes about ten minutes to preheat the oven, 
start and set it to temperature before you begin. Remove any cold ingredi- 
ents from refrigerator ahead of time too. Shortening, eggs and milk com- 
bine best in a batter if they are at room temperature. A good measure of 
your success with any recipe will depend on how carefully you measure in- 
gredients. On-the-level measurement is more important in baking than in 
any other type of cooking. Flour is always sifted once before measuring. 





* ‘ Fy bg ‘ 
SQ a Put your trust in Swift’s 
vi Brookfield Eggs—per- 
& fected by nature; always 
the same; guarded by Swift all the 
way to your dealer’s store. 


wilt's Brookfield Gain Zod 





Whenever your recipe calls 
for cheese, be sure to use 

Swift’s Broekfield American 
Cheese Food —Swift’s delicious blend of 
mild cheese and peak-ripened cheddar. 


At the Holcombes’ there are two kinds of 
cake—pinch cakes and cakes Elcdie makes 
for one of her mother’s parties. Pinching is 
allowed on a pinch cake from the time it 
comes out of the oven. Sometimes it doesn’t 
last long enough to get frosted. Of all choc- 
olate cakes, this is our favorite—for pinch- 
ing or for parties: 


CHOCOLATE CAKE 


Cream 1% cup soft butter or margarine with 
144 cups sugar until light and fluffy. 
Whether you do this by hand with a large 
bowl and a spoon or with a mixer, add only 
a part of your sugar at one time. When it’s 
creamed to the stage it should be, you will 
hardly be able to see the sugar. The mix- 
ture will be very light in color too. 


If you have never creamed shortening 
and sugar before, ask mother to show you 
how. Seeing once is better than hearing 
twice, but it simply means to make the 
shortening-and-sugar mixture fluffy by 
working and stirring it with a spoon—pref- 
erably a wooden one—or beating it with 
the electric mixer to the same stage. 

Beat 2 eggs with the egg beater and add 
to creamed mixture. Beat again until fluffy. 
Add 1 teaspoon vanilla and 14 teaspoon 
salt. Sift 2 cups cake flour—even though 
you sifted it before you measured it. Melt 2 
squares unsweetened chocolate over hot 
water. Add flour alternately to the creamed 
mixture with | cup sour milk or buttermilk 
mixed with | teaspoon baking soda. If there 
is neither sour milk nor buttermilk in the 









































rigerator, add 2 teaspoons vinegar (don’t 
>a seasoned salad vinegar) to | cup sweet 
k and stir well. 

Whenever a recipe for cake or cookies 
s add flour or dry ingredients alternately 
eamed mixture with milk, plan on 3 
fitions of dry and 2 of liquid—though 
antities don’t need to be exact. Just re- 
»mber always to begin and end with the 
ingredients. Beat batter smooth each 
e. 

hen add melted chocolate. Use a rubber 
‘aper so you're sure you get it all. Beat 
‘rd again—about 150 strokes of your 
‘oon, if you like to make a game of count- 
. Pour into two greased 8-inch layer- 
ke pans that have been lined with wax 
per and greased again. 

Bake in moderate oven, 350° F., 30 min- 
s or until cake springs back lightly on 
ch and just barely begins to shrink from 
es. Layer cakes other than chocolate are 
ally baked at 375° F.—all chocolate 
er cakes at 350° F., as chocolate cakes 
ght get too brown at higher temperature. 
ft out onto racks and let cool 5 minutes 
fore removing from pans. Remove from 
ns and frost with any favorite icing. 
_ANANA CAKE is easy to make too. Follow 
be same principles of mixing as in the choc- 
late cake. Practice makes perfect. 


BANANA CAKE 


ream 6 tablespoons butter or margarine 
d add 1% cups sugar, gradually—beat- 
¢ until fluffy. Add 3 unbeaten eggs, | at a 
e, beating hard and well after each addi- 
on. Mash 2 large ripe bananas until 
ooth—unripe bananas won't mash very 
ell. If it’s easier, put them through a sieve. 
this should make a seant cup. Sift 214 cups 
tke flour with 214 teaspoons baking pow- 
sr, 4 teaspoon baking soda and 1% tea- 
oon salt. Add dry ingredients and ba- 
as alternately to creamed mixture, be- 
ning and ending with dry ingredients. 
at smooth. Lastly, add 44 cup milk and 
ix well. Divide into two 9-inch layer-cake 
ans that have been greased and lined with 
ax paper and greased again. Bake in a 
oderately hot oven, 375° F., about 25-30 
inutes, or until done. Cool 5 minutes be- 
re removing from pan. Turn out on racks 
cool. Frost as desired. 













































NEITHER a cake nor a cooky, but a cross 
tween the two, brownies are rated high 
the list of favorites of the young and 
ot-so-young. 


BROWNIES 


ream 14 cup butter or margarine with 1 
ap brown sugar until light and fluffy. (Al- 
ays measure brown sugar lightly packed 
pressed in the cup.) Beat 2 eggs very light 
d add to sugar and shortening. Beat 
ell. Sift 14 cup flour with 4 teaspoon salt 
d stir into mixture. Melt 2 squares un- 
eetened chocolate over hot water and add 
> batter. Stir in ] teaspoon vanilla and 14 
p chopped nuts. Spread out about 4 inch 
ick in a greased shallow pan and bake in 
moderate oven, 350° F., 30 minutes. Cut 
ito squares while warm. 


2 
{LODIE always makes the cookies for her 
jother’s tea parties. This one is her spe- 
ialty: 


ELODIE’S SNOWDROPS 


ix 4 cup butter or margarine and 1 cup 
hortening together. Add 3 tablespoons 
owdered sugar and cream together well. 
dd 2 cups flour and 4 teaspoon salt 
nd work into shortening-and-sugar mix- 
re. Then add | tablespoon cold water and 
it teaspoons vanilla. Last, add | cup 

pped nuts. Pinch off pieces of dough and 
oll into small balls. Elodie sometimes takes 
ieces of cooky dough and shapes them 
ound large pecan halves. Place the cook- 
es on greased cooky sheets 114-2 inches 
part and bake in moderately slow oven, 
25° F., for about 20 minutes until they are 
light tan. Remove from cooky sheets and 
oll in powdered sugar. This makes 10-50 
ls, depending on size you make them. 


205 


‘The first cookies I learned to make were 
the old-fashioned oatmeal kind with raisins 
in them. Here’s another kind of oatmeal 
cookies. Fill up the cooky jar. 


COCONUT-CRUNCH COOKIES 


Cream 14 cup shortening with 14 cup brown 
sugar, lightly packed or pressed in the 
cup, and 14 cup granulated sugar. Follow 
same procedure in creaming for cookies you 
do for a cake. Add 1 beaten egg and beat 
mixture well. Sift together 1 cup flour, 
; 2 teaspoon baking soda, 4 teaspoon bak- 
ing powder and 4 teaspoon salt. Sifting 
dry ingredients onto a piece of wax paper 
saves washing an extra bowl. Add dry in- 
gredients to creamed mixture. Mix well. 
Stir in 4 teaspoon vanilla, 4 cup quick- 
cooking rolled oats, 1 cuperisp ready-to-eat 


rice cereal and 14 cup shredded coconut. 


Drop by heaping teaspoonfuls onto greased 
cooky sheets 3 inches apart. Bake in moder- 
ate oven, 350° F., for about 10 minutes. 
Remove fromcooky sheets with widespatula 


and cool on rack. Makes 4 dozen cookies. 


A.most everyone likes a chewy cooky of 
the macaroon type. This one is a cinch to 
make: 


HARVEST MACAROONS 


Combine | cup shredded coconut, l6 cup 
finely cut pitted dates and 14 cup broken or 
coarsely cut walnuts (chopping brings out 
the oil). Mix in 14 cup sugar, 4 teaspoon 
salt. Add 1 egg beaten as light as you can. 
Let mixture stand 5 minutes. Drop from 
teaspoon onto greased cooky sheets, 3 inches 
apart. Bake in moderate oven, 350° F., 10 
minutes or until golden brown. Remove at 
once from baking sheet to cool on rack. If 
you let them cool on the pan, they will be 
hard to remove. Makes 3 dozen tiny maca- 
roons—fewer, if you make them larger. 


Berry Gray, of our JouRNAL food staff, — 
remembers making German Apple Cake 
Pudding when she was nine years old. Just 
why her mother picked this particular 
recipe for her first baking lesson she doesn’t 
recall, but she still makes this cake pud- 
ding frequently in her own home. 


GERMAN APPLE CAKE PUDDING 


Peel, core and slice enough apples to make 
2 cups. Sift together | cup flour, 2 teaspoons 
baking powder, 14 teaspoon salt, 24 cup 
sugar. Place in bowl. Add 1 egg, well beaten 
with the egg beater and mixed with 14 cup 
milk. Beat 1 minute. Pour into a greased 
shallow pan, approximately 9x9x114. Ar- 
range apples evenly on top of batter. Sprin- 
kle with | teaspoon cinnamon. Mix 3 table- 
spoons softened butter or margarine with 
14 cup dark brown sugar and spread on 
top of apples. Sprinkle with another tea- 
spoon cinnamon. Bake ina moderate oven, 
350° F., 30-35 minutes. Cut into squares. 
Serve warm or cold with heavy cream or 
whipped cream. 


Some Sunday morning you may be in the 
mood to get up an hour earlier and bake 
this coffeecake for the family breakfast. A 
treat for them, fun for you. 


SUNDAY-BREAKFAST CAKE 


First mix the following ingredients: 14% 
cups brown sugar, 2 tablespoons flour, 2 ta- 
blespoons cinnamon, 3 tablespoons melted 
butter or margarine, lg teaspoon salt and | 
cup chopped nuts. Set aside. 

Sift 114 cups flour, 14 teaspoons baking 
powder and 4 teaspoon salt together. Beat 
2 eges with the egg beater until very light 
and quite thick. Add 1 cup sugar by spoon- 
fuls. beating well after each addition. Stir 
in 14 cup melted butter or margarine. It 
shouldn’t be hot. Add sifted dry ingredients 
alternately with 4 cup milk. Beat smooth. 

Grease a square loaf pan—one measuring 
8x8x2 is a good size. Spread a layer of bat- 
ter on bottom, sprinkle with part of the 
spiced-sugar mixture, cover with rest of 
batter and sprinkle rest of sugar mixture on 
Bake in a moderate oven, 350° F., 


top. 
done. Cut into 


50-600 
squares and serve warm. 


minutes or until 


ey 
8 






























a 
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. £ 
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Be: - ' . 
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NEW-AND HEAVENLY PIE 


wT BAKERS COCONUT 


29) 
in ti eain—but pumpkin with toasted, golden-brown BS s 
z vik a is bef Coconut! Good? It’s sheer heaven! 
i ; ik efore. ! 
ie was never like tus om ‘oe 
: ; ie airy-light as a cloud Use snowy white Baker's 
ae Dern net tase itement! to glamourize thrifty cakes, puddings, 
i ki ste excitement: g 2 
ee Se. Pe ‘ spl -uits. Buy coconut soodies, too—in 
Tihestaes fluffy pumpkin and spice, fruits. Buy eo goc 
wa tain an food shops and bakeries: 
é ood shops 
laced through d through and topped P 

















It’s pumpk 









\% teaspoon ginger 


, S gelatin 
elope (1 tablespoon) & Y teaspoon nutmeg 


1 env 
1% cup cold water 


d cooked pumpkin 


¥% teaspoon cinnamon 


\ 


1% cups mashe i 2 egg whites 
34 cup evaporated mil \% teaspoon vanilla 
¥% cup water 1 cup Baker’s Shredded Coconut, 


ghtly beaten 
firmly packed 


toasted* 
1 baked g-inch pie shell 


ed and sweetened 


2 egg yolks, sli 
3% cup brown sugar, 


¥% teaspoon salt 


¥% cup cream, whipp 


yolks, % cup of the 
g water 10 minutes, 
from boiling water. 


milk, water, egg 
Cook over boilin 
ed. Remove 


water. Combine pumpkin, 
in top of double boiler. ¢ 
d stir until dissolv 


Soften gelatin in cold 
salt and spices 
onstantly. Add gelatin an 
ightly thickened. 

1 foamy. 
pkin mixture, 
firm. Before serving, 


sugar, 
stirring ¢ 
Chill until sl 

Beat egg whites unti 
until stiff. Fold in pump 
cold pie shell. Chill until 
toasted coconut. 
*To toast coconut, spread thinly in 
shallow pan. Place in moderate oven Ww he 
(350°F.) and toast about 10 minutes, 
ntil delicately browned. Stir occa- 
evenly. 


lly and continue beating 
asted coconut. Turn into 
ped cream and remaining 


Add remaining sugat gradua 
yanilla, and %4 of the to 
top with whip 


Products of ' 


General Foods 






or u 
sionally to toast 
Book!...““Coconut Glam- 
Send 10¢ to Baker’s 
tle Creek, Mich. 


New Recipe 
> 
our Desserts. 


Coconut, Box B109, Bat 


206 


Your washing machine 
needs this help! 





You may be satisfied with your 
washing machine or automatic washer. 
But many other women have 
learned—even without our advice— 
that their washers turn out cleaner, 
| sweeter-smelling clothes 
with the help of Fels-Naptha Soap. 


The reason is plain. Fels-Naptha is not 
a synthetic, chemical “quickie.” It is 
more than an “average” laundry 
soap. Fels-Naptha is mild, golden 
soap blended with active NAPTHA, 
the fast, gentle cleaning agent 
whose extra. dirt-removing action 
is a proven and widely known fact. 





Use this safe, thorough soap in your 
washer and you'll see an immediate 
improvement. Remember—you own 
a wonderful labor-saving device. You can 
make it an even more wonderful 
=) means of getting clothes 
completely, fragrantly clean. 
| Just give it the help it needs— 
| golden Fels-Naptha Soap— 
| preferably the non-sneeze 
| Fels-Naptha Soap Chips. 


| gg 


Zt 


MADE IN PHILA. 
BY FELS CO. 





FOR EXTRA CLEANING ACTION USE 


Fels-Naptha Soap 


MILD, GOLDEN SOAP AND ACTIVE NAPTHA 


ae ae 


sa es ent 


A DREAM 
HOUSE’? 


PHOTO BY DONALD STUART 





Lou Holcombe (left) double-checks blueprints with Journal staff. 


HAT can you build into a house that makes it easy to keep? 

That makes it a pleasant place for the whole family to live in? 

This is what most women want to know when they’re helping 
to plan a home. But, unfortunately, they often find out only when 
it’s too late, after their homes are finished and they have been 
living in them awhile. For this reason, we asked twenty women 
what they wanted most among the sort of structural advantages 
you have to speak for now or forever hold your peace. Their 
answers may help you to plan your own needs and preferences 
beforehand. Some apply to the house as a whole, others to the 


specific rooms. 


CHECK LIST FOR HOME BUILDERS 


The House as a Whole 


® Sunlight: Where, when and how much 
depend on the individual. But all want 
some in certain rooms at certain times 
of day. 

® Heating: Concealed radiation costs no 
more, allows more flexibility in furniture 
arrangement. 

® Service deliveries: Kitchen handy to 
the street for groceries and packages. 
Utility room or basement handy to the 
street for fuel. 

® Garage: Attached to the house, with 
door between. Or joined to the house by 
a protected passage. Overhead door. 
(More expense, but worth it.) 

e Driveway: Graded for icy weather, if 
the climate demands. 

© Porch or terrace: Entered from both 
living room and kitchen to save steps 
when you eat outdoors, 





® Drying yard: Secluded, but near the 
laundry. 

® Play yard: Located where you can 
watch the children as you work. 

® Hall space: Enough of it to keep main 
rooms from being used as halls, but as 
little as possible. (Bookshelves, built-in 
cabinets or storage closets, even a free- 
standing fireplace, can double as parti- 
tions.) 

@ Downstairs lavatory: This can be a 
bathroom adjacent to a ground-floor bed- 
room. Two complete bathrooms don’t 
cost much more than an upstairs bath- 
room and a downstairs lavatory. 

@ Stairs: Floor-level landings. (To avoid 
opening a door and stepping off into 
space.) Railings around all open stair 
wells, even in the attic and the basement. 
@ Telephone: Upstairs and down. Light 
nearby and enough room for sitting and 
making notes. 








Ss 





Neville, Lou and architect plan the house as a family project from the ground up. 


e Electrical installations: Switch for ceil- 
ing light at the side of the door opposite 
hinges in every room. Remote-control 
wiring, making it inexpensive to have 
switches galore—in the kitchen for attic 
fan or garage lights, near the telephone 
for shutting off the radio. An outlet on 
one switch in every room (saves stooping 
to plug in the vacuum). Weatherproof, 
double outlets above ground level for 
lamps and appliances on porch or ter- 
race. Switch-controlled lights in each 
hallway and spaced every 15’ in a long 
one. Also double outlets every 15’ in 
halls for waxer and vacuum, night lights. 
Switch-controlled lights for stairs, top 
and bottom, including attic and base- 
ment stairs. Pilot lights on switches for 
basement and attic to remind you to 
turn off the lights. Lights operated by 
door switch or pull chain for all closets 
more than 3’ deep. 

© Storage: Upstairs and down for clean- 
ing supplies and linens; out-of-season 
clothes, rugs, furniture; sports gear, 
children’s toys; luggage, hobby equip- 
ment, books. Easily reached from out- 
doors for garden tools and wheeled toys 
like bicycles and wagons. 


Entrances 


® Outside: Shelters to protect guests and 
family key-fumblers from bad weather. 
Lights to help you find that key. see who 
is ringing the bell, illuminate the number 
of your house. 

@ Inside: Floor or floor covering durable 
and easy to clean. Large coat closet near 
front door, 


Living Room 


© Fireplace: Needs wood. Makes ashes. 


Quick, clean devices for supplying one 


and getting rid of the other. Choice of 


several. 

° Electrical installations: Double outlets 
every 6’ in unbroken wall space and in 
every 3’ or longer wall space. (Permits 
light and current for all family activities 
without long, trailing wires.) Special- 
service outlets for mantel clock or lights. 
lights in open cabinets or over pictures, 


Dining Room or 
Dining End of Living Room 


e Electrical installations: Double outlets 
notmore than 10’ apart on unbroken 
walls, and in each 3’ wall, but always 
near the sideboard and the table for small 
appliances. A light over the table. 

e Storage: An ample sideboard or built- 
in arrangement for silver, linen, dishes. 
Handy place for extension table leaves. 


Kitchen and Laundry 

e Doors: Located so passageway isn’t 
through main work areas. 

@ Wall space: Enough for uninterrupted 
layout of appliances, counters, cabinets. 
e Windows: Sills 42” from floor to clear 
counters, sink, tubs. 

e Electrical installations: Tn addition to 
general lighting, a light over each main 
work area. Double outlet near each of 
same. Special connections for ventilating 
fan, radio and appliances. 

e Laundry: Near kitchen or asa part of it. 


Bedrooms 
e Full-length mirror: In the bedroom of 
every grownup. 
e Electrical installations: Double outlets 
not more than 6’ apart on unbroken walls, 
and in each 3’ wall. In any case, enough 
for lights on both sides of mirrors, near 
desks, and near beds for reading lamps, 
electric blankets, radios, clocks, sun 
lamps. 
e Closets: Sliding doors—require a mini- 
mum of space; and swing-out doors— 
can be used for storage themselves. (The 
latter are good for deep closets only.) 
Reach-in closets at least 14” deep to keep 
clothes on hangers from rubbing. Hanger 
poles long enough to allow 1'4” for each 
lightweight dress, 3” for each suit, 5” 
for a cloth coat, 6” for a fur coat. (Keeps 
clothes from mussing.) Walk-in closets 
at least 5’ wide if there is to be storage 
space along the sides. Closet floors raised 
\” with toe space in front. (Keeps them 
free of fluff.) 

Bathrooms 
@ Multiple use: Fixtures in separate com- 
washbasins in one 


partments or two 


PHOTO BY EDWARD BURKS—SCOPE 






watch Live-Water action 


207 


See the proof— 


See a demonstration! Compare the results ! 


See how much whiter and brighter clothes get in the 


Frigidaire All-Porcelain Automatic Washer ! 


Let your own eyes be the judge! 
Prove for yourself that the Frigidaire 
Automatic Washer is really different— 
that Live-Water action gets clothes really 
clean —that white things look whiter, 
colored things brighter. Lift the cover of 
this washer and watch the rolling, pene- 
trating currents of hot, sudsy water that 
produce all the washing motion — with 
no pulling or yanking to wear clothes. See 
how things are always washing in water— 
not halfin, half out. And notice that noth- 
ing but clean, clear water is used for each 
wash and rinse. Yet this washer makes 
maximum use of each drop of hot water 
for finest laundering. 


FRIGIDAIRE 





Feel the difference, too — feel how 
much lighter, drier clothes are when you 
take them out of this washer! Rapidry- 
Spinning really gets water out of clothes 
—gets a big part of your laundry ready 
for ironing immediately. 


Visit your Frigidaire Dealer today— 
ask him to demonstrate all the wonderful 
advantages you get only in aeFrigidaire 
All-Porcelain Automatic Washer. Also, 
see the new Frigidaire Electric Ironer and 
Automatic Clothes Dryer. Find Frigidaire 
Dealer’s name in Classified Phone Direc- 
tory. Or write Frigidaire Division of Gen- 
eral Motors, Dayton 1, Ohio. 


aos 
a a 


The All-Porcelain Automatic Washer 





connections for radio, television and bathroom. 

movie projector. Cove lighting and © Accessibility: From hall if used by 

yuilt-in lighting over windows. several people. Bee: : i 7 eee , 
oo . lighting et ae paces I Placed here a: at Porcelain interior cleans it- Only bubbly, active suds_ It’s all automatic! Touch 
@ Storage: For books, records, music, @ Windows: T laced where you can reach self — porcelain exterior come out of Frigidaire’s Un- the amazing Select-O -Dial — 


and this washer does the rest. 
You can hand-contro!l the 
washer for special things. 


to open them, and where you won't be 
in a draft when bathing. 
(Continued on Page 231) 


derwater Suds Distributor. 
No undissolved soap or de- 
tergent to stain clothes. 


whisks clean with a damp 
cloth. Only Frigidaire offers 
porcelain inside and out! 


collections, movie projector and films. 
Near the living room: bridge table and 
chairs. 





208 





YOUNGSTERS’ 
FAVORITE 
MILKSHAKE 


ee 
E Combine soft 


s ice cream and 
Heart's Delight 
Apricot Nectar. 
Give quick stir or 

two and serve with straws. 








~~ 

~~ 

top. 
a. 



















NECTAR PUNCH 


To each 3 cups of Heart's 
Delight chilled Apricot 
or Peach Nectar, add juice 
of ¥% lemon and some thin 
slices of orange. Stir brisk- 
ly: add 1 cup gingerale 
and small scoops of ice 
cream or sherbet. 


ae 











HOT SPICED 
NECTAR 


Boil together 5 minutes, 
1% cups water, % cup 
granulated sugar, 5 whole 
cloves and one 2-inch stick 
cinnamon. Strain. Add lA 
cups Apricot Nectar, 2 
tablespoons lemon juice 
and ¥2 cup strong black tea. 
Reheat. Serve hot. Serves 6. | 


NECTAR FIZZ 





To each 3 cups of Heart's 
Delight chilled Apricot or 
Peach Nectar, add 1 cup 
gingerale. Stir well to 
blend. Pour over ice in tall 
glasses. Serve immediately. 


The 
Fopular 


Food Drink 


Makes dozens of party treats! Fast —easy 





to make—healthful and delicious! Made 
from California’s finest fruits. Read recipes 
on back of Heart’s Delight Nectar labels 
for other beverages, desserts and many 
good things. Write Dept. N for free recipes. 
Ee 
rd 

vartety to ited 


meals, Particularly nourish- ‘ 
ing, healthful and easy-to- 
digest for those on restricted 
diets and convalescents. 


Heart’s Delight Whole Fruit re 
wets 


PEAR NECTAR ea 


Its smooth, true pear flavor J 
adds welcome 


Richmond-Chase Company 
San Jose, California 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


GETTING THE 


October, 1949 


MOST OUT OF LIFE 


(Continued from Page 196) 


says Fannie Louise, equal hers at balancing 
a checkbook.) 

In the big, old-fashioned kitchen she starts 
break fast, at the same time getting a luncheon 
under way for the Little Folks. Anticipating 
a call to teach, she will be prepared. Maid 
Mamie Hardy, the faithful, cares for Pammie 
and Martha devotedly and is good at house- 
work, but does not cook. A cheese casserole 
or a meat loaf and vegetables, ready for 
noon, solve the problem, and no time is lost 
if Fannie Louise remains at home. 

Next to baseball and swimming, Elodie 
likes cooking. She takes over breakfast prepa- 
rations while Anne Lynne sets the table and 
Fannie Louise goes back to dress the Little 
Folks, who usually have bounced into the 
big old four-poster bed with Neville. The 
bathroom procession has assumed a systema- 
tized, if overtaxed, schedule: the Glamour 
Girls following Fannie Lou, the supervision 
of the Little Folks’ dressing by both parents, 
then Neville’s shaving session. 

Breakfast, a hearty Southern meal of 
fruit, cereal, ham and eggs or creamed 
chipped beef with grits, is served at eight 
o'clock. Mamie has arrived, and her work is 
outlined for the day. Fannie Louise gets the 
girls off to school, waves Neville off on his 
brisk one-mile walk to work, and if the school 
has calléd her, she kisses Pammie and 


| Martha, then drives over for the 8:45 open- 


ing class. 
Fortunately the Frank Evans High School 
is close by, and the family Chevrolet simpli- 


| fies the day’s numerous errands. Neville pre- 


fers the walk to the office and usually comes 
home for lunch. At noon, Fannie Louise 
dashes home for a snack and a checkup on 
the household. Then she goes back to teach 
until three. Classes over, she returns. (Mamie 
already has one foot out the door, ready to 
depart to her own brood of five.) 

When not teaching, Fannie Lou sails into 
the housework after breakfast; particularly 
when Mamie does the thrice-weekly washing, 
she sweeps, vacuums and duS&ts through the 
place. 

In the back-yard playground, Pammie and 
Martha are entertaining the neighborhood 
children in a sand pile, the playhouse, and 
on a teeter-swing that Neville built. Usually 
Sandy Vermont, a six-year-old cousin, and 
the mayor’s small granddaughter are two of 
the crowd. If an occasional howl breaks the 
morning monotony, this calls for a trip out- 
side and a referee job. There was the morn- 
ing when a busy young visitor bopped 
Sandy’s round skull with a sand-pile shovel. 
Three surgical stitches and.a bandage patch 
were required. Usually only time and reason 
are needed to heal the wounds. 

Around 9:30 the telephone starts to ring: 
fifteen minutes out for arranging the Junior 
Charity League committee sale of Little 
Theater tickets (the season opens soon at the 
Community House); ten minutes out to dis- 
cuss the church Guild group work with Mrs. 


Saterlee, the rector’s wife (the Holeombes 
are active in the lively Episcopal Church 
of the Advent); twenty minutes more to line 
up plans for Elodie’s and Anne Lynne’s and 
her own entries in the October Piedmont 
Interstate Fair (knitting, biscuits, bread, 
birthday cakes and jelly). 

By late morning, she gets around to the 
current sewing job, party dresses for the 
Glamour Girls. At the moment, she would 
trade all her college Latin credits for more 
know-how with patterns and needle. 

Luncheon interrupts sewing; the telephone 
interrupts lunch (final arrangements to serve 
in the Charity League canteen at General 
Hospital tonight at six). A brief nap after 
lunch, then, because it is raining, an afternoon 
of chauffeuring, taking the girls to music 
lessons and back home, marketing with the 
Little Folks in the car; early supper at 5:30 
(usually this is between six and seven), then 
off to the hospital; back in time to put the 
babies to bed. All other nights in the week, 
she and Neville reserve seven to eight o’clock 
as a play hour with the Little Folks, who, 
after the romp, are bathed and put to bed. 

“We want books, music and all the cultured 
things our children should grow up with.” 

Fannie Louise’s father, who died suddenly 
last June, was one of the South’s most be- 
loved educators, a brilliant linguist and the 
author of two of America’s most widely used 
French textbooks, La Belle France and Aux 
Etats Unis. A graduate of Louvain University 
who later received doctorate honors at Johns 
Hopkins University in Baltimore, he came to 
America from Belgium in 1907, traveled 
through the Piedmont country, liked it and 
decided to remain. In the Romance Lan- 
guage Department of the University of North 
Carolina at Chapel Hill, his courtly old- 
world manners, gentle sophistication and 
ability to teach created a sensation which 
was not confined to the campus. He soon 
married a Chapel Hill beauty, young Effie 
Temple, who promptly revised her plans for 
a career as a pianist. 

Their first child, Fannie Louise, took to 
Professor Vermont’s books more readily 
than to piano lessons. Three younger brothers 
and tomboy interests seemed more important 
at the time. She regrets this. Elodie and Anne 
Lynne have not escaped so easily. With fine 
determination that brooks no rebellion, 
Fannie Louise started both girls’ piano les- 
sons early and has continued them. Fortu- 
nately they love music and are doing very 
well. Besides, Elodie is taking flute, and 
Anne Lynne, violin lessons; Elodie, ballet, 
and Anne Lynne, tap dancing. 

Spartanburg people pride themselves on 
their musical tradition. The Converse School 
of Music brings top-ranking artists to its 
huge auditorium (it seats 2000), packing it 
for such attractions as the New York 
Philharmonic Symphony. There are con- 
certs for the children and by the children. 
Last spring, Anne Lynne did her turn as 








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Just open a can of Franco- 
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and serve. Nothing to add. 








Grand poured over meat, 
potatoes, hot biscuits—all sorts 
of things. 


Delicious, nourishing—and 
thrifty, too! Try it! Keep a few 
cans always handy. 


Franco - American 
BEEF GRAVY 


e Adds taste and glamor &€£ = 
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to economy foods S A 









@ Enriches slim meals 





e Livens up leftovers 








e Grand on bread for 
children’s snacks 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


concert mistress, looking very much like a 
small, determined dot in her blue ruffled 
dress on the big platform. 

The Holcombes attend all the Little 
Theater plays, the Civic Music and Converse 
College concerts, the opera; Spartanburg 
Symphony Orchestra and choral events of the 
Spartanburg Music Festival in May, and 
Elodie and Anne Lynne go to the children’s 
concerts. Add this desirable expense to the 
cost of the girls’ musical education and danc- 
ing lessons, and write off the sum of $500. 

Fannie Louise and Neville’s own old 
favorites, such as The Tales of King Arthur’s 
Court, Tom Sawyer and Alice in Wonderland 
formed the nucleus for the children’s library. 
They have been adding constantly such clas- 
sics as Heidi, good Bible storybooks, folklore 
such as Uncle Remus and Blue Ridge Billy, 
and the poetry of Stevenson, Milne and 
Fields which Pammie and Martha are begin- 
ning to memorize. Neville’s business takes 
him to Washington frequently. Each time, 
he returns with four more books for the col- 
lection. 

At noon, when he is home, or in the evening 
before dinner or at bedtime—whenever he is 
free—the children beg for stories and the 
books come out. Even driving along the road, 


What is Reno? 


HE sign across its busy main 

street calls it The Biggest Little 
City in the World. To some, it’s the 
town of quick divorce. Others point 
out that 24,354 marriages in 1948 
outnumber 5782 divorces more 
than 4 to 1. But what about the 
people who make their homes, earn 


their livings, bring up their families 
in this desert crossroads? How do 
they maintain a normal life sur- 
rounded by emotional chaos? Roger 
Butterfield tells you in the next 
chapter of 


HOW AMERICA LIVES 


in the November 
LapiEs’ HoME JOURNAL 





Neville keeps them quiet with his local ver- 
sion of Rumpelstiltskin, told in a deep, quiet 
drawl with variations that would amaze a 
Grimms’ Fairy Tales publisher. The growing 
library now has about 200 volumes. 

College plans are flexible. Neville has an- 
ticipated the education of each child with 
a $5000 insurance policy. Anne Lynne has 
chosen Converse. Elodie is less certain. She 
favors the University of North Carolina or 
Michigan for their football prowess. This 
summer she had a partial scholarship to 
Greystone Camp on Lake Summit (balance 
of the fee, $150, absorbed by some of Fannie 
Louise’s teaching pay). The Hannas, friends 
of the Holcombes who run the camp, have an 
eye on Elodie’s swimming for future camp- 
counseling material. 

The Holcombes weigh their philosophy 
against a number of luxuries which a family 
in their position might take for granted. 
Then, for the time being at least, they mark 
them off their list of essentials, considering 
the future. 

Fannie Louise keeps her wardrobe to a 
minimum, buys one good ensemble for dress 
and street wear a year; this season it was a 
gray gabardine coat and matching gray 
crepe dress, softly detailed (each under 
$40). A wedding in the family called for a 
new evening dress this spring. A simple, 
sapphire-blue net brought out the color of 
her eyes and toned down the budget to the 
tune of $25. 

Two colleges (and a junior college), the 
country club, an active social life and many 
political functions in Spartanburg necessitate 
evening clothes. Fannie Louise buys one 
evening gown a year, usually pays $35 or less 
for it, wears each several seasons. Last win- 


209 


NER *. 


Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. 


pUe KS" —mHE? “ 

BRATFIELDS AN’ 
» TH’ MSFOYS IS 

FEUDIN’ AGIN 77 


A 


HURRY UP WIF THET 
ENRICHED 5 MINUTE 

‘CREAM OF WHEAT “27 
AH NEEDS FOOD-ENERGY— 


YO"GENNULMEN IS GONNA 
QUIT FEUDIN’AN’ BE. 
FRIENDS EF AH HAS 

T’ BREAK EV’RY BONE. jt 
IN YORE. HAIDS .~” 


AUN 














THIS IS A SHORE Y( —AN'IT'S CHEAPER 
(SMACK) BEATS THAN BULLETS, 
NEW KIND O' ] SHOOTIN@= } TOO.” COSTS 
BREKFUSS ) SMOO-O OTH \ BER BOWL! 
MO {Or a V7 B ee 
REKFUS AN’ DEE-LISH-)}@ S 
Hy USS” ( 































es 


Fy SIG 


x WS A Oe 
SSM Ga -SA = 
UR oe 










ELA 
3 


GET THAT. 


CREAM OF 
FEELING / 


“Cream of Wheat" ond Chef ore Registered 
Trade Morks ond Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. 





210 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 

_| ter’s changeable rose taffeta is still smart; the 
green velvet from the year before is a peren- 
nial joy, also the plain black crepe dinner 
dress, bought in Charleston during the war. 
Two printed crepe afternoon dresses carry 
her through the luncheon and club-meeting 
7) | season, worn for dinners at friends’ homes 
in an ), | and when entertaining in her own (about 
7) | $25 each). Teaching necessitates sturdy 
sports clothes; last year, two simple gabar- 
. ; )) | dine dresses ($15 or less), two pairs of prac- 
- Family vauely : tical school shoes ($9 a pair), a half dozen cot- 
! "mM | ton dresses (she makes most of them herself, 
for $4 to $5 each). Horrors! The hosiery 
@ 9% | ($30a year) ! She snags them on school chairs. 
A. Ba wEEE @ | Nobody wears them at the lake. Two sports 
coats are carry-overs, one of them six years 
old, also from Charleston days. Because 
Spartanburg winters are neither cold nor 
long, she has worn the black winter coat with 

narrow band of Persian four seasons. 
One great boon is that good dressmaking 
materials are inexpensive in that textile area, 
to be had for a song at mill-end shops. Sewing 





Separate Vegetables | 


















For Salads... Garnish 








Here are five separate layers of 
quality vegetables in one can... 
that’s Layer-Pak. Separated by 
thin dividers of parchment here 
are five delicious vegetables. Serve 
each member of your family the 
one he likes best. 





October, 1949 


Even formal parties, big teas and wedding 
receptions are frequently held out of doors 
in Spartanburg, and all the raft of parties 
during Garden Club Week (the first week in 
April), when gardens are a riot of bloom; 
most of the Converse teas (even Anne 
Lynne’s recital there last spring) are held in 
the lovely garden setting, shadowed by 
flowering trees and the brick college walls. 
For the formal parties in the beautiful homes 
along Connecticut Avenue, Neville and 
Fannie Louise don formals. 


Bur there is the other side of the picture. 
In the South, as elsewhere, yesterday’s 
laundress and handy man are now working 
in the mills; or if not, are on the luxury list. 
Cleaning out the furnace in the spring can 
substitute for exercise on the golf course, 
though it works a different set of muscles and 
is not so relaxing, Neville finds. And with 
Spartanburg temperatures hitting the nine- 
ties much of the time from May through 
September, regular sessions with the lawn 


PEAS... young, tender. CARROTS... | doesn’t come easily. It is a battle, but a mower are not in the recreation class. 
: golden-young. CELERY... savory, ten- | measurable economy About twice a year 
der. LIMA BEANS... dainty, delicate. | to make many of the a wandering minstrel, 
a os ‘ GREEN BEANS. .. pick o’ the crop. children’s clothes: kkk. kkk & one Mac Ellis, is due 
oe } loa slips that would cost at the Holcombes’ to 
: a poe = $3, for $1.25; the girls’ wax floors, clean the 
Nes - | gl BE a | ROS |e wool school skirts for f, ; basement and do 
pee eed: EVegetables $1.50instead of $4.50; SOWIE other chores. He nets 


Pammie’s play slacks, 
all for $5, instead of 
$5 each; adozen camp 
shorts for Elodie for 
65 cents each (at least 
$1.95 at the stores); 
knitting the children’s 
five sweaters (Elodie 
helped) for $3 or $4 
each—a quality you 





ing. His Tux ante- 
dates the war, bears 
the scar of a storage 
moth; the “tails” he 
was married in stay 
in moth balls, are sel- 
dom worn in Spartan- 
burg. He still owns 
and wears four good 
suits bought before 
the war, including one , 
he had tailored in 7 
London in 1939. Two 
summer-weight suits, two winter suits have 
been bought since his return from service. 

Fannie Louise has one beauty-shop date a 
month ($1.50 for shampoo and set), is blessed 
with a head of hair that needs little more than 
a Mary Martin dousing. On Saturdays, five 
Holcombe ladies get five rousing shampoos. 
Manicures she gives herself. This saving is 
considerable. 

“We go to the country club for golf, and wear 
evening clothes to weddings, yet we scrub our 
floors, clean out the furnace and mow our 
lawns.” 

On Thursday afternoons, the year around, 
Neville joins cronies at the country-club golf 
course for eighteen holes of golf. Occasionally 
there are parties at the club, but the Satur- 
day-night dinner dances are ‘“‘out” for the 
Holcombes. They have long since resigned 
from the gay dancing Cotillion and Taran- 
tella Clubs, preferring quieter evenings at 
home, having guests to dinner (never more 
than eight at the table) or having friends 
drop in for coffee and dessert, a pleasant 
Spartanburg custom. 


blind, 


hands 


heart. 


WT La ae) 
PN el THE Pa VV , 





“WHEEL’’ Vegetable Platter or 
Salad as shown uses 2 cans 
Layer-Pak. It may be made with 
one by using smaller plate. 


Fannie LouIsE will be in mourning this 
year, but ordinarily she gives at least a party 
a month to keep up with invitations—not 
many elaborate affairs; often they are 
Coke parties (another town custom) which 
start at eleven A.M. and end at noon so moth- 
ers may pick up offspring at kindergartens. 
Most of the year the soft drinks, sandwiches, 
cheese straws, cakes and current opinions are 
dispensed on the lawn. 


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By Elizabeth McFarland 


I have heard a hundred tunes— 
Bye-lows from the South, 

Mountain ballads—none compares, 
For sweetness, with your mouth. 


I have fingered hollyhock silk, 
Of rose leaves thumbed my choice. 


As one touch of your eyes. 
What shall I do? Deaf, dumb and 


My senses reel apart 
When you come, with your clean 


And your strong, love-groping 


kook: aK Ke 


$7 a visit and two 
huge meals, chooses 
his own hours, collects 
60 cents per hour. 
Proprietor of a medi- 
cine show and an ac- 
complished guitarist, 
Mac’s contracts else- 
where make his ap- 
pearances somewhat 


couldn’t touch ready- N f th : uncertain. Mean- 
made for that! The one of them (it SEES tO me) while, Neville trims 
children’s wardrobe Is tender as your voice. hedges, does yard 
costs are reduced by : work at home and at 
at least one half. Words are wealth, the poet says, the lake. 

And for Neville, And certain words I prize; Mamie gets $11.50 
no expensive tailor- None of them tells me as much for her part-time 


housework (8 A.M. to 
3 P.M. with one after- 
noon and every other 
Sunday off); 35 cents 
an hour for baby-sit- 
ting, an extra $2 to $4 
morea week. Spartan- 
burg rates for a full- 
time maid (8 A.M. to 
6 P.M., two afternoons 
and every other Sun- 
day off) are about $16 
a week. A cook gets 
$20; a houseman, $25. The customary help 
in Spartanburg, if any, is a cook and a baby- 
sitter on call, when available. Baby-sitters 
get 30 cents to 50 cents an hour. By doing 
her own cooking, Fannie Louise figures she 
saves $442 a year. 

When the house is opened at the lake, 
Fannie Louise and Elodie, a team, with Anne 
Lynne helping, scrub the place to the raft- 
ers. A house in the country takes a lot of do- 
ing—even a holiday house. You can coax 
only an occasional maid to the solitudes, then 
she seldom stays. 

Menus, planned in advance—she finds this 
is the easier way to balance the diet to her 
rule of ““The Seven Basic (Vitamin) Foods 
for Good Health,” also saving time and ex- 
pense—are carefully marketed at the neigh- 
borhood super or at the wonderfully reason- 
able Farmers’ Market; her pet economy, 
buying quantities at savings—cases of canned 
milk, sacks of potatoes and onions (in sea- 
sons when they will keep), several dozens of 
oranges, big bags of flour and sugar. Impos- 
sible to estimate this sizable saving. Another 
economy is canning 100 quarts of fruit and 
vegetables at the lake, where things cost 
much less and the weather is cooler. 

Cutting corners on good food is a false 
economy, Fannie Lou believes, so the gro- 
cery bills are not low—a minimum of $35 a 
week, running much higher when she enter- 
tains. Better to give up other things: movies 
(they have a projector set at home), family 
dinners at restaurants, football-week-end 
trips with friends. As it is, a staggering 











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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


amount of life insurance ($75,000 at face 
value), a new house to be built at last, if the 
market stabilizes soon (they own that lot 
now) and ordinary living eat into an income 
not yet back on the interrupted prewar 
basis. 

“We don’t want just to exist. We want to 
help with civic things.” 

Two people as able and interested as the 
Holcombes could spend much of their time 
and energy heading committees, working for 
drives and organizations. There is the dan- 
ger of dissipating effort, spreading it too thin 
to do justice to any responsibility, including 
themselves and their family. Neville has had 
to cut down on many of his activities. He has 
been president of the Community Chest, the 
Civic Music Association, the Wofford Alumni 
Association, the Kiwanis, vice-commander of 
the American Legion post, district chairman 
of the Boy Scouts; his present extracurricular 
activities include the church vestry, the ex- 
ecutive committee of the Community Chest, 
a governor’s appointment to the State Com- 
mission on Uniform Legislation, and heading 
the legislative committee of the Chamber of 
Commerce. 


Fannie Lou sidesteps executive posts, but 
works hard on committees, for the Junior 
Charity League (similar to Junior League, 
though not affiliated) on its Arts and Inter- 
ests Committee (ticket selling for sponsored 
events, hospital canteen work, helping to 
stage the annual children’s play); serving in 
the church Guild group (calling on new- 
comers, organizing the pageant, helping in 
the Sunday school and with church suppers) ; 
in Garden and Book Clubs (hobby during 
the war and now, organizing groups for new- 
comers). 

Until recently, she was knee-deep in Amer- 
ican Aid to France, instrumental in getting 
Spartans to ‘‘adopt”’ around 75 French chil- 
dren. Everything from Aug W. Smith De- 
partment Store’s unsold Christmas fruitcake, 
to the high-school youngsters’ unclaimed tow- 
els and gym clothes, a layette for a destitute 
French mother bought with money from tu- 
toring French went into the steady stream 
of boxes and barrels that cluttered their 
cottage and overflowed the porch. ‘“Most im- 
portant job, getting others to work and to 
give. And how they gave! I never knew what 
I’d find on my doorstep next.” 

When Neville returned from service in 
1945, as with many veterans, starting fresh 
meant a clean break with the past, a desire 
for something different. For Neville, it was 
starting his own law firm. He and another 
veteran hung up the shingle of Holcombe and 
Bomar in Spartanburg’s skyscraper, the 
Montgomery Building. 

Neville would not have chosen that first 
year back for adding the responsibilities of 
a public office to those of re-establishing his 
law practice. But he agreed with his friends 
that a new city-manager system might help. 
He was urged to run for city council in or- 
der to apply a legal hand to steering the 
proposal. He was nominated, elected and he 
eventually wrote the ordinance which was 
accepted, though stormily. The effort was 
worth it, he feels, for he was able also to in- 
troduce a resolution for a much-needed zon- 
ing commission, which after long study 
recently submitted proposals for a better- 
planned city. 

The following year he was too busy to cam- 
paign, the opposition pulled a coup on his too- 
confident supporters and he was not re- 
elected. Actually, his defeat was a relief, but 
it was also a lesson. The new system stirred a 
hornets’ nest among disgruntled politicians. 
Last spring they contested it by referendum. 
Fannie Louise, Neville and a crowd of sup- 
porters got out and worked like Trojans to 
preserve the city-manager system, ringing 
doorbells and making a house-to-house can- 
vass that lasted for weeks. But they suc- 
ceeded. The city manager was sustained by a 
7 to 1 vote. 

So far, so good, Fannie Lou observes. Such 
concentrated effort is impossible to maintain. 
No one has time. Yet they are convinced 
that it is the long pull that counts and 
that time always can be found for the things 
that matter. THE END 


‘ 








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The Grays are going to have shrimp creole for dinner. Betty 
makes the sauce, while John gets the shrimp-cleaning detail. 


By LOUELLA 
G. SHOUER 


“TTY and John Gray and their lively two-year-old son, 


Stephen, live in one of New York’s apartment cities called 


Stuyvesant Town. Like many other young mothers in the city 


who have interesting and responsible positions outside the home, 


she needs the help of a nursemaid when she is at her office. 


Except over the week end, when there is time to cook the dishes 


they like that take long cooking, their evening meal is simple and 


of necessity quick and easy. Stevie has his own special menu. 


Betty dovetails it with their menu whenever possible. 


Meals are planned a week in advance, and one grocery order 


phoned in on Friday is usually sufficient for the week. 


Following are five of Betty’s menus— 
one for each night in the work week. 
You might like to try Betty’s plan for 
one week this month. The dishes are 
simple and easy to prepare—many 
are familiar to you. You may have 
forgotten how good chipped beef and 
baked potato taste, or that waffles 
make a perfect supper on a cold 
autumn evening. To make it still 
easier for you, she has added a re- 
minder grocery list of the more im- 
portant items. You will want to add 
bread or rolls to the menus, and if you 
are as much of a devotee of the green 
saladas the Graysare, you will have one 
every night with all dinners—except 
Tuesday and Wednesday, when special 
salads go better with these meals. 


Monday 


Creamed Chipped Beef 
Baked Potatoes 
Green Beans 
Apple Crisp 





If the menu planning were left up to 
John, he’d probably have creamed 
chipped beef twice a week. Betty 
compromises for the sake of variety 
and has it about every ten days. With 
a baked potato and vegetable, it 
makes a hearty, easy-to-prepare din- 
ner. Betty puts the potatoes in the 
oven when she first gets home. The 
apple crisp bakes with the potatoes. 
During the hour the potatoes are 
baking, Betty has time to do some of 
her household chores. 


APPLE CRISP 


Peel, core and slice 3-4 apples. Put in 
a shallow baking dish with 14 cup 
water if apples are not the juicy kind. 
Add 1 tablespoon lemon juice. In a 
bowl, mix 6 tablespoons flour, 14 cup 
brown sugar and % teaspoon cin- 
namon. Add 14 cup butter or mar- 
garine and cut it into dry ingredients 
with two knives or pastry blender 
until crumbly. Sprinkle over apples. 
Bake in moderately hot oven, 375° F., 
about 30 minutes or until the apples 
are tender. Serve warm with top milk 
or cream. Serves 2-3. 


‘ 
d 






i 












Tuesday 


Simmered Pork Chops 
Carrots with Honey Butter 
Cabbage Relish 


Applesauce 


n the night John goes to his chess 
club direct from the office, Betty 
Iolans thy kind of dinner that won't 
he harmed if John gets home later 
than expected. Though using frozen 
or canned applesauce would make 
the preparation of this meal even 
simpler, Betty likes to make her own 
npplesauce, particularly at this time 
f year when the apples are so good. 
Stevie likes applesauce. too, so Betty 
makes a point of making it every 
Saturday along with a pan of cus- 
tards—Stevie’s favorite dessert. 


‘CARROTS WITH HONEY BUTTER 


When the carrots are cooked and 

drained, add 2 tablespoons butter or 
argarine and 2 tablespoo is strained 

money, salt and pepper to taste. 


SIMMERED PORK CHOPS 


Season pork chops wilh salt and pep- 
er. Roll in flour and brown on both 
ides in | tablespoon melted shorten- 
ing or salad oil. Add 2 onions, sliced. 
When pork and ouions are well 
yrowned, drain off fat, add 1 cup 
i water. Cover tightly and turn heat 
low. Simmer until meat is tender, add- 


ng more water if needed. 


y 
j CABBAGE RELISH 


his is simply shredded cabbage with 
ie ninced green pepper. minced onion, 
celery seed, salt, pepper, sugar and 
inegar added to taste. You may pre- 
er to use a tart French dressing in- 

stead of sugar and vinegar. 


Wednesday 


Waffles — Sausages 
Maple Sirup 
oder Large Fruit Salad 


I 


\Waffles and a fruit salad make an 
jeasy supper. Most of you had a 
waffle iron given to you as a wedding 
present. Use a waffle mix if you are 
‘really short of time, but it doesn’t 
take long to make your own. This 
recipe makes a light, crisp waffle. 


WAFFLES 


Sift together 114 cups flour, 34 tea- 
spoon salt and 2 teaspoons baking 
powder. Separate 2 eggs. Beat yolks 
until thick and light-colored. Add | 
cup milk and 3 tablespoons melted 
butter or margarine. Make a hollow 
in dry ingredients and pour the liquids 
into it. Beat until smooth. Now beat 
the 2 egg whites until stiff but not dry. 
They should just form soft peaks. 
Fold into batter. Bake in a hot waffle 
iron. This makes 2 large waffles that 
are divided into 4 squares, more on 
a small iron. 


, 


Thursday 


Veal Scaloppine 
Spinach 


Ice Cream on Brownies 





LADIE} 


While ’2 to *4 pound thinly sliced 
veal cutlet would ordinarily be enough 
for two, the Grays like scaloppine so 
well Betty usually buys a pound. 
Sometimes it’s difficult to get the 
butcher to slice the cutlet thin 
enough, so be sure to tell him you 
want it cut as thin as possible. If he 
doesn’t, you ean pound and flatten 
it with a wooden mallet. 

Some hakeries have brownies. Ifyou 
can’t buy them and don’t have time 
to make them, serve the ice cream 
with any cookies you might have. 


VEAL SCALOPPINE 


Cut veal into serving-size pieces. 
Flour and season the meat. Heat about 
2 tablespoons shortening or salad oil 
in a skillet. Add 1 clove garlic, 
minced fine. Brown the meat quickly 
over high heat. Add 2 tablespoons 
tomato paste and !4 cup water. Sim- 
mer just a few minutes. Veal is very 
tender if quickly cooked. If cooked 
past this stage, it toughens and then 
takes longer simmering to tenderize 
again. If you have mushrooms, you 
might add a few, sliced, when you 


brown the meat. 


Friday 


Shrimp Creole 
Salad Bowl 
Grapefruit 





John loves shrimp dishes—particu- 
larly shrimp creole the way Betty 
makes it. But Betty doesn’t like to 
clean shrimp. John does the job as an 


inducement to having the dish. 


SHRIMP CREOLE 


Wash | pound fresh shrimp and cook 
in boiling salted water with an onion 
and a few celery leaves. Drain. Cool. 
shell and remove black vein. Melt 2 
tablespoons butter or margarine in a 
heavy saucepan. Add | clove garlic. 
lo cup sliced onion and 1/3 cup diced 
green pepper. Sauté until onions are 
tender. Add 1 No. 2 can tomatoes, 
| teaspoon salt, a dash of pepper, a 
pinch of marjoram and a dash of 
cayenne. Simmer 20 minutes—longer 
if you have time. Remove garlic, add 
shrimp. heat and serve on boiled rice. 


GROCERY 
REMINDER LIST 


The following groceries provide for 
dinners for two for the five nights: 

Meat and Fish: | five-ounce jar 
chipped beef; 3 loin pork chops; 2 
pound pork sausages; | pound veal 
eutlet, | pound fresh shrimp. 


Vegetables and Fruits: | bunch 
carrots; 1 package frozen spinach; 
3 pounds potatoes; ‘4 pound green 
beans; 3 pounds onions; 2 lemons; 3 
pounds cooking apples; salad greens; 
small head of cabbage; 1 green pep- 
per; fresh fruits for salad; 2 grape- 
fruit (1 used in salad); 1 No. 2 can 
tomatoes. 

| quarts milk; | pint ice cream; | 
loaf bread; *4 pound butter or mar- 
garine: 4 eggs. 

Check supplies such as flour, sugar, 
coffee, honey, salad oil, maple sirup, 
wine vinegar, chocolate, rice, nuts, 


tomato paste. and so on. 





Ordinary 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


FATHER TAKES 


October, 1949 


OVER 


(Continued from Page 68) 


We all knew mother was fooling. Father’s 
always talking about schedules and system 
and management and mother didn’t ever 
really seem to mind. Not as long as she was 
feeling good. It’s always different when you 
aren’t feeling good. You don’t care what peo- 
ple say as long as everything seems right. 
But as soon as your head aches or your stom- 
ach hurts or your throat is sore, you start 
caring. 

So it was a couple of weeks later and mother 
looked tired and pale and she snapped at you, 
no matter what. And this night she stopped 
carrying a platter of meat loaf into the dining 
room and stood looking at the floor. Then 
she shouted. 

“Come here!” she called. 
one of you, come here.” 

I was there already. There was this hunk 
of mud on the floor. 

“Look at your feet,’’ mother said. ‘‘ Who 
did that?”’ She put the platter down on the 
stove. She looked at the bottoms of our feet 
when we held them up and looked. 

© Phas. sillivien 
father said. ‘Who- 
ever had it on his feet 
got rid of it. It’s on 
the floor now, so you 
can’t find it on shoes.” 

Mother glared. 
“Will someone kindly 
pick it up?” she said. 

I reached for it just 
when father and Pud 
did. I bumped my 
head so hard on 
father’s I could hear 
bells ringing. We both 
sat back on the floor 
and held our heads. 

‘““When you’re 
through nursing the 
wounds you received 
in picking up that 
piece of mud,’’ mother 
said, “I’d thank you 
to step to one side 
while I carry in this 
load of food for all of 
you to put into your 


“Every single 


stomachs. Then go 
ahead and eat it,” 
she said. “I’m too 


tired to eat. Call me 
when you’ve finished and I'll carry out the 
dirty dishes and wash them. I’ll clear the ta- 
ble and sweep the crumbs and empty the 
garbage if I can still drag around while you 
all read the paper or go out and admire the 
garden and count the cutworms.” 

We were standing again now. Father had 
picked up the chunk of mud. He stood look- 
ing at mother in a queer way. 


“‘Anp don’t just stand there,” mother said. 
“Do something. I don’t have a chance to just 
stand—not all day long. I don’t have one 
minute in the whole day to stand or sit or 
think or rest. I never even have a chance to 
read the paper any more. All I do is work, 
work, work. I haven’t any idea what’s going 
on in the world. Wasn’t there an election re- 
cently?”’ she said. ““Did Roosevelt get in 
again?” 

I stared at her. “Roosevelt died,”’ I said. 
“A long time ago.” 

“Truman’s President now,” Pud said. 

“Really?”’ mother said. “You must take 
time to tell me these things. Even work 
horses ought to be slightly informed.” 

We sat at the table and father dished up 
the food. “‘Do you want potatoes?” he asked 
mother. 

“‘Well, of course I want potatoes,” mother 
said. 

Father gave her some. “‘Not dieting any 
more?”’ he said, sort of low-voice. 

“Dieting?” mother said. “Me? Why 
should I diet? Plow horses have to be big and 
strong and shapeless. Give me more than 
that,’’ she said. ‘‘I have to eat enough to keep 
me going for a few more hours so I can get 
evervthing done and go to bed.” Father put 


KOK Kiko oe Kags ate 


Song fer Ciel 
By Eleanor Alletta Chaffee 


Song by song 
The summer goes: 
Leaf by leaf 
The last frail rose 
Surrenders beauty 
To the blade 
Of frost that on 
Her heart is laid. 


Dream by dream 
The heart releases 
What it lost 
In brittle pieces: 
Thought by thought 
Gives to the season 
Less of fancy, 
More of reason. 


KOK KOK KOR Kes 


! 
mn \ 
another potato on her plate. ““Then when © 


get up in the morning,” she said, ‘‘I have to 
start the whole thing over again. It wouldn’t 
be so bad to work like a dog all your life if 
you got anywhere with it,” she said. “ But 
you don’t. Everything I spend my whole 
strength on doing today has to be all done 
over again tomorrow. I just go around in 
circles.” 


Farner put down the spoon in the dish of 


peas and stopped dishing up. “I don’t 
know,” he said. “‘I don’t know. There ought 
to be some solution. I keep telling you to get 
help i: 

“Get help!” mother said: “‘There’s a man 
for you. Get some help, they say. From just 
exactly where, I’d like to know. Help went 
out with peace. Help, my dear sir, is a thing 
of the dim, distant past. Help!”’ she said. 

“Well, women used to do it and not get 
screamingly tired,” father said. 

“T am tired of hearing,’’ mother said, 
“about the women of yesteryear who had ten 
children, scrubbed 
pine floors, wash- 
boards and corn 
brooms. The poor 
souls had broken 
backs, too, if you ask 
me. T,hey didn’t 
scream when they got 
tired because they 
did something else in- 
stead. They died, 
that’s what they did. 
If that’s what you 
want for a wife, 
you’ve almost got it.” 

Father narrowed 
his eyes. “There were 
more white-haired 
grandmothers then 
than now,” he said. 
“They did not die. 
They did their jobs 
and had time left 
over. They didn’t 
spend their time run- 
ning hither and yon. 
They planned. They 
had a system. That’s 
what’s wrong with 
you. If men in offices 
went about their 
work the way women do their housework, 
the world’s business would be in a pretty 
sad mess,” he said. “In business when you 
start a job you see it through,” he said. 
“You don’t stop to have tea or gossip on 
the phone or do a little knitting. You do the 
job and get it done. The whimsy-whamsy 
way women work, I’m surprised they ever 
get done.” 

“They don’t,” mother said. 

Father got up and went around the table. 
“T don’t think you’re well,”’ he said, looking 
close at mother. 

“Of course I’m not well,” mother said. 
“Of course I’m not. My throat is sore.and 
my ear hurts. It even hurts me to eat. You 
can’t stay well on what I have to do.” 

“Well, after dinner,”’ father said, “you’re 
going up to bed. The boys and I'll carry on 
here.” 

Mother sat up straight and glared. ‘‘How 
wonderful!” she said. ““A reward. I get to go 
to bed.” 

After dinner, mother started to clear the 
table, but father turned her around and 
steered her toward the hall. 

“T said to bed,” he said, and he made her 
walk the other way. 

I think it was Pud’s marble, not mine. I 
keep my marbles in a bag and I take care of 
them. If one of my marbles dropped, I’d 
most certainly pick it up. Anyway, it was 
there on the floor and mother stepped on it. 
If it had been on the rug, it maybe wouldn’t 
have happened because a marble can sink 
into a rug when you step on it but it wasn’t, 
it was on the bare floor between the rugs, 
and mother stepped on it and it would have 

(Continued on Page 216) 





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(Continued from Page 214) 
been just the same anyway because when the 
doctor came, mother had the mumps. 

It’s a funny thing about mumps. Mother 
didn’t get them when I had them but now 
she did when nobody else had them. It’s 
worse to have mumps when you’re grown up. 
Father and the doctor said so and besides 
that there was that marble and mother had 
a sprained ankle too. 

So mother was in bed with the ankle and 
the mumps and the next day was Saturday 
and father was telephoning. It was raining 
and we were building with toy logs on the 
living-room floor. 

Pud and I had a neat place, a regular 
frontier town, but Bumps kept trying to 
wreck it. We gave him all the no-good logs 
and let him make a place of his own and 
even helped him and gave him little cars 
to run in the garage we built him, but he 
wouldn’t stay away. I picked him up under 
the arms and he screamed and fought me 
and then father came in. 


“Stop it! All of you!” he yelled. “Sit 
down.” He took Bumps away from me and 
tried to hold him but Bumps made himself 
stiff and yelled. Father’s a big, strong man 
but he couldn’t handle Bumps. Finally he 
sat him down hard in a corner of the daven- 
port and said, ‘“‘Here,”’ and he gave him his 
watch. Bumps kept still. ‘Do you know who 
are the most unpopular people in the whole 
world?”’ father said. 

Pud cocked his head, thinking. 

“TI know,’ I said, “‘the Russians!” 

“No!” father said. “‘Not the Russians.” 

“It could be robbers,”’ Pud said. 

“Or tax assessors,” I said. 

“It could not,” father said. “‘ Robbers, tax 
assessors, Russians. People love them com- 
pared to us,”’ he said. 

“Us? -alisaids 

“Or,” father said, “more accurately, you.” 

“Us?” Pud said. ‘‘Everybody likes me.”’ 
He looked at Bumps. 

“You,” father said. “‘ There isn’t a woman 
in this whole town who’ll come in and take 
over. Not when they hear about you guys. 
They’d all be glad to come in and keep house 
for just me, but when they hear about you 
three ——” 

“T can’t see why,” Pud said. “I’m always 
good.” 

“T don’t know what’s happened to women,” 
father said. ‘“‘They seem to be afraid of 
their jobs. They aren’t equal to it. It used to 
be that when a mother got sick there were 
half a dozen bids for the job of coming in and 
taking over and you took the lowest bidder. 
Women have lost their ability to manage,” 
he said. 

“Well, my gosh,’ I said. “‘What are we 
going to do? I’m the only one except you can 
even go in to see mother. Pud and Bumps 
might catch the mumps.” 

“TI don’t imagine Pud and Bumps could 
help much with mother anyway,” father 
said. “We'll get along. I’m taking over, my- 
self.” 

“You?’’ I said. “How?” 

“Tl take my vacation,” father said. 
“That’s all we can do. Men face facts,’’ he 
said. “‘When there is a job to be done, men 
get at it and get it done. Women hem and 
haw and walk around and around it before 
they get started. Remember that, son,’”’ he 
said. “‘I’m almost glad of this opportunity,” 
he said. “‘I’m going to put this household on 
a businesslike schedule. In two weeks’ time 
I should have the housework around here 
down pat. I'll work out a system. I’ll fit it 
into a pattern and then your mother can 
take over and do it efficiently and have time 
for leisure. What’s so hard about a little 
housework ?”’ he said. 

“She’ll like that,” I said. ‘I hope you can.” 

He fished around in a drawer and found 
an apron that was big enough for him. ‘‘Of 
course I can,” he said. ‘Get a tray for 
mother’s lunch. Any job can be run in a 
businesslike manner,” he said. “It takes a 
little efficiency, a little planning, that’s all.” 
He was opening a can of soup. 

“Look out!” I yelled, but it was too late. 
He had backed into a bottle of milk on the 
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“Oh, goodness!”’ father said. The milk 
was running off the cupboard into the open 
drawer. ‘Why don’t you close drawers when 
they’re open?” he said. 

“You left it open,” I said. 

“What difference does that make?” he 

said. ““Where does your mother keep wiping- 
up cloths?” 
It’s unbelievable how much milk a quart 
is when it’s spilled. We finally got it all wiped 
up and the aprons out of the drawer hanging 
all over drying. 

“Tt improved the floor, I think,” father 
said. ‘“‘My grandmother used to put milk in 
the water when she washed the floor. It gives 
it a shine,” he said. 

“No kidding?’ I said. “She washed the 
floor with milk?’ 

“Don’t bother telling your mother,” father 
said. 

I went up with father with the tray. I 
carried the tea. 

“Now, dont you worry about a thing,” 
father said. “I’m glad of this chance, so don’t 
you worry.” 

“IT won’t,” mother said, but still she looked 
worried. 

Father pulled a chair over to the bed and 
put the tray down on it. ‘I’ll manage beau- 
tifully; don’t you worry,” he said. “‘I’ll work 
out a system and snap out this work.’ He 
put a card table up on two legs and rested 
the other part over the bed on an extra 
pillow. He put the tray on it. ‘“So don’t you 
worry,” he said. 

“T’m not,” mother said. One side of her 
face was swollen. She put a spoon in the soup. 


* Folks who never do any more 

than they get paid for, never get 

paid for any more than they do. 
—ELBERT HUBBARD. 


““My jaw hurts,” she said. “Is this that can 
of chicken gumbo I got last week?”’ 

“Yeah,” father said. 

““Where’d you get the corned-beef hash?”’ 
she said. 

“T bought it,” father said. ‘Mrs. Schultz 
brought over that cake,”’ he said. “‘ Johnsons 
have invited us over for dinner tonight. She’s 
going to send yours over to you.” 

“That snice of them,” mother said. “‘ What 
I can never figure out,” she said, “‘is now if 
you sprained your ankle and got the mumps, 
would anyone invite me out to dinner? Or 
send in cakes? When I go to the hospital or 
out of town people begin inviting you around 
for meals like mad. But when you go out of 
town, I just sit at home. Have you had your 
lunch?” she said. 

“No, we'll get that now,” father said. 
““Come on, son. 

“‘Where’s Bumps? ’ mother said. 

“Now, don’t you worry,” father said. 
‘‘He’s playing in the living room. I'll get his 
lunch first and put him to bed. Then we'll 
have ours, he said to me. 


[+ was two o’clock when father called us. 
We had bread and peanut butter and milk 
and some of Mrs. Schultz's cake. 

‘Is this all we get? Pud said. 

‘Of course it’s all you get, 
“Fill up on it. I haven t time to cook you a 
dinner. What do you expect?” 

The sink was full of dishes and garbage 
and empty cans. Father and I got mother’s 
things. 

“Bumps O.K.?” mother said. 

“Sure,” father said. “‘He’s asleep.” 

“Did you give him a bath?” mother said. 

“A bath?” father said. “At noon?’’ 

“Of course,’”’ mother said. ‘““ You don’t put 
him to bed dirty.’ 

“T’]l do it that way tomorrow,” father 
said. ‘‘I’m not onto the ropes yet. By tomor- 
row I'll be going strong. In a day or two 
things’ll be going like clockwork around here. 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“That’s good,”’ mother said. She lay back 
and closed her eyes. She didn’t look well at all. 

Father got busy on the schedule right 
away. He got a great big sheet of paper and 
ruled it off and he had it divided up into all 
the time there is in every day of the week. 

When we got down for breakfast on Sun- 
day morning, father was stirring something 
in a bowl. 

“What’s that?” I said. 

“Muffins,” father said. “‘Sunday-morning 
breakfast ought to be special,” he said. 
“Sundays are always such a hullabaloo 
around here, we never have time for special 
things. That’s because your mother has no 
schedule. We’ll show her, won’t we?” he 
said. ‘‘Look how fine we’re doing already. 
You boysare usually down here in your bath- 
robes eating breakfast. You see what a little 
management does? You’re all dressed for 
Sunday school.” 

“Can I lick out the bowl?” Pud said. 

Bumps started to scream. ““No! Me! Me! 
Me!”’ he screamed. 

“You can both clean out the bowl!” 
father said. “Stop yelling!” 

I took mother’s tray up. “‘ Look, mother, 
I said, “‘muffins! And grapefruit cut fancy!” 

Mother looked but she didn’t look glad. 

“Does your ankle hurt, mother?’ I said. 

“Some,”’ mother said. She was looking 
over the tray. 

“Isn’t that nice?” I said. “Father went 
out and picked the flowers special.” 


” 


e “Yes,’”’ mother said. 


“Does it still ache in your jaw?” I said. 
Mother laughed a little. ““When I see food 












October, 194 


“Cooking is simple,” father said. ‘““Anyon: 
who can read can cook. The directions ar 
very explicit.” 

He got out cookbooks and looked up a lo 
of different things. He made lobster a | 
Newburg and chicken chow mein and frie 
scallops and fish fritters. And he made ver 
fancy salads. 

“That’s to tempt mother’s appetite,” he 
said. ‘‘Women always like salads.” 

He made stuffed baked onions and broile 
mushrooms and French-fried potatoes an 
he made puddings and desserts in the icebox 
and most of it was pretty good. There w: 
only one batch of cookies and a pie and an 
omelet he had to throw away. Besides those 
croquette things. That wasn’t father’s fault. 
When he put them in the fat to fry them they 
didn’t fry, they just went to pieces. And 
once he burned rice. He didn’t know you 
were supposed to cook it ina double boiler. 
But you can’t know everything and lots of 
the things were good. 


Sometimes father took mother’s tray up, 
carrying it on the tips of his fingers and put- 
ting it down with a flourish and calling her 
“madam.” Especially if it had turned out 
real good. 

“Filet mignon, madam,” father’d say, 
shaking out mother’s napkin. “‘So tender 
you can cut it with a fork. And in case you 
are wondering, madam,” he’d say, “that 
luscious-looking stuff is scalloped cabbage 
and apples. Ring when you wish your 
dessert,”’ he’d say. ‘‘We have a cobbler.” 

“Oh, Roger,” mother’d say, looking really 


it does,”’ she said. “It isn’t too bad.” worried, “‘you shouldn’t work so hard at it. 
“Well, start to eat,” I You'll be all worn out.” 
said. “It’s lways: betta - “Not I,” father’d say. 


after you start.” 

Mother poured some 
coffee. She picked up a 
spoon and pushed the 
grapefruit around a little 
bit. Then she put the spoon 
downandsaid, “Rod, how’s 
father getting along?” 

““Gosh, just swell,” I said. ““He’s got a 
great big schedule. He’s getting along swell. 
Just think, mother, we’re all ready for Sun- 
day school already and it isn’t even nine 
o'clock.” 

“That’s nice,” 
didn’t smile. 

But we weren’t as ready as we thought we 
were because father had left the flour out. 
When I got down Pud and Bumps were fight- 
ing about who would get the most licks out 
of the muffin bowl and father was starting to 
set the table for breakfast in the dining room. 

“‘Are we going to eat in the dining room?” 
I said. 

“Yes,” father said, ‘‘we are. I think that 
on Sunday morning we should make it seem 
like Sunday.” 

“Pud and Bumps are hitting each other,” 
T said. 

“Let them hit,”” father said. ‘‘ Mother in- 
terferes too much. They’ll live through it. 
Let them settle their own difficulties. Help 
me with the tablecloth and then put the nap- 
kins and silver around. Ill handle the 
dishes,”’ father said. He had everything on 
the buffet on a tray and he bustled around 
with the dishes. 


of life 


on doing it. 


mother said. But she 


‘Tere was a lot of thumping around out 
in the kitchen and then it quieted down. 

“See,” father said. He was putting on 
plates. ‘““They settled their troubles. You 
have to ignore children’s quarrels. Get the 
butter and we’re ready,” he said. 

So when we went out to the kitchen the 
flour was all over. Pud was still licking the 
bowl but Bumps had found the flour and he 
was sifting it. He had even sifted it in Pud’s 
hair. They would have had to change their 
clothes though anyway. They had the muffin 
batter all over them. 

“Run up and get clean clothes for both of 
them,”’ father told me. “And don’t upset 


mother about it. Just don’t tell her at all. 
We have to keep things calm for mother, 
you know.” 

For about ten days things were pretty 
good. To father, housekeeping was mostly 
cooking and he was up to his elbows in it. 


$ Middle age is that period 

when you are old 
enough to know better but 
young enough to want to keep 


“T’m running on a sched- 
ule.” 

But usually I carried 
mother’s tray up because 
father was pretty busy. He 
waspretty busyinthekitch- 
en trying to find his way 
around among all the dirty 
kettles and dishes. Father used up more 
dishes when he cooked! And he had lots of 
kettles soaking. “It’s a waste of time,” he 
said, “‘to scrape and scour when they’!l soak 
clean.” 

And then, things kept happening. Bumps 
stuffed a lot of towels in the washbowl in the 
lavatory and left the water running on them 
and it ran all over the floor and into the liv- 
ing room. Father had the rug turned up over 
some chairs to dry it out. And a cake he 
made was too big for the panandit ran all over 
the oven. Father worked and worked on the 
oven to get it cleaned off because it’s a 
brand-new stove and mother is very careful 
with it. And lots of other things. Things 
boiled over and something got caught in the 
vacuum-cleaner tube and he pulled a drawer 
too far out when he was in a hurry and stuff 
went all over the floor. And he broke a glass 
and cut his hand on it. 

But for about ten days it wasn’t so bad. 
When you start with a clean house you can 
go along and live in it for about ten days and 
it still looks pretty good. It still looks like a 
house. But then on about the tenth day the 
house gets tired of trying all by itself. It 
gives up. The toys you’ve been getting out 
get kind of thick. The buffet is piled high 
with stuff—books, and the papers and things 
that come in the mail that nobody ever 
opens and if your living room isn’t carpeted 
it looks kind of carpeted anyway because the 
curls of dust are pretty thick on the floor. 

Father sure worked all the time though 
and he sure turned out the different kinds 
of food. I was worried but it wasn’t father I 
was worried about. It was mother. Some- 
thing seemed terribly wrong with mother. 
She wasn’t looking well at all. 

I took her tray up the night the croquettes 
went to pieces. We were a little late because 
father had to rush out and get ground beef so 
it was Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes 
and father had made a real fancy salad with 
avocado because mother loves avocado. 

“‘How are you, mother?’’ I said. 

“All right, I guess,’’ mother said. ““How’s 
everything?” 

(Continued on Page 220) 


—ANON. 











LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 219 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


yi 


4 








(Continued from Page 218) 

“Just fine,’ I said. ‘‘Slick as a whistle.” 
Because we certainly weren’t bothering 
mother about any trouble we had. We don’t 
want to bother mother, father had said. 

“How’s father getting along with every- 
thing?”’ mother said. 

“Perfect,’”’ I said. “‘Pretty neat dinner he 
fixed, isn’t it?” 

““Yes,’’ mother said. ‘“‘Is Bumps all 
right?” 

“Sure,” I said. ““He’s O.K. He’s fine.” 

“Pud too?” 

“Everybody’s fine,” I said. 

“Father’s not doing too much, is he?” 
mother said. 

“Oh no,” I said. “It’s easy for father. 
He’s got a schedule.” 

“Yes, I know,” mother said. She looked 
worried and unhappy. ‘“How’s the sched- 
ule?” she said. 

“It’s a beanerino,” I said. ‘Boy, is it 
swell! It’s two feet square and it’s got every 
single half hour in the day marked off on it.’’ 

“Afternoons too?”’ mother said. 

“Sure,” I said. ‘Only afternoons it’s 
mostly rest time. Father’s sure got it 
worked out swell.” 

“Oh,” mother said 
and she leaned back 
against the pillows. 
“That’s tice,” she 
said. She looked like 
she didn’t feel well at 
all. ‘‘Father’s so 
clever,’ she said. She 
closed her eyes. 

“Yes,’’ I said. ‘““He 
sure is.” 

Mother sighed. 
“Sometimes I wish,” 
she said. 

“What?” I said. 
Butshe didn’tanswer. 
“Tf there’s something 
you’d like, father’ll 

get it, or make it,” I 
said. 

““Never mind,”’ 
mother said. ‘“‘I’m 
_just tired.” 

Father sure did 
have the schedule all 
worked out. Like the 
next morning was 
Thursday and there 
was Thursday on the 
chart divided up into 
all the time there was 
in Thursday and 
something put down to do for all the time. 

Father had a pretty dirty apron on and he 
was hurrying around for dear life. That’s a 
funny thing about father. When he’s wash- 
ing storm windows or raking leaves or mow- 
ing the lawn, he never hurries. I don’t mean 
he doesn’t work fast, but he never hurries. 
He looks slow. But when father puts on an 
apron, right away he starts to hurry. He 
acts a little short of breath and he rushes 
around every which way. Maybe housework 
does that to people because mother hurries 
too, only she isn’t such a big person. She 
doesn’t look so busy. In an apron, doing 
housework, father looks like Mr. Adam’s 
bull when Mr. Adam is trying to catch him. 
Usually he’s a real quiet bull just standing 
and looking at you and eating grass as peace- 
ful as a cow. But when Mr. Adam goes to 
catch him and put a rope on him, he gets wild- 
eyed and he runs every which way and 
knocks against things. That’s the way father 
is in an apron. He acts like the housework is 
chasing him. 


So this was Thursday and father had us 
all up and going. Coffee was perking. He had 
a tray out for mother and he was stirring 
cereal. 

“Let’s see,’ he said, rushing over to the 
chart, ““seven-thirty—dress Bumps. Well, 
let’s eat first,” he said. “I'll dress Bumps 
after you go. Seven-thirty-five,’’ he said, 
“bring in the milk, set the table ——” 

_The telephone rang. 

“This is starting early today,” father said. 
“Hello,” he said. ‘“No, you have the wrong 
number.” He ran back to stir the cereal. 


oR NO Ie OK, 


CG, 
é F; VCEQMVE 


By Elizabeth-Ellen Long 


More precious than Aladdin’s jewels 
Or Bluebeard’s stolen gold 

Is a blackbird’s lacquered feather 
To any six-year-old, 


A painted leaf, a colored stone 
Round as the roundest moon, 
The chrysalis a butterfly 
Was finished with in June, 


A beetle with a ruby shell, 
A snail, a bug or two, 

A little nameless flower which 
Was once a lovely blue. 


More precious than the treasures of 
Cathay or Samarkand, 

Are those a small boy carries home 
In pocket or by hand! 


kok kk kk kk 


October, 1949 


“Hey, the toast!” I said. It was burning 
up. 
“Well, ye gods! Take care of it!”’ father 
said. : 

I tried to and burned my finger. The 
toaster fell on the floor. My finger was 
burned bad. 

“What socks shall I wear today?”’ Pud 
said. “Hey, the toaster’s burning the lino- 
leum!”’ he yelled. 

Father pulled out the cord and got it back 
up on the cupboard. He ran back to the 
cereal. It was cooking so hard it was spat- 
tering all over the stove. He took it off and 
stirred it. It looked kind of lumpy. 


“Waar about that bacon?” I said. It was 
cooking pretty fast. 

“Tend to it,” father said. 

“T can’t,’”’ I said. ‘‘My finger’s burned. 
It’s burned bad.”’ j 

““What socks shall I wear today?” Pud 
said. 

Bumps was crawling around on the 
breakfast table. “Hey, lookit what he’s do- 
ing!” Pud said. Bumps had poured the 
cream all over mother’s breakfast tray. 

After father had 
cleaned up mother’s 
tray and hung the 
napkin and tray cloth 
up to dry, he picked 
up the cereal and 
started to dish it up. 

“Tdon’t wantany,” 
I said. 

“Why not?” father 
said. ‘“You have to 
eat hot cereal.” 

“It’s no good,” I 
said. “It’s lumpy.” 

“We can’t throw 
cereal away just be- 


father said. He dished 
it up. ‘‘Let’s see, 
seven-forty-five,”’ he 
said, “take mother’s 
breakfast up. I won- 
der if we have more 
cream,” he said. 

““What socks 
should I wear to- 
day?” Pud said. 

“How should I 
know!”’ father yelled. 
“Can’t you decide a 
simple thing like that 
for yourself?” 

“They’re all dirty.” 

“All of them?” father said. “‘ Well, what 
does your mother do when all of your socks 
get dirty?” 

“*She washes them before they’re all dirty,” 
Pud said. 

“Well, I don’t know,” father said. ‘‘ Wear 
something. Look around. Wear some of 
Rod’s.”’ 

“T’ve only got these,” I said. ‘Wear 
dirty ones. That’s what I do.” 

“T can’t,’’ Pud said. “I threw them all 
down the clothes chute. They’re terribly 
dirty.” 

“Well, go over to Brooks and borrow 
some,” father said. “‘ Borrow some of Teddy’s. 
And your sweater’s inside out,” he said to me. 

“The other side’s dirty,”’ I said. 

“Change it then,” father said. 

“They’re all dirty,” I said. “‘All I can find. 
I can’t find my green one. Father, where’s 
my arithmetic book?’’ I said. ‘The teacher 
said I had to bring it back today.” 

“T’'ll probably come across it today,” 
father said. ‘‘This is Thursday.”” He looked 
at the chart. ‘““Clean the downstairs,” he 
read. “I’ll surely find it today when I run 
the vacuum cleaner.” 

“Mother cleans downstairs on Frida¥;” I 
said. ’ 

‘Well, J clean downstairs on Thursday,” 
father said. ‘‘Now eat that cereal and get 
going,”’ he said. “‘I’ll never get mother’s 
breakfast up to her.” 

By noon father looked a little wild. When 
we cime in he opened the oven door and a 
lot of smoke came out. Father shut it up 
quiclt. 

j (Continued on Page 222) 


cause it’s lumpy,’’-- 


j 


j LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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IME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 220) 

“Baking something, father?” I said. 

“No!” father said. “‘Hurry and eat and 
help a little. Tomorrow mother’s coming 
downstairs. We have to have it looking 
slick.”” He got a pancake turner and started 
scraping the bottom of the oven. I could see 
a cake in the oven. It had run over again. 

We ate bread and peanut butter and milk 
again. We ate it by the cupboard because 
Bumps had spilled paint on the kitchen 
table and father had been cleaning it off with 
turpentine. It smelled awful. But father 
wouldn’t let us eat in the dining room be- 
cause he was cleaning in the dining room. 
He had all the chairs piled on top of the 
table. 

“Mother doesn’t do it that way,’ I said. 

“Well, I do,” father said. “It’s the right 
way to do it. You notice men all do it this 
way. This is the way they 
do it in restaurants.” 

“This isn’t the way they 
eat in restaurants,” Pud 
said. “I’m tired of peanut 
butter.” 

“Get some jam then,” 
father said. ‘“There are lots 
of boys in Europe that 
would be tickled to death 
if they could have that peanut butter!” 

“Well, they can have it if they want it,” 
Pud said. ‘‘I’m gonna get some jelly.”’ He 
jumped down off his stool and bang went his 
glass of milk. 

The telephone was ringing and father 
stopped work on the table and went to an- 
swer it. ‘“Clean it up. Clean every speck of 
it up,” he said to Pud. “Hello,” father said 
in the telephone. “‘Oh, no, Mrs. Schultz, 
we're getting along fine. She’s fine. She’s 
much better. Good-by,” he said. ‘What 
would women do without the telephone?” he 
said, working with the turpentine again. 
““Get that spoon out of your hair, Bumps,” 
he said. Bumps was in his high chair eating 
liver soup. “And for heaven’s sake, eat,” 
father said. “‘ You were supposed to be in the 
tub by this time.” 

The telephone rang again. 

“Hello!” father said. “No!” he said. 
“We don’t need hospital insurance!” and he 
banged up the phone. ‘Or do we?”’ he said, 
and he wiped up the liver soup under Bumps’ 
chair. 

Pud was wiping up the milk. When he was 
through it sure looked funny. Where no 
milk had been spilled the floor was dark 
gray. 

All of a sudden father jumped up from the 
floor and pulled the oven door open. It was 
smoking pretty bad. Father grabbed a towel 
and took the cake out. It was flat and 
burned. He put it out on the porch. The 
smell was so bad I couldn’t eat. 


40. 75c. 


to 38. 50c. 


If a litthe knowledge is 
dangerous, where is the 
man who has so much as to be 

out of danger? 
—THOMAS H. HUXLEY. 


Junior Vogue Design No. 3308. ‘“Easy-to-Make” wrapped-back 
skirt; 24 to 28 waist measure. 50c. 


October, 1949 


“Did you find my arithmetic book?” I 
said when father came back in. 

“Arithmetic book!” father said. “‘Arith- 
metic book!” 

“Well,” I said, “the teacher said ——” 

“The teacher said,” father said. He was 
opening the window to let the smoke out. 
“Just like a woman,” he said. “‘We have to 
stop our whole schedule to look for that 
arithmetic book.” 

“It isn’t in my room,” I said. ‘‘She said I 
had to have it this noon or ——” 

“Very well!” father said. “‘ Very well, very 
well, very well! I’ll find it right now.’’ He 
turned and stalked into the living room 
walking hard and fast and then it sounded 
like the living room crashed in on him. 

Bumps screamed. Pud and I ran. Father 
was lying on the floor on his stomach. All 
around him were toys and magazines and 
books and clothespins and 
milk bottles Bumps had 
been playing with. The rug 
was turned up over the 
chairs drying and, gosh, it 
was a mess. It was a foot- 
stool father had tripped 
over and it was still on 
his foot. I guess I’ve never 
seen a more cluttered-up 
room. There hadn’t been more than space to 
walk through it before and now father was 
in that space. Father was lying in that space 
with his eyes shut, and Pud and I stepped 
around among the junk and stooped down 
and looked at him. 

“Are you hurt?’ I said, but he didn’t 
answer. 

“Did you sprain your ankle?’’ Pud 
said. 

And then Bumps had gotten out of his 
high chair and he came running in, carrying 
his bowl of liver soup, dribbling it a little 
bit. He stepped over things and got to father 
and then he stepped on a toy car and sat 
down hard and the bowl of liver soup went 4 
on father. 

Father opened one eye. ‘‘That’s right,” 
he said. ‘“Throw it in with-the rest of the 
junk.” 

“Are you hurt, father?” I said. 

He looked at me with that one eye and 
then he very slowly closed it. 

“Oh, dear, are you hurt?” It was mother 
in slippers and a robe. It was mether down- 
stairs. 

Father opened both-eyes quick and he put 
his head up. He took a good long look at 
mother. 

“No!”’ he yelled. “No, I’m not hurt,” he 
yelled. ‘I’m resting!’’ He put his head back 
down on his hands. Then he raised it 
again. “Get back upstairs,” he said to 
mother. 

(Continued on Page 224) 





Back and Other Views, 


Sizes and Prices of Vogue Patterns on Pages 62 and 63 


Junior Vogue Design No. 3299. Two-piece dress; 9 to 15, 29/4 to 33. 75c. 
Vogue Design No. S-4027. Suit; 12 to 20, 30 to 38. $1.00. 
Vogue Design No. 6889. One-piece dress with detachable tunic and dickey; 12 to 20, 30 to 


Vogue Design No. S-4996. One-piece dress; 12 to 20, 30 to 38. $1.00. 
Vogue Design No. S-4973. Coat. Small (30-32), Medium (34-36), Large (38-40). 
Vogue Design No. 6890. ““Easy-to-Make” jacket; 12 to 20, 30 


$1.00. 












LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Song in the wind 
and the story over... 
shadow of a rose 

on the wall... 

time ticking in 
heartbeats . . . sweet 
time of security... 
and the warm 

wool blanket folding 
this moment into 


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The mother and 
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one name... 


Fibber: 





DI4 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL October, 1949 


(Continued from Page 222 


Mother looked down at father and shook ! ; 
her head a little bit. Then she looked all NOW! PROOF that brushing 


around the room. She looked at the mess—| teeth right after eating is the 
. the toys and the bottles and papers and safe, effective way to 
{l books. She looked at Bumps with liver soup re 
{ na ma 6S my S 2g ré 6 all over him. She looked into the dining room HELP 
where the chairs were on top of the table. 


She looked at my inside-out sweater and she 


. ie ior to iton | |i tits ons ne 
clothes 3 times easier to iton ! STOP 


TMT, and knotted the belt tight. And my good- 


ness, but mother was looking well. All of a 
sudden she was looking very well. Her eyes 
looked snappy and glad and she was holding 


WRITES MRS. JOHN J. JANDINSKI, JR., NORTHAMPTON, MASS. her head up. 
“Pud, those are your cars,’’ she said. ‘‘Get 
your basket and pick them up. Before you 
eat,” she said. “Rod,” she said and she 


pointed to the rest of the junk. She was pick- 
ing up papers and books. 


In two minutes mother had the living 
room looking like a room again. When a 
room is in order you hardly notice the dust. 
She picked up Bumps, peeled off his romper, 


wiped his face with it, and put him in his 

high chair. She looked in the oven and e I, C | 

opened more windows. Tt t 
Father got slowly up from the floor. He Wi 0 ga e 

took the can of turpentine and the rags off 


the kitchen table. He wasn’t rushing any 
more. He was looking slow again. Dental Crea m 
“Do you feel O.K.?” he said. 
Mother went over and put her hand on 
his arm. “I never felt better,” she said. “Sit OW dental science offers proof that 
down, Roger,” she said. “‘I’ll get lunch. Gee, always using Colgate Dental Cream 


it seems good to be down again!” right after eating helps stop tooth decay 
Father looked around at the messy house.| before it starts! 


“By tomorrow,” he said, “I'd have had it Continuous research—hundreds of case 
slicked up. What’d you come down today} histories—makes this the most important 
fone a news in dental history! 


The secret of education lies in 
respecting the pupil. —EMERSON. 


“T thought someone—I got lonesome for 
it,’ mother said. “I’m glad I did too. I’d 
have felt awful if I’d waited till you had it 
all slicked up. I’d have felt like you didn’t 
need me any more.” 

Father sat down by the table and rested 
his cheek on his fist. “I’m not fooling any- 
one,” he said. ““By tomorrow things would 
have been past saving. Lord knows we need 
you. Like we need oxygen.” 

“Well, thanks,” mother said and she 





Eminent dental authorities supervised 2 


“I HAVE OODLES OF CorTONS to wash _ that you use with boiled or unboiled ee a pee, 1 sa eggs. 1) ._oups of colleseanensalstemaaneal iam 

and iron for my 2-year-old,” writes starch. It dissolves easily in boiling ee a ae oe shukiness | toca One group always brushed their 

Mrs. Jandinski.“Satina not only makes — water or the boiling starch solution. Book ese ‘| teeth with Colgate Dental Cream right 

ae J 5 found that out,” father said. “It’s more like f Teoh Followet thei 

my starched ironing 3 times easier, but eee : hree-ri i with crowds| @tt eating. * he other Eroupsos = 
5 - It not only makes ironing lots easier, running a three-ring circus with ¢ =| Grcualidentalbeaces 

makes clothes stay fresh longer, too. it makes clothes smell fresher, look stampeding over you all the time. The average of the group using Colgate’s 


“Kind of nice crowds, though,” mother 
said, stirring the eggs, not looking 
around. 

“T don’t know how you do it, woman,” 
father said. “I don’t know how you do it, or 


Satina is a wonderful ironing aid newer, and stay clean longer, too! as directed was a startling reduction in 
number of cavities—far less tooth decay! 
The other group developed new cavities at 


a much higher rate. 


FREE 


why.” He pushed his fingers through his NO OTHER DENTIFRICE 
Nene h d I 1 OFFERS PROOF OF THESE RESULTS 
iS “Oh, it’s easy,” mother said. “It’s rea : 
oiee PACKAGE easy & you acc use any system.” Colgate’s has been proved to contain all 


Father went over and ripped down the| the necessary ingredients, including an 
—_ ae chart. He tore it into little pieces. He went | €X¢lusive patented ingredient, for effective 
a “TV | over and stood by mother and let the pieces daily dental vate, No claim is made that 
fall into the wastebasket by the stove. He| Using Colgate’s can stop all tooth decay, or 
looked at mother and smiled a kind of| help cavities already started. But brushing 
mroolcedicmile: teeth right after eating is the proved way to 


“Well, it’s harder for men,” mother said. help stop tooth decay with Colgate Dental 
“They don’t have the same incentive women | Cream. The Colgate Dental Cream now at 
Ravers your dealer sis the same formula that was 

“They don’t?” father said. His dirty used in the tests. 
apron hung down limp and wrinkled. Liver 
soup was on the back of his shirt. Some was 1% 
in his hair. The bandage on his cut hand was Always Use Colgate s to 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


BEGINNER’S LUCK 


(Continued from Page 199) 


Answering the telephone courteously. If 
Elodie is nearest the phone when it rings, 
she will pick up the receiver and say, ‘‘ This 
is Elodie speaking,” and then proceed to take 
a message for her parents or sisters. 

Aside from the rare occasions when Anne 
Lynne assumes a deep, Southern accent and 
answers, “This is Mrs. Holcombe’s maid 
speakin’,”” the telephone manners go off 
without a hitch! 

Shaking hands and saying ‘‘How do you do” 
to guests is followed by the children’s timely 
departure from the particular room where 
Mrs. Holcombe is entertaining. 

Taking dancing lessons. (Elodie is old 
enough for this.) Ballet dancing teaches her 
how to use her body gracefully, while ball- 
room dancing keeps her on her toes in mix- 
ing with boys and girls outside her own home. 

Counting their own pennies now makes for 
future balanced budgets. The girls receive 25 
cents a week for their allowance. Since baby- 
sitting begins at home with the Holcombes, 
Elodie and Anne Lynne, who have their own 
bank accounts, supplement their weekly in- 
come with the 25 cents an afternoon they 
earn as baby-sitters for their sisters. Depend- 
ing upon the number of ‘“‘jobs” each week, 
their finances rise and fall, but enough is al- 
ways saved to make regular contributions to 
the Community Chest and the church collec- 
tion. Their allowances plus their earnings 


take care of all family birthday and Christ- 
mas presents, little-girl incidentals and the 
table silver Elodie and Anne Lynne have al- 
ready started buying! “Splurge” expenses, 
such as the time Elodie took her parents to 
the movies on their anniversary, temporarily 
play havoc with their bank accounts, but 
they promptly cut down on spending until 
the deficit is made up. “Although the girls 
have a free hand with their money, they 
know no advances can be made on next 
week’s allowance. They have to know how to 
budget,” says Mrs. Holcombe. 

Developing taste . . . for good health and 
good manners! To ward off possibilities that 
any of her daughters may ever become finicky 
about food, Mrs. Holcombe has the following 
simple rules concerning their eating habits: 
Between-meal bites for the growing young- 
sters consist of fresh fruit or a dish of apple- 
sauce. Candy and sweets show up only after 
mealtimes. Orange juice, milk, raw apples, 
carrots and fresh leafy vegetables appear 
daily in their diets. “‘The girls generally eat 
everything on their plates, but if they are 
served something they don’t like, they are 
trained to take a spoonful, regardless.” By 
making this a must, Mrs. Holcombe hopes the 
little girls will (1) develop a taste for the un- 
welcome food and (2) avoid displaying their 
dislike for something that is served to them 
when they are visiting! 


A GIFT FROM EVIE 


(Continued from Page 67) 


yet, in a way, she envied her for being so re- 
laxed and untroubled as she ambled along. 

Even as children, it had been the same. 
Martha had always trained her eyes on a 
distant goal, working feverishly and with 
painstaking concentration in order to reach 
it; she had always worried and driven her- 
self. And Evie had barely skimmed through 
school classes, her thoughts on dates, sorority 
affairs and clothes, hardly caring if she passed 
or not. She had never lifted a finger to get 
what she wanted—she had never had to. 
Things had always come her way, from her 
first doll to Roy Cummings, the only man 
she had ever really wanted. And now, al- 
though she wasn’t even remotely. a rich 
woman, she had a maid, a car and all the 
little comforts she could not do without. ° 

Only in one thing had Evie been denied— 
they had had no children. Perhaps it was 
because of this, perhaps it was simply be- 
cause she loved having people around her, 
that Evie’s house was always filled with 
friends, neighbors or acquaintances. The 
front door was kept unlocked and they trooped 
in and out at all hours of the day, ringing the 
bell and then entering to stand in the hall 
and shout, ‘‘Evie?”’ 

Martha considered it an appalling ar- 
rangement. She was unmarried, but she had 
a small income from her father’s estate and 
lived in a three-room apartment across the 
park. She told herself that she valued her 
privacy above all else and that she would go 
crazy if people she didn’t like very much 
wandered in and out without benefit of an 
invitation. Yet sometimes she felt trapped 
and lonely within her small, neat rooms and 
wished that she had more friends—not the 
kind of people Evie seemed to enjoy so much, 
but amusing, worldly people of intelligence 
who would stimulate her. 

Actually, she knew no such people. Her 
former girl friends had all married and had 
either moved away or were so preoccupied 
with their homes and small children that 
they called Martha only at spaced intervals. 
This last year had been even lonelier than 
the one before, but there was always Evie to 
go to, Evie to welcome her with her infec- 
tious laugh. And if it was true that Evie was 
not exactly stimulating in an intellectual 
way, it was somehow warm and comforting 
to be with her. 

“Choo-choo!” Bobby, the little boy from 
next door, was pedaling his tricycle furiously 


up the walk and clanging the shrill bell. 
“Choo-choo!”” The front wheel banged 
against the bottom step of the porch and he 
catapulted forward, banging his shins as he 
fell from the tricycle. At once the soft sum- 
mer air was made hideous with his shrieks. 

“Now, darlin’,” Evie said. She rose lazily 
and walked down the steps to pick him up. 
For a few minutes she held him on her lap, 
rocking back and forth as she murmured 
something into his ear. Finally the wailing 
lessened and ceased, and when she tickled 
him he giggled suddenly. Evie released him, 
gave him three grapes and sent him off with 
a little push. 

*‘Choo-choo!’’ he yelled as he steered 
around to the sidewalk. A woman was turn- 
ing to come up the walk and he missed her by 
a narrow margin. 

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Martha muttered. 
“Don’t you ever have any peace around 
here?” ~ 

“Tt’s only Hattie Chalmers,”’ Evie said. 
She looked pleased as she greeted the rather 
plain, dark-haired woman coming up the 
porch steps. ‘‘Did you bring the swatches?” 
she asked eagerly. There was a chorus of 
greetings and Evie turned to Martha. “Hat- 
tie’s doing over her living room, and I’m help- 
ing her with it.” 

Hattie settled herself on the glider next to 
Evie and they were immediately close in 
animated conversation as Hattie opened her 
voluminous purse and withdrew a thick 
batch of small cloth squares in a variety of 
colors. Martha watched them, commenting 
critically on each. Then her boredom made 
her yawn and rise to her feet. 

“Stay for dinner, honey,” Evie pleaded, 
looking up. “‘Stella’s made an apple pie and 
Roy would love to see you.” 

Martha shook her head. “I can’t,” she 
said. ‘I’m going to an early lecture.” 

The lecture was on socialized medicine and 
she sighed imperceptibly as she thought of it. 
She did try to improve her mind and plan her 
time in such a way that something worth 
while was accomplished every day. It would 
be easy enough for her to sit back and be- 
moan the fact that she was still single, that 
she lived alone and lacked a great many ma- 
terial things that she wanted. Instead, she 
was constantly broadening her mental hori- 
zons and performing certain duties each week 
for other people; she had arranged her life so 
that there was little time for brooding. 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Now she watched Evie and Hattie mur- | 


muring together over the small pieces of ma- 
terial. There was something in the way that 
Hattie looked at Evie that made Martha 
stand still, caught up in an old and familiar 
sadness. She wished that she had someone 
besides Evie who would look at her in just 
that way, someone with whom she could 
share the close, warm things. 

So many times had she felt this way—as if 
she were standing in shadow before a bright 
circle that was locked against her. And al- 
though she told herself now that she cared 
nothing about Hattie, that she had nothing 
in common with her, really, a formless long- 
ing without beginning or end gathered inside 
of her until it became a dull ache. 


Martha saw Tom Hendricks at the lecture 
hall that evening. He was on the medical 
staff of the city hospital where she did volun- 
teer work twice a week; their paths crossed 
often in the wards and in the halls. Each time 
she saw him, she experienced a little inward 
flare of excitement. He was so attractive, so 
charming and courteous. She kept wishing 
he were not quile so courteous in her pres- 
ence. She had often seen him teasing the 
pretty nurses in the halls. But with Martha he 
was always charmingly polite, and although: 
she knew that he admired her work she 
would have gladly exchanged his evident re- 
spect for some sign he found her attractive. 

Now, as she gazed secretly at his profile, 
she found her mind wandering farther and 
farther from the earnest voice of the man on 
the lecture platform. She began to picture 
Tom Hendricks laughing because of some- 
thing amusing and a little insolent that she 
had said. And then, somehow, they were 
alone somewhere and he was kissing her 
slowly, her forehead, her throat, her mouth 
again and again. 

Something inside of Martha churned in 
sweet turmoil; she felt weak and filled with 
an immense yearning. | 

I'm being cheated, she thought; nothing 1s 
happening to me—nothing ever happens to me. 

She had a sudden and wild desire to be 
away from this quiet hall with its orderly rows 
of attentive listeners and the professorial- 
looking man droning away on the platform. 
She was sick of improving her mind, sick of 
the lectures and the courses and the heavy 
books she read so doggedly in the evenings. 
She wanted to be in an open roadster with 
the soft summer night brushing against her 
cheek and a young man singing at her side; 
she wanted glamour and excitement and love. 
More than anything else, she wanted love. 

Cheated, cheated, she thought. 

Tears came to her eyes and she stared 
through them at the speaker until he became 
a liquid blur of black and white. And then 
she gave herself a little shake and gradually 
the inner turbulence subsided and the room 
came into focus again. Self-pity was a luxury 
she could not afford. Besides, she had a great 
deal to be thankful for. She was still young 
and healthy and intelligent; she had financial 
security. And she had Evie. 

She was immediately comforted by the 
thought of Evie. Why, I’ve got a lot, she re- 
flected, and maybe soon She sat motion- 
less, staring unseeingly over the sea of heads 
before her, her eyes lost and dreaming. 





‘LHe next day was one of the two each week 
which Martha spent as Nurse’s Aide at the 
orthopedic ward of the city hospital. She was 
one of the few who had continued to do vol- 
unteer work since the end of the war; there 
were not many now who were willing to sac- 
rifice their time and effort in this way. 

Certainly Evie wouldn’t, Martha reflected 
as she went upstairs in the hospital elevator. 
Evie went to pieces when she was near sick 
people. “I’m too emotional, darlin’,”’ she 
would sigh. And in any event, she was so 
fumbling and inefficient with her hands that 
she became more of a detriment than a help. 
Besides, Martha knew that she hated to be 
tied down to any set pattern for doing things. 
Evie thought it was so much nicer to wake 
up late in the morning and decide then what 
she wanted to do with her day, considering 
this, eliminating that, as if she were choosing 
a pastry from an assortment on a tray. 


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LADIES HOME JOURNAL 2 


N 
“~l 







T. Tr U are ee he? Martha smile, but the MEE IIES P ‘ 
smule hac faded by the time she had changed , ei Re 
Oo a mpon Sers . Oi into her uniform. The day differed in no ae ee oo —h 
from the others; she moved swiftly through 
her appointed tasks, deft and impersonal as 
she went from one bed to another. Many of 
+ the patients she tended had been there for 
months. It was very lonely for them in <%ie 
big ward; visitors were allowed only twice a 

week for a few hours. 

Sometimes the patients would become very 
voluble with Martha; the new cnes, espe- 
cially, would cling to her sleeve and detain 

A her as they talked eagerly about some per- 

| S th e Ta mM po n sonal thing. Martha would stand still, a pro- 

fessionally bright smile on her face, and listen 

| patiently but with only half a mind to what 

fy they were saying. And finally the words 

with Rounded En would trail into silence and the woman’s 
*** | head would drop back on the pillow. 

To Martha, their faces, their bodies and 

their little idiosyncracies had become so fa- 

th e O nl Ta m O n miliar that she was no longer aware of them. 

iy p But as the long hours dragged by today she 

began to know a gathering resentment. The 

perfunctory thanks she received from the 


u ‘ u women she tended so skillfull ik 
y seemed like 

Quilted for Comfor f. e- | an affront to her sensibilities. ~ 
You'd think, she reflected bitterly, that they 
i would really show a little appreciation. In- 
° n stead, they accepted everything she had to 
Qu | lted for Safety. = offer with a sort of half-sour and begrudging 
+ attitude, the way they might receive castoff 

clothing from a charity worker. 
Not that I actually expect any thanks for it 
e . , 
Ne tr time tr IDS Martha thought angrily at the end of the 
xX ve Fib long day as she folded her uniform and got 
into her street dress. Her every muscle ached 


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had enough. 

But she knew that she would not do this, 
that she could not. Her strong sense of duty 
would not let her. She was not Evie, content 
within the closed little circle of her own af- 
fairs. She was a young woman who could not 

: : . | help but be conscious of her responsibilities. 
| Ifyou want all the joy of the bright world of From the hospital, she went to Evie’s. Roy 
sound - + - if you want he hear the MOICES of was working that night and the two women 
friends and loved ones in vibrant, unmistak- enjoyed a leisurely meal together. 
able tones . . . if you want to capture the “Darlin’,” Evie said languidly as she stirred 
words you now miss in church, at social | her iced tea, “I’m too tired almost to move 
gatherings . . . then you owe it to yourself to | thig spoon. Seems like every muscle I own 
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Ti) “Why, what did you do?” Martha asked. Se ee ce “oe 
s Evie sighed and lifted a generous forkful Liquid Skin Sachet 1. 
6 of chocolate cake to her mouth. “‘ Well,” she 
said, ‘“‘I bought a lot of things yesterday at 
4 the store and when I got them home nothing Now available in Canada 
seemed to be right and so I had to take them s . 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


how old Mrs. McSweeney, who had a broken 
hip, had wet the bed twice and had had to be 
changéd; how Mrs. poe the compound 
fracture. had spilled tomato juice all over 
herself ~i¢ht after her sponge bath; and all 
the cther irritating happe:.ings that had 
given her hours in the ward a - “htmarish 
quality. 

Evie listened with flattering attentior ‘rer 
eyes round and her babyish mouth slig. “v 
*parted. From time to time she clucked syn 
pathetically or shook her head in disbelief, 
and Martha found herself embellishing the 
story with details she had almost forgotten. 
The flood of words melted away her resent- 
iient and bitterness, and when she liad fin- 
ished she leaned hack with a little sigi., _el- 
ing purged and rested. 

Evie drained her glass of iced tea and 
pushed it away. “I have to have two teeth 
pulled,” she said gloomily. “‘ Darlin’, take my 
word for it—as soon as you get old enough to 
enjoy yourself you start falling apart.” 

Martha giggled suddenly and Evie laughed 
too. There was something so richly infectious 
about her laugh that Martha found herself 
joining in, although she wasn’t quite sure 
why, and soon the two sisters were rocking 
back and forth in their chairs, convulsed with 
mirth. 

When Evie had caught her breath she 
blew her nose and looked at Martha with 
satisfaction. “‘There,’’ she said. “‘ You look a 
whole lot better than when you came in, 
honey. You were all tightened up like a 
drum.” 


‘The following night, when Martha spoke 
to her on the telephone, Evie complained of 
being tired and ‘‘feeling funny.” And the 
next morning she had a fever of 102°. 

Martha went over there and telephoned 
the doctor at once, but by the time he arrived 
that afternoon the fever had soared to 104° 
and Evie was flushed and stupefied; her face 
had taken on a queer look. A virus, the doc- 
tor said. And suddenly there were a day nurse 
and a night nurse and Martha and Roy 
whispered hollow assurances to each other. 
Evie would be all right; it was inconceiv- 
able to think that she would not be better 
soon. 

But although the fever dipped a little, it 
rose again to its former level and stayed 
there ominously. Evie was weak, very weak; 
she could not lift a finger, and when she 
spoke the sounds she made were faint and 
thick, as if the words had clotted on her 
tongue. 









October, 1949 


Martha, who had moved in to help, gath- 
ered together the slack reins of the household 
and pulled them straight and firm in her ca- 
pable hands. During the days that followed, 
it was she who took over, she who saw to the 
hundred-and-one needs of the sickroom, she 
who answered the doorbell again and agai 

For Evie’s friends came in a constant 
stream, their faces anxious, their voices low 
and apologetic. “‘Forgive me for dropping in 
this way,” they would say, ‘‘but I couldn’t 
do another thing until I knew how Evie was.” 
Or, “I hate to bother you, but I had to 
know—is she going to be all right?” 

How kind they are, Martha would think, 
how kind and good. And she would say a few 
words to each one, wanting to assure them, 
wanting to comfort them without quite know- 
ing how. 


As the days passed, she could not rid her- 
self of her terror; she slept with it by her 
side and woke to find that it had clamped it- 
self around her again. She thought that if 
Evie died, she would die, too; she could not 
go on living without Evie. 

On the fourth morning the fever was lower, 
and although it rose again, it did not reach 
the point it had been. Gradually it lessened 
and Evie’s eyes were clearer ; she could lift her 
head when she wanted something. The doc- 
tor said she was out of danger. 

After the nurses left, Martha took care of 
“vie herself, deeply grateful now for her hos- 
pital training. Deftly, tenderly she looked 
after her sister, and day by day Evie grew a 
little more alert, a little stronger. 

The people had not stopped coming, but 
now when they rang the front doorbell their 
eyes were clear with relief and they carried 
little jars of broth or balanced plates of home- 
made cakes or biscuits. The rooms were soon 
fragrant with flowers and each time the post- 
man came he, too, would ask for Evie and 
leave a little bundle of notes that read: 
“Hurry up and get well. We miss you, 
Evie.” 

Martha found herself thinking more and4 
more of these people and their touching con- 
cern for her sister. And one morning in Evie’s 
room she found herself musing on the fact 
that if Evie had died the funeral parlor could 
not have held them all, the people would have 
spilled over into the street. 

And if I died? she thought, sitting still in 
her chair. If I died, how many would mourn 
for me? 

“Why, Marth,”’ Evie said from her bed, 
“what’s the matter, honey?” 


‘*Mrs. Robertson, I believe I owe your daughter an apology.”’ 













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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Martha looked at her and her eyes gradu- 
ally cleared. ‘‘Nothing,” she said. ‘Not a 
thing, darling; go to sleep.” 

But long after Evie had drowsed off, Mar- 
tha sat by the window, staring out at the 
patch of bright green lawn. It was as if she 
had been traveling for a long time on a 
straight and familiar path and now she had 
stopped to look around her. And she saw 
that the road led nowhere, nowhere at all. 

The soft summer air riffled her hair a little 
as she looked out into the quiet street. But 
she sat hunched in her seat, as if she were 
cold. 


In her mind, Martha had always lumped 
Evie’s friends together into a rather dull 
group with whom she had little in common. 
But now, when they came to the house to 
ask for Evie, she found herself straining to 
entertain them, wanting desperately for them 
to like her. She tried to make her conversa- 
tion bright and informative; she talked about 
books and movies and news events, her dark 
eyes filled with eagerness as she leaned for- 
ward in her chair. It was as if by living in 
Evie’s house, by talking to Evie’s friends, 
she could be like Evie and in this way find 
some place in their hearts. 

And nothing happened. They listened po- 
litely, they nodded, they cleared their throats 
and said a few words now and then. But 
Martha knew it was not the same. It was al- 
most as if they were straining, too, as if they 
were being made uncomfortable by her pres- 
ence and her intelligent conversation. 

One afternoon, Martha sat this way with 
Hattie Chalmers on the front porch. She had 
been talking about an interesting book she 
was reading, but now her words faltered as 
she saw that Hattie’s eyes, although politely 
fixed on hers, were misted with some preoc- 
cupation of her own. Martha sensed that in 
another moment Hattie would rise and make 
her departure, and it had suddenly become 
very important that Hattie should want to 
stay—it had become the most important 
thing in the world. 

She stopped talking in the middle of a 
sentence and stared at the other woman with 
a kind of despairing intentness. Evie would 
know how to hold Hattie’s interest now, she 
thought—Evie would know just what to say. 


Sue found that her hands were clasped 
tightly in her lap and that every nerve was 
taut in her body. It almost seemed as if she 
could, by some great effort of will, project 
herself into Evie’s mind, that she could be 
Evie for just this one important moment if 
she concentrated hard enough. 

“Hattie,” she said, ‘‘how is Billy? I hear 
he won a prize at school.’”’ The words seemed 
a little foolish and anticlimactic to her ears, 
but she knew at once that they were what 
Evie would have said; it was almost as if 
Evie had put them in her mouth. 

Hattie had been about to rise, but now she 
leaned back with all the blankness gone from 
her face and her eyes alight with sudden in- 
terest. ‘‘ That,” she said, ‘was something. It 
was a cup for debating, you know; Mac and 
I went to school to hear him.” 

She launched into her story and Martha 
made a little show of listening attentively, 
but as the picture of the frightened little boy 
on the debating platform came to life she 
found herself sympathizing and chuckling 
along with Hattie. She asked eager questions 
and before long they were recalling their own 
school days and talking animatediy. 

At last Hattie rose with a reluctant sigh. 
“T’ve got to go, but why don’t you come 
over to see my new living room, Marth? In 
fact, come over Saturday night, won’t you? 
I’m having some people over and I'll tell 
Mac to ask his younger brother. He’s a dar- 
ling, you'll like him.” 

“Why, I’d love to,’ Martha said. Her 
eyes were shining. “I’d love to come, Hat- 
tie.” And as she said good-by, she thought, _ 
Why, she isn’t boring at all, she’s as sweet as 
can be. 

She felt strangely breathless as she walked 
up the stairs to Evie; it was as if she had acci- 
dentally stumbled upon something, some- 
thing that might turn out to be important. 
And as she walked into her sister’s room she 


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was still filled with the wonder of Hattie’s 
sudden warmth, of her invitation for Satur- 
day night. 

She found Evie just awakening from a 
nap, her cheeks still flushed with sleep and 
her hair in childish disorder. ‘‘I was just 
thinking,” Evie murmured drowsily, “that 
it’s your birthday tomorrow and I have no 
gift for you, I was too busy fighting the bugs. 
But as soon as I can get on my two feet, 
darlin’, I ——” 

Martha bent over and kissed her suddenly. 
“Tt doesn’t matter,” she said. ‘It doesn’t 
matter at all.”’ For it seemed to her that per- 
haps Evie had already given her something 
for her birthday. She knew now what the 
gift was that Evie had for people. She might 
be a weak and rather frivolous woman, a 
woman with no conception of duty, a woman 
lacking in drive and any sort of ambition, 
and yet ... yet Evie gave of herself. No 
matter how foolish or trivial the subject, 
Evie gave it her interest and her full atten- 
tion; when someone was hurt or troubled she 
gave him the comfort of her rich, full pres- 
ence, of her softness and warmth and infec- 
tious laughter. She gave without knowing 
she was giving—not at certain times or 
places, but always, simply because she loved 
people and wanted to make them all happy. 

Martha stood still, 
gazing down at her 
sister with a little 
smile curving at her 
lips. 


It wasa warm, clear 
morning. Martha had 
a-nebulous feeling of 
swelling happiness as 
she opened her eyes. 
It’s my birthday, she 


ake keke ke he ke ke 


Ole lo lhe 
Tae Ties 


BY MARY COOPER 


October, 1949 


with sunken eyes. Her coarse muslin gown 
was falling over one shoulder and her white 
hair straggled across her face, giving her a 
lost and almost demented look. Martha had 
always thought of Mrs. McSweeney in terms 
of her nuisance value, but now she felt a 
twinge of pity as she looked at her. 

“I’m going to fix you up pretty,” she said. 
“After all, this is visiting day and you have 
to look your best.” 

Mrs. McSweeney’s eyes did not change ex- 
pression. “‘Nobody’s coming to visit me,” 
she mumbled. 

“You never can tell,”” Martha said. 


Arter she had washed the old lady and 
changed her gown, she combed the thin white 
hair and parted it neatly on the side, tying it 
with a piece of blue ribbon she had found 
somewhere. The bow gave Mrs. McSweeney 
an air of rather coquettish decay, but she 
looked vastly improved and was now sitting 
up straight against the pillows. 

“Hey, Dora!” she called out across the 
room. ‘Look at me! I’m a glamour puss!” 
Her cackling laughter echoed throughout the 
big room and Martha felt herself laughing 
too. 

It was like that all morning. When a pa- 
tient’s knitting needle snapped, Martha ex- 
amined it and re- 
marked gravely that 
it was fractured in 
two places and would 
require traction, and 
the little joke was 
passed delightedly 
from bed to bed. “* Did 
you hear what Miss 
Griffen said?” they 
yelled across the 
room. It was astonish- 


thought at once; it’s 
my birthday and Evie 
is gelling well. But 
there was something 
else about this morn- 
ing, too, that made 
her humas shestarted 
to dress; it was as if 
the day marked the 


My two-year-old is bright of mien 
When he is home alone with me, 
His clever comments make him seem 

A prodigy. 


But if to friends I flaunt my dove, 
Observe my pride... and pity it. 

His I.Q. seems two points above 
An idiot. 


ing, Martha thought. 
A little joke like that. 

At two o’clock, the 
visitors began to 
swarm into the room, 
carrying their little 
parcels and paper 
sacks of fruit. Soon 
there were figures 


beginning of a jour- 
ney she had never 
taken before, and the 
prospect was exciting. 

It was one of her days at the hospital and 
she walked there, whistling tunelessly as she 
strolled down the wide, tree-lined streets. At 
the hospital, Miss Gambrini came in while 
she was changing into her uniform. She was a 
petite, dark-eyed young nurse who had been 
assigned to ward duty more than two months 
ago, but Martha realized now that she had 
hardly spoken to her in all that time. 

Martha cleared her throat. ‘I meant to 
tell you,” she said, “that I saw you at the 
movies one night and I thought you looked 
very smart.” And I’m not flattering you, her 
eyes said; I really mean it. ““You had on a 
green suit with a cocoa-colored hat and gloves 
to match.” 

Miss Gambrini looked at her. ‘‘That’s 
right,” she said. ‘‘That’s my good outfit that 
I got for Easter.’’ She had flushed a little and 
Martha could see that she was very pleased. 
Now why didn’t I tell her that before? Martha 
thought. 


Everyruinc was so different this morning. 
She performed the same tasks, ran the same 
errands, did the same things, and yet every- 
thing had changed in some subtle way. 

“How are your grandchildren, Mrs. Ko- 
walski?”’ she asked the plump woman on the 
bed as she got the basin and towels ready for 
a sponge bath. 

Mrs. Kowalski looked startled and then 
she plunged eagerly into a series of anecdotes 
concerning her family and home. Martha 
found herself listening with interest as the 
picture of a Polish-American family and its 
background formed in her mind. Despite 
Mrs. Kowalski’s broken English, images and 
personalities leaped into vivid life and the 
bath was finished before Martha realized it. 

When she reached Mrs. McSweeney’s bed, 
Martha found the old lady slumped crook- 
edly on the pillows and staring around her 


xa wk kwe keke ke ke kw Ok 


standing or sitting be- 
side almost every bed, 
and Martha went to 
the kitchen to get 
the package of ice cream she had bought for 
Mrs. McSweeney during her lunch hour. 
When she got back, she discovered to her 
astonishment that a skinny young man was 
sitting beside the old lady. 

“T got a visitor like you said!’’ Mrs. Mc- 
Sweeney called out to Martha, and her voice 
was strong with pride. “It’s my grand- 
nephew!” She had an open box of candy on 
her lap and her toothless gums were already 
chomping happily on a chocolate. 

Martha nodded and smiled and gave the 
ice cream to another patient. For a few min- 
utes she watched them all from a corner of 
the room and Miss Gambrini joined her after 
a while. 

“Don’t they look different when they have 
company?” the nurse said. She turned and 
met Martha’s eyes. ‘‘ You look different to- 
day too. Changed, somehow.” Her dark eyes 
were warm and Martha thought, Why, she 
likes me; she really likes me. 

““Maybe it’s because it’s my birthday,” 
Martha said. She was suddenly and unac- 
countably shy. ‘‘Birthdays are always spe- 
cial days, I guess.” 

The rest of the afternoon went quickly, al- 
though Martha was never still. After the last 
visitor had left, a little pall of sadness seemed 
to hang in the air. Something for which the 
women had waited for a long time had come 
and was now gone. There was always this 
let-down, depressed feeling afterward, but 
Martha had never sensed it before. Now she 
moved from one bed to another, soothing, 
listening patiently to a complaint, making a 
little joke in a way she had never done be- 
fore. 

At last it was five o’clock and she walked 
with dragging steps to the doorway. Every 
muscle ached; her head was heavy with weari- 
ness; she was almost too tired to think any 
more. 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL Dia 


At the door, she heard the sound behind 
her—a reedy, high sound that blended quickly 
with lower tones and then grew louder until 


| it swelled into a loud chorus of voices. She 
turned around. 


They were singing. All of them, lying back 
on their pillows, sitting forward, grotesquely 
bandaged legs high on pulleys, or plaster-cast 
arms held stiffly before them; old, young— 
all of them were singing, their eyes upon her. 

“Happy birthday to you,” they sang. 
Above them all, Martha could hear the high, 
quavering voice of Mrs. McSweeney and she 
caught sight of her now, the blue hair ribbon 
dangling rakishly over one eye. “Happy 
birthday to you. Happy birth-day, Miss 
Griff-en, happy birthday to you!” 

Dear God, thought Martha, dear God. She 
stood motionless, staring at them. She could 
not speak. 

When they had finished, she cleared her 
throat and smiled. “Thank you,” she said. 
“Thank you very much.” She turned and 
left the ward, surprised to find that her legs 
were trembling beneath her. It had all been 
so wonderful; she was choked with the won- 
der of it. 

“That was quite a tribute.” She looked up 
and saw Tom Hendricks standing by the 
white table in the hall, smiling at her. ““They 
must think a lot of you; I never heard them 
do that before.” 

“T think a lot of them,” Martha said. She 
felt very soft and full inside as she smiled 
back at him. 

There was a long silence and then he said, 
very softly, ‘‘Happy birthday from me too.” 

She could only stand there, smiling, look- 
ing at him. She knew that, with Evie’s gift, 
she would never be lonely again. 


WILL IT BE A 
DREAM HOUSE? 


(Continued from Page 207) 


@ Make-up bar: Dear to the feminine heart. 
@ Electrical installations; Double outlets for 
electric razor, hair drierSun lamp. Low out- 
let for heater. Switch-controlled night light. 
Lights on both sides of mirror. Switches and 
outlets where a person at:the washbasin or in 
the tub or shower can’t reach them. 

© Storage: Cabinets built under washbasins. 
Shelves recessed in the walls. (We can’t give 
it too much space, and neither can you.) 


Double Check 


Pointers on how to use a blueprint, the best 
means of keeping tabs on whether what you 
want is going to get done: 

@ Find the front entrance on the house plan, 
and trace your way through the rooms, using 
the doorways. No fair crossing through the 
walls. 

@ Try to visualize the size of each room in 
relation to what you and your family are 
going to do in it. When dimensions aren’t 
given, refer to the scale showing what frac- 
tion of an inch on the plan represents a foot 
in the actual }yuse. Use a ruler to measure 
the rooms in the plan, and when visualiza- 
tion is difficult, measure them out in feet 
along a convenient wall. 

© Draw out semicircular lines of door swings 
to make sure adjacent doors won’t bump and 
all have enough wall space. 

@ Look for symbols showing locations of 
heating equipment and electrical outlets and 
switches. If there is no key to these symbols 
on your plan, ask the architect to explain. 
@ Plan where you will place important pieces 
of furniture by cutting out their shapes in 
paper, using the same scale as that of the 
plan. Arrange these in the blueprint rooms, 
keeping in mind the heating and lighting 
setup, the locations of passageways and win- 
dows. If there is a radiator in the middle of 
a wall, you can’t put a sofa there. Ifa door 
opens back on a wall, you won’t want a chair 
behind it. If the doorways and stairways on 


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By W.7.WILLIAMS 







‘ude! ROOM 
(parte 


PROBLEM: Young married pair who have only a limited 
sum to spend in furnishing the living room of 

a one-room apartment, who have inherited some nice old china 
from Aunt Minnie, whose wedding presents are traditional, but 
who like the fresh colors and clean lines of contemporary design. 
SOLUTION: The retail price of every item in this room is 
realistically given, except for the decorative 
china on the shelves and a few accessories. Almost any bride and 
groom will haye many more hand-me-downs and wedding pres- 
ents to use instead, But working within the narrower limitations 
we set for ourselves, we scoured the town for nationally avail- 


able furnishings, and even so produced the room shown here. 


~ 





Storage and sleeping 
arrangements are attractively, 
comfortably and economically 


camouflaged along this wall. 


Two are company but not 
a crowd, dining or reading in 
this seemingly spacious room 


where old meets new. 


We started out by making a list of the essentials. First, since 
this is a living room in the literal sense and has to double 
as sleeping quarters, we shopped for two day beds. New ones 
were desirable for reasons of sanitation and durability. After 
searching and comparing, we purchased two box springs 
and mattresses on legs for $65 apiece. A watermelon-pink- 
and-white-striped ticking at $1 a yard was a good buy for a 
sturdy fabric to cover the day beds, and good-looking enough 
to use for curtains also. The ticking was washed before it 
was cut to avoid short-pants curtains and shrunken slip 
covers after future washings—a precaution dictated by experi- 


ence with this material. (Continued on Page 242) 


PHOTOS BY HAROLD FOWLER 












LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL Zao 


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JOURNAL 


WHERE 
THEIR SEX 


October, 1949 


DO TEEN-AGERS GET 


EDUCATION? 


(Continued from Page 54) 


“flea-show specials”), and conversation 
among themselves, usually quoting older 
friends. 

Among those teen-agers who said they 
never discussed sex with their parents, the 
reasons given were varied: 

“T was brought up to think that all things 
like that were wrong. Nobody ever told me, 
exactly—but they’re just never mentioned 
at home.”’... “When I was about eight years 
old or so, I asked my mother where babies 
came from. She got mad and asked me who 
I’d been playing with to give me ideas like 
that, and we just never talked about it 
again.” ““My mother and father are won- 
derful. They’d do anything for me and I’m 
sure they’d answer any questions I asked. 
But I just never could ask them about sex, so 
I sent away for a book and read about it.” 

In spite of the reticence about sex infor- 
mation in many homes and in most schools, 
almost all the teen-agers interviewed remem- 
bered being curious 
about sex for the first 
time at as early as 4 
or 5 years. Most of the 
curiosity remembered 
was traceable to the 
very normal incidents 
and developments that 
arouse curiosity about 
sex in any human life: 

“T saw a pregnant 
woman on our street 
and I asked somebody 
why she was so fat.”’... 
““When I started school 
I realized that boys 
and girls were kept 
separate and somehow 
they were different.”... 
““My mother once told 
me as a joke that I 
was left under cabbage 
leaves. I knew it wasn’t 
true and it just made 
me wonder more.” 

Others traced their 
first memories of sex 
as an important or 
mysterious force back to more emotional 
complicated incidents: 

“Round the neighborhood, kids keep play- 
ing and shouting things at each other. One 
day I was listening to some older kids and I 
just began to catch on.” ““T was in a pub- 
lic library and a man about thirty came over 
and showed me pictures of Greek statues in 
an encyclopedia. I tried to be polite to him, 
but I knew something was wrong.” Le 
was just four years old when I asked an older 
boy about the meaning of a certain “dirty 
word.’ He told me a long story about how 
horses mate. I didn’t understand it then, but 
I still remember just how I felt.” 


not work at all, 


that you do not 


Tn later grade-school years, around 10 or 
12 years of age, many of the teen-agers— 
more boys than girls, however—remember 
owning or having ‘‘one of the fellows show 
me” one of the innumerable “‘dirty comics,” 
small booklets of pornographic comics which 
have periodically swept through grade-school 
or junior-high-school groups in this country 
for at least the past two decades. These com- 
ics, small booklets about five inches long and 
two inches in width, are usually eight-page 
parodies, both in art work and character 
types, of some of the nation’s most popular 
legitimate comics. Often, according to several 
teen-agers interviewed, these booklets are 
bought by mail for $1 a dozen through ads 
found in pulp-paper magazines. However, 
when a group of these comics was confiscated 
by police in a small Eastern city recently, 
they had just been purchased by a ten-year- 
old boy from ‘“‘a man I met around school” 
for 30 cents each, or $3 for the ten comics 
found in his possession. 

The stories in these booklets, told with the 
illustration-balloon technique found in ordi- 
nary comics are used as excuses to introduce 





pi: Irishman 
raise was told: 
work for us at all. 
in the year. You sleep 8 hours every 
day, making 122 days. Which, sub- 
tracted from the 365, leaves 243 days. 
You also have 8 hours’ recreation 
every day, making another 122 days 
and leaving a balance of 121 days. 
There are 52 Sundays that you do 


leaves 69 days. Our office is closed 
every Saturday afternoon, thus giv- 
ing 52 half holidays or 26 more days 


a balance of 43 days. We allow you 1 
hour for lunch, 
makes 16 days, leaving 27 days of the 
year. We give you 2 weeks’ vacation 
during the year and that leaves only 
13 days. There are 12 legal holidays 
during the year when the office is 
closed, and this leaves only 1 day in 
the year. That is St. Patrick’s Day— 
and who works then? 


vulgar conversation and pornographic illus- 
trations showing physical anatomy and sex 
practices distorted grotesquely. The original 
publishing and sales sources of these booklets 
are often difficult to trace. A policewoman in 
a large city explained, ‘“‘There seem to be 
spells of these comics. Sometimes agents from 
the company come to town and just sell out 
of their brief cases, sometimes to children but 
mostly to a few candy stores or a lunchroom 
in a school neighborhood. Everything is done 
from the back room. I think the material is 
meant for adults and just drifts down te 
children.” 


Amonc grade-school children, a strong in- 
terest in these lewd comics stems from a nat- 
ural curiosity and, in most cases, from an al- 
ready friendly familiarity with the less harm- 
ful comics. As one high-school girl explained, 
“T didn’t know anything about the things 
until a girl friend showed me one. I looked 
through it and it was 
so raw it made me just 
plain scared.” 

Others remembered 
the “dirty comics” with 
a definite feeling of 
guilt: “Just certain 
bunches of kids had 
them and passed them 
around.” “The 
teachers never knew 
about it because every~ 
one kept everything 
under cover.” al 
only had one once. I 
kept carrying it around 
until finally I burned 
it to get rid of it.” 

At is usually in this 
late- grade-school and 
early-junior-high- 
school period, accord- 
ing to police and school 
authorities, that lewd 
pictures, either photo- 
graphs or sketches, are 

» most frequently passed 
among students. In a 
candy store near one large city grade school, 
plastic key rings, with an inset of a figure of a 
nude woman set under magnifying glass, be- 
came so popular that the price was changed 
from 10 cents to 25 cents before authorities 
finally took over the remaining stock. 

In a Southern high school, a school nurse 
who had worked for ten years in public 
schools said, “‘Parents should realize that 
any child, no matter how protected at home, 
is going to get a shock or two from other 
children at school.” 

According to teen-agers, however, it is not 
until the years between 14 and 16 “‘sex really 
gets on your mind.” It is then that many in- 
dividuals and groups begin to “‘trade infor- 
mation about what they know.”’ As one high- 
school junior explained, ‘‘Among close 
friends, girls will usually talk. One girl finds 
out and passes it on to the rest of us.” 

Since it is usually around this age that 
menstruation begins, most girls are acutely 
conscious of physical changes in their own 
bodies and the sudden realization that they 
themselves are destined to play an adult sex 
role. Among the girls whose parents had 
never discussed sex with them, parental re- 
action to menstruation is divided: Some girls 
reported they were told nothing about men- 
struation at home, but picked up the infor- 
mation beforehand from girl friends or re- 
ceived advice from a teacher or gym instruc- 
tor. Others sent for booklets advertised in 
magazines. Many girls reported that their 
mothers did tell them about menstruation— 
“‘what to expect” and “‘how to take care of 
myself.” But this group said their mothers 
“never mentioned anything about sex. Jusi 
said that menstruation was something that 
happened to a girl when she grew up,” treat- 
ing menstruation as a physical function sepa- 
rate from the revroductive system. 


who asked for a 
“You don’t really 
There are 365 days 


which, deducted, 


work. This leaves 


which, totaled, 


9° 


€ 














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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Among girls who are “lucky enough to 
have good girl friends,” there is often healthy, 
constructive conversation about simple sex- 
ual anatomy, conception and the processes of 
birth. Often, in a group of girl friends, there 
is one girl, or more, whose parents have given 
her accurate sexual information plus a forth- 
right and healthy attitude toward the sub- 
ject. Often the informed girl may be consid- 
ered a reliable source for other girls who 
“want to know what it is all about.”’ As one 
of these girls explained, ‘‘My parents have 
always been frank with me. When I was 
about twelve my mother explained every- 
thing about sex to me, using the proper 
names, and we’ve talked about it since. But I 
was told that the information was for me 
alone, not to talk about outside our house, 
because my mother explained that some par- 
ents didn’t seem to want their children to 
know about such things. I didn’t talk about 
it until I just felt sorry for my friends who 
were sixteen and seventeen and didn’t have a 
complete story on it.” 

On the other hand, it is often through this 
exchange of “‘information” that serious mzs- 
information, the basis on which many sexual 
attitudes are formed, is passed on. Many of 
the teen-age girls interviewed said they had 
had innumerable conversations with girl 
friends about ‘‘whether or not sex hurt,” 
“did it mean you had a baby every time it 
happened,” ““how does a woman’s stomach 
heal up so fast when it has to open up for the 
baby”’ and “‘is a woman supposed to like it 
or not,” conversations in which girls gave 
conflicting opinions and no one was sure of 
the answers. 

One 17-year-old girl said that when she 
was about 14 she read a book describing the 
pains of childbirth. “‘I showed it to some of 
my girl friends and we actually formed a club, 
deciding that we’d never get married. All we 
did was talk about how horrible it would be 
to have to have a baby.” 

Another girl became almost hysterical with 
fear in school when a girl friend told her she 
must certainly be pregnant because she had 
“French kissed”’ her boy friend. 

Another group of girls explained that a 
scene in a movie showing a young doctor tak- 
ing care of a woman suffering labor pains so 
filled them with worry that ‘‘we talked about 
it fora couple of weeks,” and then one girl 
“finally got up courage to ask her older sis- 
ter’”’ who told them about anesthetics to aid 
in childbirth. 


Moke serious, perhaps, are the cases of girls 
who admit their reaction to their own sexual 
curiosity and the information they do receive 
is usually one of hesitancy and guilt. Several 
girls of this type commented, ‘‘No one has 
ever talked to me, but I have sense enough 
to know it’s wrong”; ‘‘My parents just let 
me know that that kind of thing was evil”’; 
and ‘‘We learned in church that we’re sup- 
posed to control ourselves and not think 
about things like that.” Among these teen- 
agers, this feeling of guilt is a strong, ever- 
present influence in their lives, able to affect 
their decisions and attitudes toward mar- 
riage, and even dating and friendship with 
the opposite sex. One girl in first-year high 
school, though an extreme case, became hys- 
terical recently in a girls’ washroom, protest- 
ing wildly that ‘‘a boy got me.” School au- 
thorities, on questioning the girl, discovered 
that she was warned almost daily by her par- 
ents to ‘‘keep the boys away from you”’; she 
had never been given information or advice 
about sex except these fear warnings. Exam- 
ination showed she had not been harmed be- 
yond the damages done by her hysteria. 
Among boys in the middle-teen group, sex 
is also a normal and major topic of conversa- 
tion and thus a medium of exchange for in- 
formation on the subject. As one boy ex- 
plained, “If you get to be seventeen and 
don’t know everything, it’s because you don’t 
have ears.” Another commented, “ When the 
fellows are alone, they talk mostly about 
sports and sex—and I guess sex is a little in 
the lead.” ; 
Much of the conversation, beyond discus- 
sion of simple anatomical facts, revolves 
around individual sexual prowess: “ Did she 
neck you last night?” ... “You should have 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


seen the girl I had from Gary.” . ‘“She’s 
only a babe and I’ve got no use for babes.” 
In such conversations, imagination and ex- 
aggerated bragging play a big part. It is in 
this age group, however, that many boys ad- 
mit they began to worry about their own 
sexual potency. “ You hear a lot of talk about 
boys not being healthy if they don’t want to 
have a girl”; or “A lot of the fellows kept 
talking about women they knew—and I be- 
gan to wonder if I was normal or not because 
I didn’t think about girls all the time.’’ One 
boy became so worried that he finally went 
to the family doctor to ask if there was “‘any 
way I can find out if I’m normal without ac- 
tually having a girl.” 

Masturbation, according to teen-age boys, 
is also a major worry. One boy explained, “‘I 
knew that business about fellows going crazy 
from doing it was old-fashioned—but it both- 
ered me anyway.’ Another commented, 
“Even fellows aren’t likely to talk about it 
among themselves, so 
most of the time they 
just keep worrying 
about it.’’ (Dr. Alfred 
Kinsey in his study, 
Sexual Behavior in 
the Human Male, 
makes these  state- 
ments: “‘For most 
males, of every social 
level, masturbation 
provided the chief 
source of sexual out- 
let in early adoles- 
cence. Ulti- 
mately, nearly 99 per 
cent of the younger- 
adolescent boys have 
some experience in 
masturbation, while 
only 93 per cent of 


the later-adolescent breeches. 


boys are ever in- Nee eae 
Been But January’s in his thighs. 

Among the boys in- : ae 
fined Cee Small girls sit in school as calm 


commented on_per- 
sonal worry and con- 
fusion in regard to 
their information 
about menstruation. 
“People always think 
girls should know be- 
cause it happens to 
them—but why not 
tell the fellows, too, 
who are with the girls 
in school each day 
and don’t know what 
to think?” 

One boy, a high- 
school senior who had 
been going steady for six months, said he felt 
““so embarrassed around my girl when I knew 
she was having her ‘period’ that I just 
couldn’t act right. Once she couldn’t go swim- 
ming and after that I couldn’t keep from 
counting. Finally I sent away for one of those 
little advertising booklets about it.” 


Psalm; 


growing. 


Besives talking with older or experienced 
friends, much of their sexual information, 
“especially about techniques’”’ and “what 
actually happens,’’ comes from books and 
booklets purchased at out-of-the-way news- 
stands or from ads in magazines, according 
to several teen-agers. These books get passed 
from friend to friend and often one copy is 
read by a dozen or more students in one 
school. Booklets may be bought by mail from 
ads at three copies for $1, or in newsstands 
or under-the-counter sales at about 35 
cents each. Full-length prurient novels, filled 
with pornographic sketches and stressing the 
abnormal in sexual activity, such as the story 
of a girl ‘“‘trained”’ in prostitution, with ev- 
ery step of the training graphically illustrated 
or described, are still widely circulated in 
secret through high schools. Such novels are 
usually disguised in the conservative leather 
binding of a literary classic. In a New Jersey 
high school recently, an illustrated pamphlet 
was being passed among the students, until 
discovered and confiscated. The pamphlet, 
with a green paper cover that made it look 
like a Government pamphlet, had been pur- 


KiKi Kan KK oe 
Ville Boys 
Cannot Sat Sl 
By Robert P. Tristram Coffin 


Try hard and handsome as he will, 
A little boy cannot sit still, 

The harder that he tries and tries, 
The more upheavals in him rise; 
He may have roses for a face, 

But there are thorns along his base. 
He has a body full of twitches 

And earthquake temblors in his 


He sits with May month in his eyes, 


As Ruth or as the Twenty-third 


But Job is in the small boys’ hips, 
Their pants heave with the Apocalypse. 


I think it is because boys can 

Never control the yeast of man 
Working in them: they must rise 

Like biscuits or like blueberry pies; 
They cannot ever keep from showing 
How fast and fiercely they are 


KKK KX ee 


October, 1949 


chased in a bookstore for $5 by one of the 
students. 

In these books and pamphlets, so much 
emphasis is placed on the abnormal and 
highly erotic in sex that the inexperienced 
teen-ager comes to think of that as the norm 


Overstimulated or repelled by this “ informa 


tion,” the teen-ager forms attitudes which 
may easily damage his thinking and block his 
normal progression toward healthy sexual 
maturity. 


SEVERAL teen-agers interviewed explained 
that they had bought “old medicine books”’ 
at secondhand bookstores for as little as 
25 cents or had read “an old marriage 
book we’ve had round the house for years’ 
in an attempt to get complete and ac- 
curate information. In one of these books 
alone, published in 1872, the following are 
just three examples of the endless misinfor- 
mation which appeared on its pages: 

“No young man, 
strong in his faith, 
would commit such a 
deed [masturbation]. 
It will end only in 
blindness and insan- 
ity, will sap his 
strength and leave 
him an accumulation 
of diseases which ter- 
minate only in 
death.” 

“During men- 
struation Nature de- 
mands an extra 
amount of sleep and a 
girl should be allowed 
to stay out of school 
from one to three 
days as the case may 
be. .. . At the end of 
eight days she should 
again enjoy health.” 

“In marriage, a 
husband and wife 
may enjoy marital 
privileges in the days 
directly between the 
menstrual period 
without danger of 
conception.” 

It was from ‘“‘anold 
medicine book, read 
as a child,” that one 
girl felt she had got an 
acute fear of child- 
birth, still with her as 
a high-school senior. 
“T remember reading 
about tying sheets to 
the bedposts to hold 
onto and all the 
towels and cloths that were needed, and I 
could never get it out of my mind.” 

Among the teen-agers interviewed, many 
had read up-to-date and scientifically accu- 
rate books to find sex information. Several 
had gone from “sex facts’? books to Freud 
and Doctor Kinsey; many had ordered au- 
thoritative books on sex by mail “sent to my 
friend’s house because her parents are more 
understanding than mine.” Though the in- 
formation in such books may be accurate and 
well presented, it often comes, to an unpre- 
pared teen-ager, as a shock. One girl, who ex- 
plained, “just about all I knew was that there 
were two sexes,’’ sent for a book and was “‘so 
surprised I couldn’t believe it. I just didn’t 
think I could ever grow up to go through 
anything like that.”’ In a small private acad- 
emy, a 17-year-old boy was given a sex book 
in study hall by one of the students, and the 
boy became so ill he had to leave the room. 

And what do teen-agers themselves think 
about the way they get their sex education? 
Opinion is almost directly divided between 
those who have had their education from 
their parents and those who have not. Al- 
most invariably, those who feel free to dis- 
cuss sex with their parents preface their re- 
marks with such comments as: “I’m really 
lucky about my parents.” . . . “My mother 
and dad are swell about things like that.” 
“We have a wide-open house, always have.” 

Among teen-agers whose parents have either 
showed marked disapproval of sex education 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


or ignored it completely, the comments range 
from bitterness to a kind of tolerant sympa- 
thy. One girl said, “‘I wouldn’t expect any- 
thing else from my mother—she’s never had 
a happy marriage and doesn’t know much 
about sex herself.”’ Others say with finality, 
‘My mother and dad are just funny, that’s 
all”; or “Ours just isn’t that kind of house... 
we just don’t do much talking about personal 
things.” 

A 17-year-old, whose mother begged her 
to tell her 13-year-old sister “the facts of 
life” before the child left for summer camp, 
said with sympathy, ‘My mother never grew 
up. She knows I know all about sex but she 
can’t make herself talk about it to anyone.” 

Several teen-agers interviewed stressed one 
outstanding and important point: a good sex 
education can give a teen-ager a feeling of 
confidence and security, especially among 
people his own age. The reasons given for 
this were that “A girl who is naive may get 
away with it fora while; afterward she has to 
wise up or just be considered a deadhead. 
With a boy it’s worse. A fellow who doesn’t 
know the score is just nothing. He’s consid- 
ered a fancy pants, a mother’s boy or maybe 
even worse. But it makes you feel relaxed 
and sure of yourself to know what life is all 
about.” 


How do teen-agers feel sex education 
should be taught? Chiefly in the home— 
“told to you directly the first time you ask a 
question, using all the right words and giving 
the whole answer.”’.. . “Little by little, when 
the child is small, so it will seep in—not in one 
‘big talk’ when the kid is thirteen and will 
take it asa shock.’’.. . “Tell the child every- 
thing when it asks, but don’t wait for it to 
come to you. Give it all the details all over 
again when it’s about thirteen and then stay 
friendly for questions after that.’ 

Though Oregon is the only one of the forty- 
eight states in which sex education is gen- 
erally taught as part of health education, most 
of the teen-agers questioned across the nation 
felt sex education should be worked into every 
regular school program, “starting in first- 
year junior high school with a hygiene pro- 
gram and going on from there.’’... ““Weneed 
sex Classes that will tell us the whole story— 
not just a course in how to diaper a baby when 
half the class is still mixed up about where 
the baby comes from.” . . . “I’d like to learn 
from regular textbooks and films—mixed or 
separate classes, I wouldn’t care, just so the 
course was accurate, with no hiding things, 
and no cause for snickering and giggling.” 

Last summer, a group of teen-age “boy 
governors” representing Hi-Y clubs across 
the nation, presented a bill advocating sex 
education in all public schools at a Y.M.C.A. 
National Council in Washington. The group 
stressed that ‘‘sex education is one of the 
most important things that can be done 
for teen-agers.”’ The following bill, typical of 
nine bills dealing specifically with sex educa- 
tion, and similar to the one presented in 
Washington, was drawn up by a Hi-Y Club 
in California: 


PREAMBLE 

In order that the present generation and fu- 
ture generations may carry out their purpose in 
life unhampered by superstition and lack of 
knowledge of the physical and ethical aspects of 
sex, there shall be taught a moral code of con- 
duct based on scientific fact and spiritual values 
in our public schools. 

The people of the State of California do enact 
as follows: 

Section 1. That in the regular curricula in our 
public-school system some instruction be aug- 
mented and some be introduced to teach fam- 
ily relations, including sex education and the 
essentials of good homemaking. There shall be 
included in the curricula of the public schools 
such instruction in family life as shall be pre- 
scribed by the State Department of Education. 
Any special courses on family relations shall be 
elective. 


“To me it all seems so simple I don’t un- 
derstand the fuss,” commented one high- 
school senior. ‘‘Kids should be told about 
sex because they’re supposed to be growing 
up. And nobody can be really grown up until 
he knows just exactly what life is all about.” 

THE END 


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238 . 


To start with, these kitchens were 
exactly alike. The problems and 


the solutions were as different as 





the two girls and their two new kitchens. 


By GLADYS TABER 


KITCHEN 
10'x10' 


L.A 





Jo mothers two boys. Danny celebrates third birthday. 





58 
s 





Bench, table and shelves give Jo storage and place to eat. 









Soterertnemanensinenennnst! 


In both kitchens, range, two-bowl sink and 
refrigerator were lined up along one wall. 
One high wall cabinet and space under sink 
only storage for supplies and utensils. Open 
corner cupboard for china. Not a drawer in 
= the place. The sliding top of the sink was the 
— only work space. To make matters worse, 
the only opening into the heater room un- 
der the stairway to the expansion attic was 
through a removable panel which took up 
most of one wall. Access for servicing and 
meter reading was essential. But if the * 
opening could have been planned else- 
where, perhaps in hall to bedrooms, a bet- 
ter kitchen would have been possible. (Sery- 
icing is infrequent; kitchen work is daily.) 





yoy 


Space for automatic washer made by moving access panel; counter with cupboards above connects sink and range. 


Julie needed space 


Lift-up counter 



















After the panel problem was solved and Jo’s 
washer was placed, each girl decided what 
she wanted most. Now the kitchens are un- 
cluttered and conyenient to work in; gay 
and hospitable for eating and entertaining. 
Each girl has the colors she likes best. The 
cost for special services was under $175 for 
each. Of this, the plumber got $25.93 for 
connecting Jo’s washer and moving the 
range; the electrician $45 for new outlets 
and lights. The counters cost about $40, 
and unfinished wood cabinets around $60 for 
Jo and $80 for Julie. Paint, lumber, fabrics 
were extra, but the rest of the job was 
one for handy husbands and helpful wives. 


Both girls moved in- 
to kitchens like this. 
Both faced problems. 












1 OC) 
Dall 
! OO et 
! RANGE SINK TUB > 
i -REFR 
ACCESS ial 
I PANEL bo) 
ENTRY | 
KITCHEN el 
10x!O 
CORNER 


CUPBOARD 








PHOTOS BY STUART-STEPHENSON 


OWS of little new houses in a development stand out against a dazzling blue sky. 
Most of them have no lawns yet. But here, in two of these little frame houses, live 
Julie and Jo, two sisters-in-law, young and gay and hard-working, and very much 
concerned with the adventure of homemaking. Jo and her G. I. husband live down 
the street and around the corner from Julie, but the girls often cut across lots. 
“There are two hundred and eighty-five houses in this development,” they 
wrote to the JourNaL, “and ‘there is a similar development on 
see there are a lot of women worrying about their kitchens. 
We must use them as both dining room and kitchen, and part of the kitchen can 
be seen from the living room. Although they are fairly good-sized, ten feet by ten 
feet, there is so little cupboard and work space that they are very inconvenient. 
We feel that most people in these developments are in the same situation as we 
are; they have one or two children and limited budgets.” And Jo added, “Of course, 


Long Island. So you 
Can you help us? 


space. She uses Jo’s washer. 


240 


Actually costs less than mere laundering of 
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Roylie place mats at every meal and 
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I said, ‘but how to match the paint colors?’ Then I read about wonderful Kyanize 
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advertisement, I went to the Kyanize dealer and asked for @ 
a free Color Recipe packet. In it were easy directions 
for mixing Kyanize paints to match the paint colors 
of the various rooms featured in practically all the 
current month’s magazines. (And there are new 
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© 1949 Boston Varnish Company 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Cat SAVE 
on EVERY 


we are all very proud of owning our brand- 
new homes, and since our chil lren are small, 
we spend most of our time in them and would 
like to make them as livable as we can. Our 
bright young husbands are very handy and 
as enthusiastic as we are, so you can include 
them in the list of available material.” 

This was a problem that had exciting pos- 
sibilities! The two kitchens were alike, but 
they needed to be made individual to suit 
the different needs of the two girls. And 
they needed to be fixed for good living ona 
limited budget. 

Jo had added an automatic washer to her 
equipment, needed for doing the laundry for 
the three- and one-year-old sons. Julie could 
bring her washing over and pay twenty-five 
cents a week, which was a nice arrangement 
except there was no good place to put the 
washer. To make space for it by the sink, Jo 
had tried shoving the refrigerator over next 
to the opening to the living room, but the 
refrigerator door opened the wrong way and 
this arrangement left the kitchen even more 
crowded. 

Bill and Jo had worked some minor mira- 
cles in their little house. They had prowled 
through antique shops, gone to auctions and 
picked up a few pieces of furniture to do over 
themselves. Jo painted Peter Hunt designs on 
the boys’ bureaus and made an old kitchen 
chair a thing of charm. Bill had made a rack 
to hang pots and pans on the back of the 
problem panel which took up most of one 
wall. 

Bill had stained the pine-paneled kitchen 
wall, and this was a good beginning, for little 
paw marks are not fatal, and the soft pine 
color set the theme for a gay and homey 
kitchen. Jo had chosen attractive pottery 
with fruit and flower de- 


October, 1949 


double, so the top half may be drawn to let in 
air and light while the bottom half is closed 
for privacy. Jo said, ““Oh, those ruffled or- 
gandy curtains that I had—I was washing 
them eternally!” 

Bench pads and stool covers of solid cor 
color were made with zippered fastenings 
for easy washing, just in case Danny spills 
ice cream or Billy has an adventure with 
his egg. 


Tiere was enough leftover curtain material 
for a frilled pinafore for Jo, so when big Bill 
comes home at night Jo can have supper on 
the table and still be fresh as a buttercup. And 
as they eat, light falls softly from the pin-up 
lamp which has a base made of a plate match- 
ing the pottery dishes. 

Nobody would believe that drab little 
kitchen could, blossom into such perfection— 
“The most wonderful kitchen in the world,”’ 
says Jo—and on a modest budget. 

Homemade counter tops would have been 
cheaper. But, to provide durable work sur- 
face and to match the sink top, they were 
made of high-pressure plastic, which means 
a permanent installation by expert counter 
men. Bill and Jo felt the cost of this was 
worth adding, although Bill was willing to 
cope with the fitting problem if necessary. 

When I saw Jo’s kitchen, I just knew noth- 
ing could be more charming, nor more prac- 
tical. And Jo said she liked it best too. “But 
wait till you see Julie’s,”’ she said; “it’s next 
best to mine!” 

So we went around the corner to Juliec’s 
house. Here was the same kitchen, but as dif- 
ferent as marigolds and roses. 

In Julie’s kitchen, the heater panel could 
not be changed, since the equipment was in- 

stalled differently. Other- 


signs. She liked old- meme §=8=§©6wise the basic room was 

fashioned fabrics and cop- P the same, without the 

per and she needed as Self-abnegation, that rare washing machine. 
virtue, that good men 


many things as possible 
hanging within reach, since 
taking care of the two 
healthy little boys was a 
busy life. 

Fortunately, in Jo’s kitchen, although not 
in Julie’s, the pipes were so placed that the 
panel to the heater room could be sealed off 
and a new opening made from the living 
room. This made it possible to realign the 
equipment: washer in the corner to the left of 
the sink, refrigerator to the right—with the 
door opening toward the sink counter. By 
moving the range to the wall nearest the liv- 
ing room, there was room for a cabinet beside 
it, and above it a place for pots and pans to 
hang. 

The old wall cabinet was moved, making 
room for another wall cabinet and three open 
shelves, with a fluorescent light fixturé con- 
cealed behind the apron of the long shelf. 
Plenty of space now for supplies and cooking 
utensils and extra dishes. The cabinets were 
unpainted wood—the kind a handy husband 
could install and paint. 

The corner cupboard took up more kitchen 
space than it should and gave little storage 
room. It was moved into the boys’ room 
as a place for toys. A grouping of table, stools 
and bench with shelves above went in that 
corner. Drawers under the bench for toys and 
in the table for silver and linens helped solve 
part of the storage problem. All these were 
stained and waxed. Now there was really 
room enough for the small fry and the grown- 
ups to eat comfortably, and room enough to 
set out a buffet for a party when the neighbors 
come to supper. 


tice. 


Tue kitchen walls were painted buttercup 
yellow, and the cabinets done to match. The 
sunny yellow made the room seem larger 
and lighter—and, incidentally, made a perfect 
background for the storybook youngsters and 
for Jo with her red-gold hair and gray-blue 
eyes. 

Soft blue-green for the ceiling, and coral 
plastic counter tops to match the sink top 
added just the right drama in color. The floor 
fitted in nicely, for it was plastic tile in deep 
brown flecked with white and coral. 

A washable cotton fabric in a pattern as 
quaint as grandmother’s challis was chosen 


‘for the curtains, and they were made to hang 


preach and good women prac- 


Julie and Eddie have 
not been married so long, | 
and Julie still works parf® 
time in a nearby city. So 
her housekeeping problems 
are different. Julie had set up a row of orange 
crates to keep her lovely new wedding pres- 
ents in. Her house had modern furniture in- 
stead of refinished antiques, and she chose 
dramatic cool green draperies. Julie likes 
cooler colors and she wanted an uncluttered 
look. 

So Julie’s kitchen was planned to fit, and, 
incidentally, to set off her beautiful red hair 
and shining hazel eyes. 

A cabinet was set next to the sink where 
the washer is in Jo’s house, and a clever re- 
movable section of the work counter makes it 
possible to use the space and still open the 
panel to attend to the heater when neces- 
sary. Another wall cabinet was added over 
the sink and counter, with shelves and con- 
cealed lighting below. The corner cupboard 
was left in its place with the base closed in for 
storage. : 

Julie bought Jo’s drop-leaf table, painted it 
white, and two unfinished ladder-back chairs 
were added. 

Julie had a set of wedding-gift china in a 
clear white with little rosebuds sprinkled on 
it, and this was chosen as a theme for the 
decoration of the kitchen. The white table 
and chairs, woodwork and blinds look cool 
and charming, and the rosebud color is re- 
peated in the lining of the corner cupboard 
and the counter tops. 

The tile flooring in Julie’s kitchen was 
black and white, and added to the effect. The 
walls and wall cabinets were painted a lovely 
turquoise, and a rich green was used for the 
ceiling as a contrast. A green fabric with a 
bright floral pattern was chosen for window 
and door flounces and chair seats, with 
enough of the material left to make an apg 
for Julie. : 

“And I like mine best,’’ said Julie, “‘but 
Jo’s is next best!” 

As I drove away, the two girls were stand- 
ing in the clear, bright sun waving good-by, 
and the two small boys waved too. What a 
lot of happy living is going to go on in those 
two little houses, I thought! And what a big 
difference better-planned kitchens would 
make in all those houses, THE END 


—O, W. HOLMES. 





ss 


<a. 


. for a 
. Lueky you, with a kitchen big enough for a little living 
ai X : table set was made for you! The table is tidily topped with Daystrom’s own plastic, 
| PALAC E =n a, J Zz, E made for hard wear and easy care. It’s wonderful how it shrugs off stains, scratches 
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are richly upholstered in Duran. All Daystrom furniture is superbly designed in 


e 
‘ Sy Bio kitehen— sleek, shining chrome, electroplated on sturdy steel. Table, 4 chairs, about $159.50*. 


Step-stool, about $9.95*. 


.. because this hospi- 





ora 


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Here’s a cheerful nook with a livable look, for folks 
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the Duran breezily bright. At furniture and department stores 
throughout U.S. and Canada, marked ‘““Daystrom.” Table, with 4 
chairs, $104.50*. Other Daystrom sets from $49.95* to $159.50*. 


* Slightly higher in West and South. Subject to change without notice. 


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Daystrom Corporation, Olean, N.Y. Daystrom Pacific Corporation, Pasadena, Calif. 


AN ASSOCIATE 


242 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


BRIDE’S BUDGET 
1I-ROOM APARTMENT 


(Continued from Page 232) 


Two ample, comfortable armchairs for 
reading or lounging were difficult to find 
within our allotted budget. But we at last dis- 
covered in a department store these well-built 
ones equally suitable for a traditional or a 
contemporary interior. Each had two loose 
cushions, a spring seat and a hardwood frame 
for $49.95, a rock-bottom price that also in- 
cluded the cost of covering in our fabric. A 
violet-purple felt was selected, which wears 
like iron, is two yards wide and costs only 
$3.74 a yard—practical qualities that belied 
its unusual color, though even this was dark 
enough to be utilitarian. 

Last among the basic items came two 
chests for storage, a large rug, a table large 
enough to eat on, and two pull-up chairs. The 
unfinished chests were $49.95 apiece, but of 
hardwood throughout, sturdily constructed 
and with dovetailed drawers. Large rugs are 
not inexpensive, and we wanted a good one. 
This excellent 9’x12’ East Indian all-wool 
“needlepoint” was purchased in a depart- 
ment store for $98.50 in colors that echoed 
the violet of the armchairs and the blue of 
the walls. The black-lacquered rush-seated 
side chairs of hardwood are Italian imports 
and cost only $15 each. 

We found in the cellar of a Bowery second- 
hand shop an iron table base for $15, a relic 
of an ice-cream parlor. The wood top came 
from another secondhand shop for $2.50. The 
two coffee tables were new and cost $19 
apiece. Before painting, the legs were sawed 





I shall never permit myself to 
stoop so low as to hate any man. 
—From UP FROM SLAVERY, 

by Booker T. Washington. Copyright 

1901, 1929 by Booker T. Washington, 

reprinted by permission of 

Doubleday & Company, Inc. 


the Seat People 
rade € !” 


The wonderful thing about 
Soft-Weve is its practical 
combination of strength and 
softness! You simply couldn’t 
ask for more perfect bathroom 
tissue for every member of 
the family! 


off three inches to reduce them to a more 
convenient height. One of the black-painted 
iron side tables once served as a sewing- 
machine stand. Its twin was built to match. 
Together they cost $70. If you are lucky you 
might find a matching pair of old ones, which 
would reduce the total cost considerably, for, 
in our case, the made-to-order one cost three 
times as much as the original. 

The two large porcelain-and-gilt lamp bases 
with shades came new from another depart- 
ment store; and considering their impressive 


( 
Ob Soft os st 0 ue L, size and clean lines, they are a bargain at 
$21.50 each. The iron cluster lamps were 


( once the tops of old torchéres, rewired, painted 

— t ouble black and equipped with tall candles. They 
———————— cost $27.50 apiece, with department-store 

paper shades extra at twenty-nine cents each. 

Instead of the mirror over the fireplace, 
you could use a large picture or a group of 
pictures. It is often possible to find a similar 
mirror in a secondhand shop for less than the 
$49.98 we paid for this one with its gold- 
metal-leaf frame. 

Except for the cost of upholstering the arm- 
chairs, the cost of any such work profession- 
ally done was not included in our budget. 
You yourself could cover the day beds, the 
cushions and the bolsters; you could make 
the draperies. The covering of a drum lamp 
shade in vertically striped material is not 
hard to do. It is like a wallpaper job—use li- 
brary paste thinned with water and bind the 
edges with passe partout. The muslin forms 
for the smaller cushions and the bolsters are 
firmly stuffed with cotton (thirty cents). The 
plain glazed chintz for the stitched seat cush- 
ions tied to the side chairs cost $1.87. 

The chests and the walls were painted to 
match. The wall color was carried over doors, 

ae : : . trim, shelves and fireplace molding—a device 

ae 5 ae ; to make the room look larger. Often objec- 

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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


the violet, watermelon pink and the pale 
lemon of the coffee tables. The split reed, 
white-painted, roll window shades, useful 
against hot weather and near neighbors, are 
not included in our budget, but cost $9 apiece. 
The dining table was done in white enamel 
slightly glazed over, when dry, with a gray oil 
paint. The chests and coffee tables were given 
a primer coat, sanded down, all cracks and 
dents filled with putty or plastic wood, and 
then painted with eggshell enamel. Black egg- 
shell enamel also covers the iron side tables. 

Before painting the chests we removed a 
base and substituted four turned legs on each, 
to reduce the total height of the chests for a 
better relation with the day beds. The eight 
legs cost only $2. We supplied the trim oak 
legs for the day beds, as conventional day- 
bed legs are usually clumsy and uninterest- 
ing. The cost for those for the day beds is in- 
cluded in the price quoted. 

Most important, we discovered that a fun- 
damental plan as to the amount and type of 
furniture, the color scheme and over-all cost 
could be followed practically without devia- 
tion by anyone who has the time and pa- 
tience to keep searching among the sort of 
shops available to most. And we were sur- 
prised at the ampleness of our budget. Sub- 
stitutions that will occur to an opportunist 
as she searches, such as a cotton rug instead 
of a wool rug, would reduce expenses still 
more, in fact. 


BUDGET 


2 arm chairs @ $49.95. . $ 99.90 
9 yds. purple felt for 

arm chairs and 

pillows @ $3.74. 
1 pedestal base for 

round table 
dl tablestop! 20 toa. 
2 day beds @ $65.00 . . 
Special day-bed legs 
2 pairs special cush- 

ion forms @ $12.50 
2 unpainted 

chests @ $49.95 . 
2 side tables @ $35.00. . 
2 coffee 

tables @ $19.00. . . 
2 lamps and 

shades @ $21.50 
2 cluster 

lamps @ $27.50. . . 
8 small shades for 

cluster lamps @ .29 . 
45 yds. of ticking for 

curtains, bed 

covers, etc. @ $1.00. 45.00 
lrug . steps 98.50 
Limirrors. eee 49.98 
2 side chairs @ $15.00. . 30.00 
Stuffing for pillows 

and bolsters . . . . 30 
Glazed chintz for seat 

cushions. !. eeu 1.87 


$841.93 


33.66 
15.00 
2.50 
130.00 
2.00 
25.00 


99.90 
70.00 


38.00 
43.00 
55.00 

2.32 





ROSEMARY’S HUSBAND 


(Continued from Page 41) 


There was absolutely nothing wrong with 
the way I was feeling, but I didn’t tell her 
that. I kissed her. I had every intention of 
making it one of those long, satisfying, just- 
married kisses, but after about forty-five 
seconds she wriggled free. 

“‘Bacon’ll burn,” she informed me. “Now 
you have fifteen minutes, Chuck. Plenty of 
time if you get up right away.” 

The door closed. And suddenly I felt over- 
whelmingly sorry for those unfortunate men 
who didn’t have small, pretty, capable wives 
to fix them a nice, big breakfast. 

And whether it was the bacon and eggs or 
simply marriage, I did feel pretty good all 
morning. I made one or two decisions that 
pleased me very much, and also pleased the 
boss—the boss being Matthew Fenwick, 

(Continued on Page 245) 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL October, 1949 


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(Continued from Page 243) 
who’s about as amiable a lawyer as you'll be 
likely to meet. 

“Very nice,’”’ he beamed, “‘very nice work, 
Chuck. Your wife arrived safely? Good. 
We’re looking forward to meeting her. Hope 
you'll bring her over to dinner soon. Yes, 
well, about the Smith case.” 

I wasn’t so sure, myself, that Rosemary 
and Matt’s wife would get along too well. 
Genevieve Fenwick is a big, tweedy woman 
who wields a great deal of power in Hassock 
and is jealous of every bit of it. She particu- 
larly doesn’t like young wives, newcomers to 
Hassock, who may turn out to be her rivals, 
and she has her own deadly but socially ac- 
ceptable ways of putting them in their place. 
And I didn’t know how Rosemary would take 
it. I could see her head tilt up, her lower lip 
stick out as she countered a remark of doubt- 
ful kindness with a little doubtful kindness of 
her own. Which would leave my job where? 

I turned my key in the lock. And the word 
is “‘swooned.” There were fresh flowers in 
wedding-present vases. Glasses for two were 
gleaming on a silver tray. The table was set 
for dinner with our best china and starter-set 
sterling, and a centerpiece of fresh fruit 
started my gastric juices 
humming. And Rosemary, 
oh, Rosemary, in a coral 
housecoat with the silliest 
little lace apron simply 
pointing up her wisp waist. 

“Oh, darling,” I said, 
“you shouldn’t have gone 
to all this trouble.” 

Rosemary looked reproachful. “It’s so 
much more gracious to use all our nice things 
regularly,”’ she reproved me. 

The words were on my tongue: Darling, 
with you there, a barn would be gracious. But 
it didn’t seem to be the thing she wanted to 
hear, so I didn’t say it. 

I forget what we ate, but it tasted heav- 
enly, and at the end of the meal Rosemary 
announced that it had cost something like 
ninety-two cents. 

“Well within our budget,” she declared 
proudly. 

I jumped. ‘‘Budget? Do we have a bud- 
get?” 

“We most certainly do. I figured it all out 
this afternoon. Rent, telephone, food, every- 
thing. I even worked it out to include Savings 
Bonds.” 

I revised a few of my ideas. I had been un- 
der the impression that Rosemary considered 
money useful for buying dizzy hats and im- 
ported perfume, yet here she was talking 
about rent and food bills. 

“Here,” I said, ‘‘give me an apron and I'll 
do the dishes.” 


“Indeed you will mot,” my wife said firmly.’ 


“T should hope I am capable of washing a 
few plates after you've had a hard day at the 
office.”” 

“Oh, it wasn’t so h——’’ I began, and 
took a look at her face. Very well. If the love 
of my life liked to think of me as a toilworn 
character who must be handled with kid 
gloves, that was-all right with me. “Listen,” 
I said. ‘‘Darling, I do love you, you know, 
and I want you to be happy. I don’t want 
you wearing yourself out with too many 
chores or ——” 


5 You need 
that anyone who depends 
upon happiness is happy. 


. for two. No wifely welcome. Instead, there on 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Rosemary flung her arm around me. “Oh 
Chuck,” she breathed, ‘‘I love the chores. I 
love you. I love Hassock. I was just tickled 
to death to give up my job and all I want 
is to be a good wife to you for always.” 

I said, “Oh, sweetheart,” and held her 
close. 

“Dishes,” said Rosemary, and vanished 
into the kitchen. 


In three weeks I had put on five pounds 
and had never felt better in my life. When we 
were married, I had no idea that Rosemary 
could cook and, frankly, nothing could have 
mattered less, but it turned out to be pretty 
nice that she could. And after four days of 
assuring me that I’d found the most attrac- 
tive three rooms in the world, Rosemary 
pitched in and did the whole place over. 
Chirpy decals sprouted on the kitchen walls, 
the insides of closets blossomed with flowery 
wallpaper, she even painted the foyer a daz- 
zling chartreuse. She wheedled the local 
carpenter, a notoriously crusty individual, 
into building us some bookshelves and she 
made the whole place look twice as big with 
ten dollars’ worth of plate glass. Man, I 
told myself, this is really living. 

Really living for me. 
But what about Rose- 
mary? I was afraid she’d 
get lonely, home by her- 
self all day. Well, meet- 
ing the Fenwicks would 
at least get her into the 
social whirl, if she didn’t 
start out by treading on 
too many of Genevieve’s tender preroga- 
tives. I came to with a start. It was five 
after five and for half an hour I’d been doo- 
dling on my desk pad, worrying. I put on 
my hat and went home. 

No gleaming glass and silver. No glasses 


never believe 


—SENECA. 


the sofa, sat Rosemary and Genevieve Fen- 
wick, sipping tea out of our best American 
Limoges. 

Genevieve gave a small scream. ‘‘My dear, 
here’s Chuck and I must fly! Now, Rose- 
mary, don’t forget. Two-thirty on Thurs- 
day.” She murmured something to me and 
vanished in a swirl of expensive tweed. 

“What did she say?” I asked Rosemary. 

Rosemary smiled smugly. “I think she 
said what a dear little wife you have.” 

I gaped. ‘‘ What on earth would make her 
say a thing like that?” 

Rosemary flicked imaginary dust off the 
coffee table. She said, ‘‘It might be because 
I recognized her tweeds as English. Or be- 
cause I told her I’d heard what beautiful 
gladioli she grows. Or because I mentioned 
that Great-aunt Julia is married to the 
former ambassador to Yugoslavia.” 

“Rosemary!” I said, shocked. “You 
haven’t seen Aunt Julia in fifteen years.” 

“Aha,” said my wife. “I know that and 
you know that, but does Genevieve have to 
know it? Besides, Aunt Julia sent us a wed- 
ding present.” 

“A vase,” I pointed out. “And you said 
it looked like an urn for the dear departed’s 
ashes.” 

Rosemary looked woeful. “I only wanted 
her to approve of me, and I knew she’d 
approve of Aunt Julia.” 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Undeniable. ‘‘What’s this about two- 
thirty on Thursday?” I asked. 

“I’m going to the Garden Club,” said 
Rosemary. 

I winced. If my bride had once watered 
some ivy that, I was sure, was the nearest 
she had ever come to Mother Nature. I said, 
“Tt’s wonderful of you to want my boss’s 
wife to like you, but you don’t have to go to 
such lengths as joining the Garden Club.” 

“But, darling,’ Rosemary said, “I want to 
join these things. I want to do all the things 
married women do in Hassock, I want to be a 
credit to you, and for us to be happy and 
successful.” 


We had dinner with the Fenwicks and 
some of their friends at the country club and 
Rosemary had a wonderful time. I didn’t 
have the heart, before leaving, to tell her 
that I didn’t think she looked as nice as 
usual; she was wearing an old blue dress with 
a let-down hemline that I’ve never liked 
much. And then Genevieve, very pre- 
Raphaelite in purple velvet, came over and 
sat beside me. She said, ‘‘ Your wife looks 
charming tonight; so sweet and simple.’ 
Sweet and simple? Rosemary? I felt like 
saying, But you, dear Genevieve, have never 
seen her at El Morocco in black taffeta and a 
hat with sea-green plumes. And then my mind 
went on and finished the sentence: And you 
wouldn't like it if you 
did. Which is why she’s 
wearing —— Sweet and 
simple, h’m? 

Next morning Matt 
Fenwick stopped in my 
office. He clapped his 
hand on my shoulder. 
“Very fine, meeting 
Rosemary last night. 
Charming girl. Per- 
fectly charming. Oh, 
and Chuck. We think 
that youand Rosemary 
should join the Coun- 
try Club. Absolutely no 
sense your not being 
members. I’ll put you 
up at the next meeting 
and I’m sure you can 
consider yourselves good as in. Charming 
girl, your wife.” He slapped my shoulder 
chummily and wandered off. 

That night I told Rosemary. She said, “I 
know. Genevieve mentioned it to me at the 
Civic Club. Won’t that be nice?” 

I said, ‘“‘Look here, darling, have you 
thought that the club dues are probably 
pretty hefty? I mean, our budget isn’t that 
elastic.” 

Rosemary’s eyes twinkled. ‘‘I thought of 
that. I told Genevieve. I said I was so sorry, 
but with the high cost of living, well, I really 
didn’t see how we could manage it.” 

“And what did Genevieve say?” 

“‘Genevieve,’’ Rosemary announced, “said 
that it was perfectly ridiculous and that she 
would speak to Matt about your salary.” 


I need to cry!’ 


I snort out of my chair, thereby overturning 
a dish of string beans, nattily prepared with 
French dressing and nutmeg. In the resulting 
confusion, I entirely forgot what I had been 
going to say and didn’t remember until we 
were in bed. Rosemary, I had been going to 
say, there are some things no wife should do, 
and wheedling round her husband’s employer's 
wife for a raise is one of them. 

“Rosemary,” I began. 

From the other side of the bed came faint, 
restful sounds of deep breathing. I turned 
over and went to sleep. And I forgot about 
the whole thing for three days, until Matt 
called me into his office and told me the de- 
tails of a substantial raise, effective imme- 
diately. 

“You’ve put in some good work lately,” 
he told me. And then, ‘Besides, you’re mar- 
ried now. Have to keep that charming wife 
of yours in pretties, don’t you, h’m? Why 
don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?”’ 
he went on. ‘“Take Rosemary to a movie.” 

Of course it was a nice idea. But I couldn’t 
help feeling that I’d have liked it better if 
he’d said, ‘‘Chuck, I absolutely have to have 
your opinion on the Curzon case.” 


TRE STS 
With the Children 


A tiny lassie was given a nickel to 
buy candy with. Soon after she 
fussed and her mother threatened 
to take the nickel away. Later our 
small friend handed her mommy 
the nickel and said, ‘‘Here, mommy, 


**When you are six years old you 
go to school all day long. You 
learn to read and to write and you 
are so big you should be good most 
all the time. I am glad it takes a 
long time to grow to be six.”’ 

—KATHRYN COFFEY GLENNON. 


October, 1949 


I couldn’t find my key and rang the bell. A 
totally strange girl opened the door. “Oh,” 
she said, with disinterest, “‘I thought you 
were Alice Ledworth. Rosemary, it seems to 
be your husband.” 

Rosemary emerged from the kitchen. 
“‘Good heavens,” she said. ‘‘What are you 
doing here?” 

The warmth of my reception left me 
breathless. I said, ‘‘ Well, I’ve got the after- 
noon off and ——” 

“Good,” my wife said. “I’ve got the girls 
coming to tea and you can pass the cake. 
Much nicer to have a man do it.” 

She sounded exactly like my Aunt Agatha, 
who thinks that men were created to open 
doors and to walk on the curb side of her. 
Had the strange girl not been there, I would 
have said so. 


Rosemary introduced us. Joanne Armi- 
tage was one of those ethereal blondes with 
straight, baby-fine hair and dreamy eyes. 
“How do you do?” she said, obviously not 
caring in the least how I did, or what, or 
when. 

The doorbell rang. ‘‘Oh, that’ll be Alice, do 
let her in, Joanne,’’ Rosemary said and, with 
much significant fluttering of the eyelids, 
lured me into the bedroom. ‘‘Oh, Chuck, I’m 
so sorry,” she said, ‘‘but these girls all belong 
to the Hospital League and I think they’re 
going to ask me to be 
a member.” 

“Ts that a good 
thing?” I asked. 

“Chuck,” my wife 
said plaintively, ‘‘don’t 
you want me to have 
friends and be popular 
in this town?” 

“Well, of course I 
do.” 

“Besides, I’m_ sort 
of doing it for you. I 
mean, if people get to 
know me, they'll get to 
know you too.” 

That was something 
that hadn’t even oc- 
curred to me. And yet 
it was undoubtedly 
true. True but terrifying. Implications began 
to flood in on me. 

“T love you, darling,’’ Rosemary mur- 
mured. 

“And I love you,” I said, forgetting all 
about Joanne and Alice in the living room. 

“And you will pass the cakes, won’t you?” 
Rosemary said, eluding me witha little fancy 
footwork. 

I passed the cakes. I passed what seemed 
like several hundred cups of tea to seven 
attractive young women. And did anybody 
take any notice of me? Well, yes. One un- 
usually pretty redhead did say, ‘‘Oh, Chuck, 
we're all so crazy about Rosemary. Isn’t it 
wonderful how her experience on that maga- 
zine has taught her so much about being a 
homemaker?” Apart from that, everybody 
was much too busy talking to Rosemary. 
About hats? About fashion? On the contrary : 
about home freezers. Since I was sure I 
wasn’t going to be missed, I took myself out 
for some mythical cigarettes. 

When I got back, Rosemary, looking 
rather tired, was doing the dishes. “Hullo,” 
she said. ‘‘They stayed hours.” 

I brightened. ‘“You mean you wanted 
them to leave?” 

She stared at me. ‘“‘Of course not. I was 
having a lovely time.” 

“That,” I said, “is what I thought.” All 
of a sudden I wanted to take her in my arms. 
I wanted to hold her close for a long time, 
and to blazes with the dishes. I said, ‘““Can 
I help you with dinner tonight? You know I 
used to enjoy pottering in the kitchen.” 

She said, ‘‘ Why, Chuck, how sweet of you, 
but I’ve got it all planned. Besides, you must 
be exhausted after passing all those cakes.” 

“Well,” I said, ‘““you must be exhausted 
after cooking them.” 

“But that’s my job,’ Rosemary said 
cheerily. ‘““Yours is winning lawsuits and 
making wills and what not.” 

“And never the twain shall meet,’’ I said 
gloomily. The three feet between us suddenly 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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go to a movie after dinner and I could hold 
your hand in the back row of the balcony?” 
I ventured. : 

Rosemary was rinsing china. “‘Oh, Chuck, 
I’m so sorry, but I have to write my address 
for the Civic Club: ‘Is a World Police Force 
the Answer to Our Problem?’”’ 

I said, “I very much doubt it,”’ and went 
into the living room. 


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up an acid spinster’s equally acid will, when 
the telephone rang. I told the strange voice 
that yes, I was Charles Arden, and it went 
on, “ Well, I’m Mrs. Holliday, your next-door 
neighbor, and I think you should come home 
at once. Your wife is ill.” 

It took me less than five minutes to run 


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all the way, and at the door I cannoned into 
a small, stocky man whom I recognized as 
the local doctor, a distinctly peppery type. 

“How is she?” I gasped. 

He looked at me as if I had just crawled 
out from under an old, decaying tree stump. 
““She’s a very tired young woman,” he said. 

“Doctor,” I said, ‘please. What exactly is 
the matter with my wife?” 


Awp then he exploded. I wouldn’t have 
been at all surprised to see his little gray 
mustache shoot off into space with the 
vehemence of his rage. ‘* You’re the matter 
with her,” he bellowed. ‘“‘ Young husbands! 
All alike! Bah! Young man,” he said, ““have 
you any idea how hard your wife works?”’ 

“Well, yes, of course I have, but ——” 

“You ought to try it,’’ he roared. ‘Spend 
one day, just one day, doing what she does. 
Cooking, cleaning, washing, mending, mar- 
keting. Andif I know anything about women, 
which I do, countless other things. Most of it 
heavy work, hard on a girl not accustomed 
tonite 

“T know,” I said, “but ——’” 

The mustache quivered ominously. “Mr. 
Arden, your wife is suffering from overwork. 
She’s been trying to do far too much. And I 
warn you, yes sir, I warn you, that you’ve 
got to change your ways. Help her. Appreci- 
ate her. Give her a hand with the chores.’’ He 
growled and stomped off down the hall, mut- 
tering something that sounded suspiciously 
like, ‘‘Thoughtless young fool.” 

I felt like a wife beater. And yet, in a way, 
I was almost relieved. Now I could pitch in 
and help her. Now she’d have to realize that 
it wouldn’t kill me to do a few dishes, help 
out with the marketing. Oh, Rosemary, 1 
thought, this ts my first real chance to take care 
of you. 

I opened the door. And there, slap-bang 
in the middle of the living room and knitting 
tranquilly, sat a woman whom I correctly 
placed as Mrs. Holliday. 

““Sh-h-h,” she said. 

“Where is she? Where’s Rosemary?” 

“In bed where she should be. Sleeping like 
a baby. The poor wee lamb,” she added, with 
a baleful glance in my direction. 


And that is how it was. Relays of motherly 
souls appeared to take charge of my home. 
If Mrs. Holliday didn’t slip over with an 
extra pie she just happened to have baked, it 
was somebody else with a batch of cookies or 
a jar of calf’s-foot jelly. Even Genevieve 
turned up with some turtle soup and a book 
on the care and cultivation of house plants. 
And I was invited out to dinner every 
night—“‘just so Rosemary won’t worry 
about not being able to cook for you.’ Fi- 
nally, in desperation, I sent for her mother. 

Rosemary was cool about the idea. 
“Mother,” she said, ‘‘is a perfect angel, as 
you very well know, but I hate to think of 
the wreck she’ll make of my home.” 

And it was true. Martha Welles, who 
paints with the fervent enthusiasm of the 
true amateur, is not up to her daughter’s 
standards of housekeeping. Oh, she could, 
and did, fix plain, appetizing food, but for a 
whole week no herb-scented tripe appeared on 
the table. I watched, with interest, a cobweb 
growing in the foyer. She forgot to water the 
ivy and one of them withered. She put a hot 
plate on the dining table and left a large ring. 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


I think it was this that finally convinced 
Rosemary she had recovered. 

I drove Martha to the station. 

“T wonder,” she remarked, ‘‘what Rose- 
mary is doing.” 

I braked for the lights. “I’ve no idea. Have 
you?” 

She said, ‘‘I have indeed. Rosemary is now 
touching that ivy with her green thumb. She 
is exterminating the cobweb I left in the 
foyer. She is refinishing the dining table and 
whipping up tonight’s dessert out of an egg 
white and a slice of dry bread.” 

I stared at her. ‘What makes you say 
that?” 

“My dear,” said Martha, “fas a fashion 
editor, Rosemary made it a point of honor 
never to use safety pins.” 

“Oh,” I said. Thoughtfully. 

I drove home. Martha was right. The cob- 
web was gone, the ivy was distinctly perky, 
and Rosemary was sitting on the couch read- 
ing Genevieve’s plant book. 

“Chuck,” she said, ‘Genevieve called. 
And I’ve invited them to dinner on Saturday 
night.” 

“You,’’ I said, “are sick. You are to con- 
valesce slowly. You’ve got to take care of 
yourself.” 

“T’ve got to have your boss and his wife 
for dinner,” said Rosemary. “It’s my duty.” 

I sighed. ‘‘Great girl 
for duty, aren’t you?” 

She flung her arms 
around me. ‘‘Oh, 
Chuck, you say the 
sweetest things.” 

For the rest of the 
week, Rosemary really 
went to town. She 
cleaned and waxed un- 
til it was sudden death 
to step on the kitchen 
linoleum. But, after 
all—her | first - formal 
dinner party. I could 
see that it would be 
pretty important to 
her. And, in a way, to 
me too. 

On Saturday after- 
noon she actually sent 
me out for some milk, and among the usual 
hordes saying, “‘Hullo, how’s Rosemary?” 
was a pleasant-faced woman who stopped 
me. 

“You don’t know me, Mr. Arden,” she 
said, ‘‘but I’m Mrs. Lindner and I met your 
wife at the Literary Society. She wanted my 
recipe for grapefruit marmalade and I’ve 
been meaning to run over with it, but my 
daughter’s been ill, so I wondered if you ——” 

When I got home, preparations were going 
ahead like mad. A simple meal, Rosemary 
had said, and I in my innocence had thought 
of hamburgers and ice cream. Now, standing 
in the kitchen, Rosemary ticked off the 
menu. 

“‘Chilled tomato juice with Worcestershire 
sauce and lemon wedges. Shrimp-and-oyster 
casserole with Italian bread and a tossed 
salad. I’ll make the French dressing myself. 
And for dessert, pineapple sherbet with 
whipped cream. Plus lots of good, hot coffee. 
Does that sound all right?” 


pocus,”’ 


ened to “‘hoax.”’ 


““Wonperrut,” I said. And then I remem- 
bered. “I met a Mrs. Lindner on the way 
home. She asked me to give you this.” 

Rosemary scanned the paper. “Oh, yes, 
her marmalade.” 

““Now look,” I said. ‘‘ You’re supposed to 
be taking things easy, remember? When do 
you imagine you’re going to make marma- 
lade?” 

“Oh, I don’t think I’llactually make any,” 
my wife said. 

My eyebrows flew up. ‘But you wanted 
the recipe.” 

“Mrs. Lindner is famous for her mar- 
malade.” 

I said, ‘‘I may be stupid, but if you want 
the recipe, seems to me you’d want to use it.” 

She brushed aside my reasoning. ‘‘Not 
necessarily. Mrs. Lindner loves to lend her 
recipe. It’s the one thing she’s famous for. So 
I borrow it.” 

“Go on,” I said, 


Both the word ‘thoax’”’? and the 

term “‘hocus-pocus’”’ are of re- 
ligious origin! In medieval times, 
the ability to speak a few words of 
Latin was considered a sign of great 
learning. So jugglers and conjurers, 
to impress the ignorant peasants 
before whom they performed, would 
spout any Latin phrases that they 
knew. Most of them could only say 
the opening line of the prayer by 
which priests consecrated the bread 
of the Sacrament, Hoc est corpus 
filii—‘*This is the body of the Son.”’ 
The phrase was corrupted to “‘hocus- 
which in turn was short- 


October, 1949 


“Same way with Mrs. Lopez. She makes 
the best chicken potpie in town. And Mrs. 
Hunt has a special crochet pattern. And—let 
me see—Eliza Noble makes green-tomato 
pickle. So I get them to lend me their recipes 
and then they think how nice I am to ap- 
preciate them. And of course, I do appreciate 
them because they’re all such dears; it’s just 
that I go out of my way to show it. Well, any- 
way, I like them, so they like me. And if they 
like me, they’ll tell their husbands about 
your being a lawyer and you'll be a success in 
no time,’”’ Rosemary said. 


Apo for the first time, I had absolutely no 
doubt about it. Left to myself, I’d have gone 
plodding on, trying to win people’s respect, 
gain their confidence, and so it would go, 
year by year, growing and building. But not 
with Rosemary. In six months, twelve, Rose- 
mary would have skipped nimbly up the lad- 
der of success, each rung a crochet pattern or 
a recipe for chicken potpie. Not content with 
organizing her home and her social life per- 
fectly, she’d organize my career perfectly 
too. And then where’d we be? 

I knew where I’d be. Where I’d been all 
along. In Rosemary’s shadow. And I 
wouldn’t like it. Not one bit. And neither, in 
the end, would Rosemary. Because one day 
she’d wake up and realize that I wasn’t a man 
at all, but just a hus- 
band. Rosemary’s hus- 
band. And she’d hate 
herself for doing that to 
me—and worse, she’d 
hate me for letting her. 

“Oh, Chuck,” she 
breathed, doing won- 
derful things with olive 
oil and vinegar, ‘‘I do 
hope everything will be 
perfect.” 

“Don’t worry, dear,” 
I said grimly. ‘It will 
be.” 

Just as everything 
always would be per- 
fect—except the rela- 
tionship between Rose- 
mary and me. And how 
long would it take her 
to see that if that wasn’t perfect, nothing 
else could be? 

“There,” she said, ‘‘all set. I’ll go and dress 
now. What are you going to do?” 

“‘Fix the drinks.” 

She gave me an approving nod and whisked 
out of the kitchen. Presently she called me. 
“Chuck, will you see if the casserole is be- 
ginning to bubble? It should be, just a little 
bit.” 

The casserole was, in fact, bubbling quite 
heartily. I opened my mouth to tell her so, 
and then closed it with a snap. A delirious 
idea had just hit me with the sound of massed 
bands. 

“Doing fine, just like you said,” I called 
cheerfully, and switched the oven to 550°, as 
hot as it would go. 

For a minute I toyed lovingly with my in- 
spiration. I could turn the refrigerator off, 
thereby sabotaging the sherbet. I could 
spike the French dressing with a dash of 
prune juice. But no; enough’s enough, and I 
had an idea that this might be plenty. If I 
could only make her see that she didn’t have 
to shoulder all the responsibility for our joint 
lives. If I could make her see that it’s no 
crime for a wife to depend on her husband. 

I kept her out of the kitchen for thirty 
minutes. And then I called her. “Rosemary! 
Something seems to be burning here!”’I told 
her. 

She flew in. As she opened the door, a 
cloud of smoke flew out. Just as I had 
planned, the casserole was beyond all rescue. 
My heart ached as I looked at her lovely, 
tragic little face. 

“Oh, Chuck, what’ll I do?” she moaned. 
“What’ll I do?” 

“Don’t worry about it, darling,” I said, 
Soll Ofixett.ce 

“But Chuck, how, what ——” 

“Rosemary,” I said, ‘““have you never 
heard of the way of a man with kidney beans 
in red wine?” 

(Continued on Page 250) 


—WEBB B. GARRISON. 


‘ 


© 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 






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250 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 248) 

“But Chuck, how could it have hap- 
pened?” she wailed. 

The doorbell gave a long, insistent buzz, 
and I didn’t answer that sixty-four-dollar 
question. 

And so, trembling inwardly, I greeted the 
Fenwicks with an apron round my waist and 
a wooden spoon in my hand. 

“Rosemary still has to take things easy,” I 
lied hopefully, “so I ——” 

“Why, Chuck, how thoughtful of you. 
Rosemary, dear, aren’t you lucky to have 
such a thoughtful husband?” Genevieve 
cooed, shedding her mink. 

“Used to do a bit of cooking myself,” 
Matt murmured. Wistfully, I thought. 

““Come on, sir,’”’ I invited. “Always glad of 
some expert advice.” 

And finally we all ended up in the kitchen, 
sipping my superlative drinks and laughing 
immoderately. It was a wonderful evening, 
particularly when Matt said, ‘““My boy, I 
haven’t had such a good time in years.” And 
I almost revised my opinion of Genevieve. 
But I could hardly wait for them to leave. 
Because I wanted Rosemary to say some- 
thing that would make everything all right 
between us. What, for instance? ‘“‘Chuck, I 
love you, and I see now that you are quite ca- 
pable of fifty per cent of the perfection in this 
family.”” Only nobody talks like that, and 
least of all Rosemary. 


October, 1949 


They left, and we turned back from the 
door into a small, acute silence. We looked 
at each other and then, deep down in Rose- 
mary’s eyes, I saw the beginnings of a small 
twinkle that grew and grew with my own 
conviction that she knew exactly what I had 
done. 

And then I could have kicked myself. 
Of course. The oven. I had forgotten to 
switch it off—and she would know that not 
even in her maddest moments would she turn 
it to 550° to cook a casserole. 

“Rosemary,” I began, but she stopped me. 
She yawned. And a more unconvincing imita- 
tion I have never seen. 

“T think,” she said casually, “that I’ll 
leave the dishes until morning.” 

“Oh, really?” I said. Equally casually. As 
if it were not a world-shattering reversal of 
habit. 

“Unless you’d like to give me a hand with 
them?” my wife asked. 

I looked into the future and saw myself. 
Making my own success, with a little judi- 
cious prodding from Rosemary. Washing 
dishes. Diapering the baby, maybe several 
babies. Cooking kidney beans whenever I felt 
like it. Kissing my wife and to blazes with the 
chores. 

“Well,” she said, “shall we do the dishes 
now?” 

“No,” I said. I took her in my arms and the 
future began. Beautifully. THE END 








J BRINGING UP PARENTS 


DR. BARBARA BIBER, Consultant 
Child Psychologist, Bank Street Schools, New York 






Ox the very important question of “growing up,” parents 
constantly contradict themselves. They propagandize for 
| the grown-up state (When you are as old as mother you'll 
be able to stay up late too) and, in the next breath, they 
reverse their field and come out for childhood (Wish I 
were a kid again!). Children have the same inner conflict. 
They want to grow up and to remain babies all at once. A 
youngster may dress with exasperating slowness because 
he insists on doing it all alone, and yet may be just as in- 
sistent that you mash his potatoes the way he had them 
when he was a baby. Or an older child may ask permission 
to go on an overnight hike and, at the same time, want a 
light kept on in his room because he doesn’t like the dark. 
Everyone faces this natural conflict at every stage in his 
life. Knowing this, we can help a child if we don’t expect 
him to live up to his most grown-up self at all times. It’s 
easy, when children are babies, to understand their de- 
mands for our help. It’s harder to be sympathetic with 


Thi | t. | 
MW their remnants of babyishness as they grow older. But, in 
the long run, it’s better to swim with nature’s tide. 
[ * ! 
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NOVEMBER, 1949 


Undiscovered 


AMERICAN BEAUTIES 


tian Hill — A new serial — Elizabeth Goudge 
My Brother’s Keeper — Novel condensed in this issue — ( 


JEAN FRIT — Profile of Youth 
Astoria, New York 
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DENTAL RESEARCH SHOWS HOW 
IPANA FIGHTS TOOTH DECAY ! 


Scientific research based on daily dental examina- 
tions now proves that every time, any time you brush 
your teeth with Ipana, it helps fight tooth decay by 
effectively reducing and keeping down acid-forming 
bacteria. No other paste or powder is more effective 
for this purpose. Moreover, Ipana helps remove 
sticky, bacteria-trapping deposits that invite decay. 


ee nn 


DENTISTS SAY THE IPANA WAY 
PROMOTES HEALTHIER GUMS! 


In thousands of recent reports from all over the 
country, 8 out of 10 dentists say the Ipana way pro- 
motes healthier gums. That’s just as important as 
fighting decay, for dentists warn that you can’t have 
healthy teeth without healthy gums! Try this dentist- 
approved Ipana care—for healthier teeth and healthier 
gums both, 





Gait. 


| HERE'S ALL YOU DO—EASY AS 1, 2: 





*The Ipana way is doubly effective. 1. Between reg- 
ular visits to your dentist, brush all tooth surfaces 
with Ipana after every meal. (Ipana’s special alkaline 
cleansing formula helps prevent tooth decay—leaves 
teeth cleaner, brighter.) 2. Then massage gums the 
way your dentist advises. (Ipana’s unique formula 
also stimulates circulation—promotes healthier gums. 
You can feel the invigorating, lasting tingle!) 





Product of Bristol-Myers 


p.S. For correct brushing use the DOUBLE DUTY Tooth Brush 
with the twist in the handle. 1000 dentists helped design it! 








4l 
Most tooth loss comes from gum troubles,” say dentists. 


Fight Tooth Decay and 
Gum Troubles Both! 


New dental research proves you can help prevent tooth decay 
as you guard your gums—this doubly-effective lpana way!* 


Dentists warn that if you want to save your teeth, you 
must protect your teeth and gums both. 

For not only does tooth decay cause untold misery 
and expense. Gum troubles cause even more tooth 
losses than decay, according to leading dental authori- 
ties. And gum troubles can strike anyone—even healthy 
youngsters and teen-agers— with little warning! 

Now you and your family can help prevent costly 
tooth decay and gum troubles BorH—by starting today 





with this doubly-effective Ipana dental care.* 

For new dental research now proves that Ipana’s own 
special alkaline formula effectively reduces and keeps 
down acid-forming bacteria—considered a major cause 
of tooth decay. Ipana fully meets these standards for 
an anti-decay dentifrice. 

And more —Ipana is the only leading tooth paste 
specially designed to stimulate gum circulation —pro- 
mote healthier gums. 





THIS FAMILY SAFE 









} 


x & ee : 
Mrs. Stephen Schwartz of Catonsville, Md., doesn’t let her 
family risk halfway dental care! One of Baltimore’s most suc- 
cessful fashion models, Mrs. Schwartz knows that an attractive 
smile depends on healthy teeth and healthy gums both. So she 


GUARDS TEETH AND GUMS BOTH WITH IPANA DENTAL CARE! 


HEALTHIER TEETH, HEALTHIER GUMS — 


|PANA for Both! 









makes sure that her family fights tooth decay and protects their 
gums, too — with Ipana dental care, Give your family all the 
benefits of this doubly-effective dental care. Get a tube of Ipana 
Tooth Paste today! 





And refreshing Ipana 
leaves your breath cleaner, 


your mouth fresher, too! 









So Forget all other 


Beauty Care and 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


advised for a Lovelier Gomplexion! 


fillions of women will prefer this “Beauty Lather” 
almolive over all other leading toilet soaps... 
he minute they try it! 
And small wonder! ky 
‘Beauty Lather” has a new, 
ragrance for new allure, new charm. 


Palmolive’s famous 
clean, flower-fresh 
And using Palmolive Soap, the way doctors ad- 
ised, is so effective that all types of skin—young, 
Ider, oily—respond to it quickly. 

Dull, drab skin appears fresher and brighter . 
oarse-looking skin finer. Even tiny blemishes— 


incipient blackheads—disappear or improve. 

So do as Doctors advised. Stop improper cleans- 
ing! Instead, wash your face with Palmolive Soap 
three times each day, massaging Palmolive’s won- 
derful “‘Beauty Lather” onto your skin, for sixty 
seconds each time, teget its full beautifying effect. 
Then rinse! That’s all. 

Yes, 36 doctors—leading skin specialists—advised 
this way for 1285 women, and proved Palmolive 
can bring lovelier complexions to 2 out of 3 in 
just 14 days. Get Palmolive Soap and start today! 








November, 1949 


Yes! There's Something | 





Palmolive’s Famous 


Beauty Lather 


use Palmolive Soap as Doctors 


Get Bath Size Palmolve too! 


Use it in tub or shower. 
The alluring new 
fragrance of Palmolive’s 
“Beauty Lather” leaves 
you even lovelier all over! 


| 
i 
i 
F 


hearer eae 






























JOSEPH DI PIETRO 





Record collection 


JOSEPH DI PIETRO 





The home block 


Each month the JourNAL cover fea- 
tures an Undiscovered American 
Beauty—a girl who has never pre- 
viously S odeled for money. Nomina- 
tions are submitted by professional 
photographers throughout the country. 
Jean Fritz ndecas this month’s 
cover partly because she was shop- 
ping one day in Bloomingdale’s big 
department store in New York City. 
Passing through the infants’-wear 
department, she ran smack into 
photographer Suzanne Szasz. Miss 
Szasz had heard about the JouRNAL’s 
cover search for Undiscovered 
American Beauties, and her first 
question to Jean was, “Have you 
ever been a model?” Jean was a bit 
frightened, but not too flabbergasted 
to answer “No” and make a date to 
be photographed. A few weeks later 
the cover was accepted and the girls 
met again to celebrate (below ). 

Things have not always been so 
easy for Jean Fritz. She is a working 
girl, currently doing private-secre- 
tary work and taking aie courses 
at night. She ae: a bask a week 
and buys phonograph records with 
all the money she can save. Al- 
ready she owns a trunkful, her 
favorites ranging from De Bussy to 
de Benny (Goodman). 


Photographer and model 





m 
JAY FLORIAN MITCHELL 







Journal Conter 5 veeeee» November, 1949 


VOL. LXVI, No. 11 


Novel Condensation Complete in This Issue 






My Brother’s Keeper... . ..... . . Clifford Dowdey 36 
Fiction 

Gentian Hill (First part of three) . . . . . Elizabeth Goudge 34 

Never Look Back ee . . . . . Margaret Kennedy 38 

Day of Grace... . . .. . . . Charlotte Edwards 42 

Talk of a W edding. . . . . . . . . Fane Merriman Horton 44 


Tough Guy Belisarius Dorothy Potter Benedict 60 


Special Features 


The Neglected Art and Science . . . . . Dorothy Thompson 11 
Beyond Thanksgiving . 5 las (G.uME Wihitte eN1 
Displaced Persons . . . To “Grand Hotel, "1949... 2 23 
From Refugee Camps. . . . . Margaret Hickey 23 
Can I Gino the Sex af My Child? rae. en 3, Bees Bliven 40 
A Woman Weighing Gold. . . . . Painting by Jan Vermeer 41 
Profile of Wanshe ieee Schoolgirl: a) a 2 OZ 
Teen-Age Poison. . . F ete ei tye.» 3 SOMOS 
Teen- Kee Cruelty 7. = A vobnces oe ee 66 
There’s a Man in the Houses Been SS eerie Miller 67 


Living for the Fun of It Harry Emerson Fosdick 192 


How America Lives: 
How Reno Lives. . .. ..... . . . Roger Butterfield 205 


General Features 


Our'ReadersaWiniteW saa ee eer a oe Boake Se epee sD 
Under-Cover Stuff. . ..... .. . . .Bernardine Kielty 14 
Referencesliabranygre 50 4 2.50: 2°): 24 
Making Marriage Works. &: “Clifford R: Adtms 26 
Any Names Gan Play (The Subs Deb) Edited by Maureen Daly 28 
Diary of Domesticity. . . . se... Gladys Taber 31 
Fifty Years Ago in the Toure ° oneal About Daven ea: 33 
Bringing Up eee A Ee enlC gs «|»... Drsibarbara Biber 132 
Ask And Womans =) 2 ee ... Marcelene Cox 220 
Meningitis—Still a Danger iD eaten N. Bundesen 252 
This is a Chair-Tipper - . >. . . . .. . . . Munro Leaf 257 
Fashions 
When Evening Comes . . . . . . . . . Wilhela Cushman 50 
What are You Doing Tonight? . Ruth Mary Packard 52 
Six Important Pertecnn. Side Set =) eewNora Or Leany a4 
American Beauty's $100 W ardrebe. . . . . Cynthia McAdoo 56 
Paris Scrapbook. . . . = ae -. aa mnela Gushman. ST 
Food and a 
Thanks for Everything. . . . ... . . . . Ann Batchelder 68 
imerd. Day, = ates 3 seeps 2. ns 2 2 ..tAnn Batchelder. 7 
Katchen Atuniversacy: 5 +4 » « - 2. . 2. .+-aGladys Eaber? 112 
Quick and Easys foc" Pwo Sa) 5.0% . . . Louella G. Shouer 196 
Do’s and Don’ts for Pressure Cites: 
Electric Mixers . . . . . . .. . . . Margaret Davidson 212 
Conversation Piece. . . . . .. . . .- Ruth Mills Teague 242 
Architecture, Interior macebitisen and Garden 
Cream of theiGoast. =) = = eaerte sn © 2 +. a nhecuard Prat’ 46 
Carpeted Garden . . Sica 2 eee eeenord Pratt 102 
Hook Rugs the Fast New W. ay ... .. .. Henrietta Murdock 180 
Modern Room on a Young Married’s Income . H. T. Williams 188 
Poetry 


Eleanor Halbrook Zimmerman 78 e Ruth Stewart Schenley 90 
Phyllis I. Rosenteur 108 e Ina Singleton Stovall 117 e Elizabeth- 
Ellen Long 129 e Nellie Burget Miller 138 e E. V. Griffith 148 
Marjorie Lederer Lee 159 e Edna St. Vincent Millay 190 « Elizabeth 
McFarland 230 e Eleanor Alletta Chaffee 241 e¢ Joan Aucourt 264 


Cover: Photograph by Suzanne 8zasz 


Ladies’ Home Journal, copyright 1949 by The Curtis Publishing Company in U. S. and Great Britain. 
All rights reserved. Title registered in U.S. Patent Office and foreign countries. Published on last Friday of 
month preceding date by The Curtis Publishing Company, Independence Square, Philadelphia 5, Pa, Entered 
as Second Class Matter May 6, 1911, at the Post Office at Philadelphia under the Act of March 3, 1879. En- 
tered as Second Class Matter at the Post Office Department, Ottawa, Canada, by Curtis Distributing Com- 
pany, Ltd., Toronto, Ont., Canada. 
Subscription Prices: U.S. and Possessions, Canada, Costa Rica, Cuba, Nicaragua, Dominican Republic, Gua- 
temala, Haiti, Mexico, Panama, Philippine Islands, Republic of Honduras, Salvador, Spain and South America 
except the Guianas: 1 yr., $3; 2 yrs., $5; 3 yrs., $7; 4 yrs., $9. Other countries, 1 yr.,$6. Remit by money order or 
draft on a bank in the U. S. payable in U. S. funds. All prices subject to change without notice. All subscriptions 
must be paid for in advance. 
Unconditional Guaranty. We agree, upon request direct from subscribers to the Philadelphia office, to 
refund the full amount paid for any copies of Curtis publications not previously mailed. 
The Curtis Publishing Company, Walter D. Fuller, President; Robert E. MacNeal, First Vice-President: 
Arthur W. Kohler, Vice-President and Advertising Director; Mary Curtis Zimbalist, Vice-President; Cary W. 
Bok, Vice-President; Lewis W. Trayser, Vice-President and Director of Manufacturing; Benjamin Allen, Vice- 
President and Director of Circulation; Brandon Barringer, Treasurer; Robert Gibbon, Secretary; Richard 
Ziesing, Jr., Manager of Ladies’ Home Journal. The Company also publishes The Saturday Evening Post, 
Country Gentleman, Jack and Jill, and Holiday. 
Change of Address: Send your Journal change of address to 

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL, INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA 5, PA. 
at least 30 days before the date of the issue with which it is to take effect. Send old address with the new, en- 
closing if possible your address label. The post office will not forward copies unless you provide extra postage. 


Duplicate copies cannot be sent. § 
The names of characters in all stories are fictitious. Any resemblance to living persons is a coincidence. 


jie can be 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 






. that’s the 





Nylace 
n be, still 


are knit 


lors— 


ment 


Costume by Maurice Rentner 
for Strawbridge & Clothier, 
Philadelphia. 


So Forget all other B 


advised for a Lovel 


ions of women will prefer this “Beauty Lather” 
nolive over al! other leading toilet soaps 
minute they try it! 


nd small wonder! For Palmolive’s famous 
auty Lather” has a new, clean, flower-fresh 
rance for new allure, new charm. 

nd using Palmolive Soap, the way doctors ad- 
d, is so effective that all types of shin young, 
r, oily—respond to it quickly. 

ull, drab skin appears fresher and brighter . . . 


; ee : . . er of full-fashioned stockings. 
se-looking skin finer. Even tiny blemishes— PU ea e 





Reading, Pa. 


November, 1949 


Nylace Reg. U.S. Pat. Off- 











LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 5 


Our Preaders 
Write us 


How to Get Kisses 


Troy, Alabama. 

Dear Editors: Some time ago, when we 
remodeled our old-fashioned kitchen, I had 
to prove to my husband and my two sons 
that what I didn’t need was awindow above 
the sink that looked out upon a house that 
needed painting, and a few straggling holly- 
hocks. In the attic I unearthed a large mir- 
ror in an ornate frame and I said, “‘ This is 
what I want.’’ The carpenter looked at my 
husband sympathetically, took the mirror 
from the frame, fitted it into the window 
space above the sink, built cupboards 
around, installed indirect lighting, and got 
me a million kisses in the months to come. 
Not from the carpenter—he had a wife— 
but from the father of my two handsome 
sons, as well as from the sons themselves. 
Honestly, I doubt the man lives that 
doesn't get a kick out of watching himself 
make love to a woman. 

When my daughter-in-law came to live 
with us after our son had enlisted in the 
Air Corps, she said, ‘I’m going to paint 
that mirror over tomorrow.” 

I only smiled and that evening when I 
returned home from a war-plant job I 
brought a pretty scarf and a brunch coat 
for her. As I handed her the gifts I said, 
“Darling, the scarf is to cover your morn- 
ing pin curls and the brunch coat will take 
the place of the robe that drags a bit while 
you make coffee, and here's the paint for the 
mirror—a lipstick to paint on a smile. 
Make that mirror your best friend.” 

Last year I visited in Iowa, where they 
now live with their family of five, and I 
couldn't help but notice. ... Yes, a mirror 
above the kitchen sink. 

When I lost my eyesight just a short 
time following my husband's death, the 
pictures in my mirror were the brightest 
memories I had. However, I am one of the 
fortunate ones; after about a year I re- 
gained mysight to find this the most beauti- 
ful world anyone ever dreamed of. True, 
your sky may have more stars than mine, 
as I see only those in the first magnitude, 
but mine are in shining patterns. 

Sincerely, 
MILDRED C. MONTGOMERY, 


Window on American Life 


San Jose, Costa Rica. 
Dear Editors: When I read your Jour- 
NAL I feel as if I were beside an open win- 
dow breathing real fresh air. 
Sincerely yours, 
MERCEDES DECE. 


Grandma is in Fine Form 


Key West, Florida. 

Dear Editors: Here is a picture of my 
mother, who must be the youngest-looking 
grandmother in the country. (My son is 


GRANDMOTHE & 
y 





Youthful grandmother. 


four months old.) Grandma is 5/3’ tall, 

weights about 110, and has measurements 
of 34, 24 and 34. Her age? Forty-three. 
Sincerely, 

JEANNE B. HERRICK. 


Cooks Her Own Goose 


Gashland, Missouri. 

Dear Editors; 1 love Ann Batchelder for 
saying, ‘‘And who among you doesn’t have 
her own way of roasting a turkey?” I also 
recall an article in which she discussed 
roast goose by saying, ‘Everyone cooks 
his own goose in his own way and takes the 
consequences."” 

We women are a little weary of being 
preached at about the right and wrong 
methods of cooking, especially when we 
know best what our families really like in 
the way of good eating. Ann Batchelder 
stops at telling us excellent recipes which 
sound and taste as if she really ate them 
herself. Sincerely, 

MRS. JAMES W. LOWRY. 


Too Much for Her Money 


Longmeadow, Massachusetts. 

Dear Editor: Either the magazine is 

heavier, or I am weaker. In comparison 

with the shrinkage of the dollar, we are get- 

ting too much for our money. How about 

a smaller size for people who read in bed? 
Sincerely yours, 

ROSEMARY BAUMBACH. 


Doctors say one shouldn’t read in bed. 
Bad for the eyes and the back. ED. 


Let the Dishes Wait 


Bucks port, Maine. 
Dear Editors: 1 have often thought how 
monotonous it must be to know that at 
exactly 12:08 every noon the dinner dishes 
have to be washed, because at exactly 
12:32 there is another daily chore that has 
to be done on time and so on throughout 
the day. Why, if unexpected company 
should drop in during the afternoon, sup- 
per might be two hours late! And horrors 
if I should take the P.M. off and go 
tobogganing with my six- and four-year- 
old, but I do and we manage. We're far 
happier than living on a schedule; each 
day brings something different. Life is far 
too short not to enjoy every minute. Even 
if I live to be 100 I will still feel that there 
are so many things I didn’t have time to 
do and the housework and other routine 
things will still be there. 
Sincerely, 
MAXINE SHANER. 


Why Marriages Fail 


Akron, Ohio. 

Dear Editors: I think most people agree 
that divorce is a bitter thing and that a 
marriage should be saved if possible. How- 
ever, some marriages do not have the 
proper ingredients, and both parents and 
children suffer when that type of marriage 
is permitted to continue. 

Rather than make divorces harder to 
obtain, why not make marriage licenses 
more difficult to secure? Some kind of sys- 
tem certainly could be worked out where- 
by couples contemplating marriage could 
come before a counseling body, made up of 
ministers, psychologists or psychiatrists, 
before going to the altar. This same coun- 
seling body could counsel and advise 
couples seeking divorce. After all, the 
majority of marriage failures come because 
of emotional reasons, so why not remedy 
the cause? Sincerely, 
MARGARET FOX. 


Feminine Touch 


Honolulu, Hawaii. 
Dear Editors : This might be called a new 
twist to pictures of children getting hair- 





“Your Hair ean be 


fit Radiant Mate 
ndruftfree 
= 
















— all youve got to do is take 


me home and squeeze me!” 


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EMERALD 
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CREATED BY PROCTER & GAMBLE 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





‘ 4 a al 


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Reveal how lovely your complexion can be— 
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cuts. In the first picture, my son on the 
mainland getting the standard treatment 
from a male barber. The next picture was 





Never underestimate 


taken after we had moved to Hawaii. Not 
only did he have a girl cutting his hair but 
another (too shy to be in the picture) was 
holding his hand and reading the comics to 
him. Yours truly, 
JAMES WHITE. 


Wonderful Man 


Lawrence, Kansas. 
Dear Editors: The Strong Man, by 
Hannibal Coons (August), is a master- 
piece. I can’t remember ever having read a 
humorous story that was so refreshingly 
different and hilarious. Let's hear from him 
again. Yours very truly, 
MRS. FRED BLIESNER. 


They Dance With Shoes On 


Langhorne, Pennsylvania. 

Dear Editors: Having read about teens 
of three vastly different localities, I am be- 
ginning to wonder if maybe the kids 
around here are the eccentrics. We dance 
the conventional steps with our shoes on, 
shake hands in the accepted adult way and 
don’t go steady just to be sure of dates. 
Every guy has access to a car; sometimes 
his own, more often the family’s. But 
stripes, polka dots and hot rods are not our 
ideas of style. Crew cuts are popular in 
warm weather, but boogie or Apache cuts, 
bleached forelocks or home permanents 
would be scorned by our fellas (and their 
girls). Probably the very silliest thing we 
do is speak English. What I'd like to know 
is, are we alone in our conservative ways? 

Sincerely, 


JOAN HERRMAN. 


Childless Women 


Brooklyn, New York. 

Dear Editors: There isa group of women 
that I feel you have neglected—the child- 
less women. This group badly needs infor- 
mation. The usual channels of information 
(or misinformation) are generally closed 
to them. I mean, of course, “talking it 
over’’ with friends and comparing notes. 
No woman will willingly admit that she 
cannot fulfill that function for which she 
was created, or that her husband is any 
less perfect than any other man. 

To my horror, I have heard several doc- 
tors say, ‘‘ Why do you care so much about 
having a child? They only grow up to be- 
come great nuisances!’’ This seems to me 
to be a very poor excuse for a lack of 
knowledge on a subject so important. One 
doctor said so very little is known on the 
subject that he doubted if I could get an 
answer anywhere. I refuse to believe this, 
especially since no doctor has been able to 
find anything wrong with either my hus- 
band or me. Surely, somewhere, I and 
the many thousands of women like me 
can find an answer and a cure. 

Very sincerely yours, 
(Name withheld by request.) 


(Continued on Page 8) 


November, 1949 








SQUIBB ANGLE = 
TOOTHBRUST ES 


reaches hard to 
get at places 





BENT like a dentists 
mirror to reach 
more places 


«| 





LADIES’ )\TES’ HOME JOURNAL 


‘ a 










Pityrosporum ovale, the strange 
“bottle bacillus" regarded by many 
leading authorities as a causa- 
tive agent of infectious dandruff. 


“So Soft — it feels 


e e e 4, 
like facial tissue — 





you wash their hair... 


WE ANTISEPTIC 


oa 


> the very one that many derma- washing. Incidentally, many of them follow the 
~ausative agent of the trouble... same routine with their own hair. 
le bacillus’”’ (Pityrosporum ovale). 


r 


Listerine Antiseptic is the same good Listerine 
Antiseptic you've known so long . . . for more than 
60 years its chief use has been as an antiseptic 
Fazed to see how quickly nasty mouthwash and gargle. 

‘begin to disappear. You will be Lampert PHARMACAL CoMPANY, St. Louis, Missouri 
/ how wonderfully clean and fresh 
» : begin to look. In clinical tests, 

_ ne Antiseptic treatments brought 
ent within a month to 76% of | As @ precaution...as a treatment 


a infectious dandruff gets a head for INFECTIOUS DANDRUFF 


_-tless mothers do: Make Listerine 
of the children’s regular hair- 


akes Disappear 










: 
‘ 


(unpleasant breath). So always, before any 


{ It’s such a delightful precaution against non- 


‘or hours, usually. 








ere November, 1949 
LADIES’ HOME JOURNA 


(Continued from Page 6) 
cuts. In t 
nian Town Turns Out for Lois \\ | 
from a mé Mount Dora, Florida. 
eeere 


Dear Editors: We in this community 


were awfully proud of the slim Mount 
> Dora High School girl, Lois Driver, whose AS | 
-piquant face was pictured on the cover of ( 
Lapies’ HOME JOURNAL. So, on the day . 


he magazine hit the newsstands, we 


aged a gala parade, complete with an Air (() | || \\ (; () ||) N | L 
} 










es force band, and a reception for ‘‘Lovely 
Bs Lois’ at City Hall. Business came to a 
tandstill as Bank President George 
‘White, Mayor J. E. Fortner, Merchants 
President Tom Brotherson and other civic 
leaders gathered to pay homage to her. 


.. The whole town turned out to cheer. 
taken aft 


: Sincerely, 
only did MABEL NORRIS REESE. 
another ( 
holding t 
him. Prayer for Safe Drivers 


Georgetown, Indiana. 

i Dear Editors: Today, as my three-year- 
Wonde9\q Artie sat with the family in church, he 
fidgeted impatiently for the service to end. 
Now he was opening my purse, then re- 
trieving a coin which dropped on the floor. 
He studied the car keys. Taking a pencil, 
he seribbled on his Sunday-school card. 

As I watched his dancing blue-gray eyes 
and impish smile, a lump came into my 
throat. Tears filled my eyes, and I was not 
listening to the sermon. I was thinking of 
another service which might very well 
They Dhaye been today—his funeral service. 

As I washed my breakfast dishes Friday 
morning, the air was pierced by that hor- 
rible screeching of brakes. I ran out the 
ginning front door to see the driver picking Artie 
around HP from the street. He had darted into the 
Pnelconaoueee from behind a parked car. An on- 

oming car had knocked him down, but 


shake ha“ ; ; 
Aonte gothe driver had somehow stopped the car 


“9 ' ery gibetore it ran over him. It would be hard to 

ISCOVER your skin’s own true loveliness} iis cwn:y which was the most frightened—Artie, 
stripes, pcreaming, the young man who had hit 

ideas of him, or myself. The doctor found a scraped 


with your own special Tussy Cleansing Cream | warm wow to be his only injury. 


The organ began to play, bringing me 


Dear 
Hanniba 
piece. Ic 
humorou 
different 
again. 


Dear i 
of three 





bleached 2 
would beech tots Une eae Nae ee GOTHAM 
P girls). pice. DIeAat 1ed a prayer which sna 
Reveal how lovely your complexion can be— do is speoften pray from my heart: GOLD STRIPE 
5 , “*Thank you, Father, for a driver who Cae 
y a 7 e : : is, are Ww ’ ry 
with a Tussy Cleansing Cream, made for your special was notapeediie tnd forebermondbrakes BEAUTIFUL STOCKINGS 
; ; 7 R on that car.” Sincerely, 
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5 ah . . De 
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-.ward my own son, Robert, aged nine say I 
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cleansing creams ELEANOR G. BAFFA. , 














Youngsters aren’t 
immune! 


a 


x Ye 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 











Pityrosporum ovale, the strange 
“bottle bacillus" regarded by many 
leading authorities as a causa- 
tive agent of infectious dandruff. 





Every time you wash their hair... 


UVse Lisverine ANTISEPTIC 


OR some reason, school children seem to be 
right in line for infectious dandruff. It’s trouble- 
some. It’s common. It’s catching. 


So, at the first sign of infectious dandruff— 
flakes, scales, itching, get started at once with 
Listerine Antiseptic and massage. Better yet—use 
Listerine Antiseptic as a precaution every time you wash 
the children’s hair. 

Infectious dandruff is nothing to fool with. It 
calls for prompt treatment . . . positive treatment... 
antiseptic treatment! 


Kills “Bottle Bacillus’ 


Listerine Antiseptic gives scalp and hair a wonder- 
ful, cooling antiseptic bath... kills millions of 


germs, including the very one that many derma- 
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the stubborn “‘bottle bacillus”’ (Pityrosporum ovale). 


Flakes Disappear 


You will be amazed to see how quickly nasty 
flakes and scales begin to disappear. You will be 
delighted to find how wonderfully clean and fresh 
the scalp and hair begin to look. In clinical tests, 
twice-a-day Listerine Antiseptic treatments brought 
marked improvement within a month to 76% of 
dandruff sufferers. 


Don’t wait until infectious dandruff gets a head 
start. Do as countless mothers do: Make Listerine 
Antiseptic a part of the children’s regular hair- 


washing. Incidentally, many of them follow the 
same routine with their own hair. 


Listerine Antiseptic is the same good Listerine 
Antiseptic you ve known so long. . . for more than 
GO years its chief use has been as an antiseptic 
mouthwash and gargle. 


LAMBERT PHARMACAL ComMPANY, St. Louis, Messouri 


As @ precaution...as a treatment 


for INFECTIOUS DANDRUFF 





Pp. ‘. Will he like you? Not if you have halitosis (unpleasant breath). So always, before any - 
date, rinse the mouth with Listerine Antiseptic. It’s such a delightful precaution against non- = - 


systemic bad breath... sweetens the breath for hours, usually. 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL November, 1949 


Procter & Gamble announces a far better DISHWASHING SUDS 


fn NEW DRERT 


with 7 big New Features 














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© See how clean Dreft washes dishes! e Feel the dishwater! How clean and “grease-free!” 
So clean they shine—even without wiping! New Dreft suds are different than any soap 


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grease better than any soap in the world. 


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Beyond Thanksgiving 


HERE is an old Thanksgiving Day custom still 

observed by some families around Plymouth, 

Massachusetts. At breakfast beside each plate 
are placed five grains of corn. They symbolize the 
pitiful ration to which each of the original Pilgrims 
was eventually reduced in their first bitter Massa- 
chusetts winter, before the relief ship arrived from 
England and saved them from starvation. Out of 
gratitude for the arrival of that ship the Pilgrims 
instituted Thanksgiving Day and carried on to reap 
harvests of their own making. They were hungry, 
but their spirits were high. 

In recent years ships have been outward bound 
from the United States on dramatic large-scale re- 
lief missions—a thanksgiving gesture from those 
who are adequately fed and clothed and housed. But 
those who are coldand alone inthe world haveaneed 
that reaches beyond hunger. Respect and self-re- 
spect, the pattern of neighborly living and mutual 
responsiveness add up to the essential dignity of 
human life which has vanished in many parts of 
our world. Material aid alone will never meet this 
need. 

The American Friends Service Committee is 
among those aware of the indignity suffered by 
men and women who must depend upon the char- 
ity of others for their daily bread. From the begin- 
ning, it was understood that no one private agency, 
nor all of them together, could possibly fill the 
gaps left by war with material aid only. Efforts 
merely to keep individuals alive are admissions of 
basic failure, in which we all share, to shape so- 
ciety into patterns spacious enough for all. This 
failure has been recognized by many, including 
some who say little can be done about it, but broad- 
scale plans have yet to be tried. 

Recently the United Nations Conference on the 
Conservation and Utilization of Resources, com- 
posed of 535 scientists from 49 participating na- 
tions, met at Lake Success to consider how the 50 
per cent increase in the world’s population ex- 
pected during the next half century will be fed. The 
conference emphasized that with proper planning 
the world could make more food available for all, 
but Dr. M. M. Coady, of Nova Scotia, got to the 
root of the matter when he said: 

“We must put purposeful effort into develop- 
ing the people of the earth. We have never tried 
to bring the whole of the human race along the 
road to progress.” 

Today Quaker service abroad is exploring on a 
small scale—through neighborhood centers, work 
camps and seminars, through village rehabilitation, 
aid to small industries and other community 
projects—the possibility of building hopes as well 
as houses. The value of turning attention and 
emphasis in this direction has been expressed 
countless times to committee members. In the mar- 
gin of a neighborhood-center guest book, one entry 
sums this up simply and adequately: “Here I am al- 
lowed to be a human being.” —G. M. Wurre. 


PHOTO BY RAY ATKESON 


By DOROTHY THOMPSON 


HE twentieth century shows remarkable discrepancies between 

theory and practice. Never has there been so much talk of peace, so 

many organizations set up to maintain and promote it. Yet the cen- 
tury has seen two universal wars and anticipates ano.her. 

Never has there been so much talk about tolerance and human rights. 
And never has intolerance been more fanatical or human rights more 
cruelly violated. 

The productive capacity of the world was never so high. Yet countries 
of the west, with productive machinery intact and productive skills undi- 
minished, fear bankruptcy and waves of unemployment and misery which 
may result in the overturn of the social order. 

Yet wherever the social order has been violently overturned, no solu- 
tion has been found for the human malaise. One asks oneself why all the 
social, political and economic theories which seemed to promise much 
have proved so disillusioning. It behooves us to re-examine the systems 
of our times, to discover whether they are not, in some fundamental 
way, erroneous. I believe they are. It has been characteristic of the last 
century to believe that what ails the world is only the lack of a proper sys- 
tem—that if one could be constructed, mankind would be saved. 

Economic conservatives hold that if life were freed from restriction, ev- 
erything would work out. Economic progressives believe that if everything 
were nationalized and private profit eliminated, human misery would end. 
Human experience justifies the claims of neither. Economic competition 
has created frightful tragedies. It has not abolished poverty, but has added 
to poverty the odium of disgrace. 

The tendency to value everything in terms of money is disastrous to cul- 
ture. Parents who cannot give their children “advantages” suffer from a 
sense of failure. Middle-class people struggle to prevent their children from 
“falling” into the ‘‘working class”; working-class parents sacrifice to edu- 
cate their children out of it. Many university students are not motivated 
by desire for higher learning, but by the ambition to avoid working with 
their hands, because of the inferior social status attached to it. Yet many 
“manual” occupations require more skill, character and responsibility than 
most white-collar jobs. It is an odd concept of democracy which divides 


people according to whether they wear overalls or business suits to work. 


To predicate happiness or success in life ca achieving what for most is 
unachievable is to promote human misery. It is certainly worth noting that 
our own society has produced more neurotics than any other of which we 


have knowledge. 
Class antipathies which wreck societies arise also from an unconscious 
desire for revenge for continual humiliations, or from unconscious fears of 


Executive Editor, Mary Bass ¢ Managing Editor, Laura Lou Brookman @ Associate Editors: Hugh MaeNair Kahler, 
Bernardine Kielty, Ann Batchelder, Wilhela Cushman, William E. Fink, Alice Blinn, Richard Pratt, Henrietta 
Murdock, Louella G. Shouer, Mary Lea Page, Maureen Daly, Dawn Crowell Norman, John Godfrey Morris, Joan 
Younger, Lonnie Coleman, Margaret Davidson, Nora O’Leary @ Contributing Editors: Gladys Taber, Louise Paine 
Benjamin, Gladys Denny Shultz, Barbara Benson, Margaret Hickey @ Assistant Editors: John Werner, Charlotte 
Johnson, Donald Stuart, Ruth Mary Packard, Ruth Shapley Matthews, Alice Conkling, June Torrey, Lily 
Glendinning, Joseph Di Pietro, Anne Einselen, Glenn Matthew White, Betty Niles Gray, Jan Weyl, Jeanne Scribner, 
Elizabeth Goetsch ¢ Editorial Assistants: Alice Kastberg, Iris Wilken, Betty Coe, Jeanne Lenton Tracey, Cynthia 
McAdoo, Eleanor Pownall Simmons, Adrina Casparian, Virginia Price, Marion Plummer, Lois Witherspoon, Jeanne 
Stiles, Elizabeth McFarland, Polly Toland, Elizabeth Crawford, Martkedith F. Stauffer, Virginia Brown, 
Victoria Harris, Robert N. Taylor, Helen Schmidt Kennedy. f 





LZ LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Those Stokely Folks Are 
as ‘Choosey’ as a Woman 


Only the finest will do. Only the very 
tenderest corn... with every golden 
kernel plump and sweet. That’s what 
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It’s really fresh, too! For Stokely 
rushes it from field to can lke real 
corn lovers rush it from garden 
to kitchen. You get the finest of 
corn...at its very finest. 





*Earl Lloyd —well-known it , df 
corn grower in the famous Ds 
Illinois corn belt, says: “I’ve ? ‘ Whig 
grown prize-quality corn f f 
for over 40 years. And p 






ae, year after year, the finest { 
t corn | grow goes to / * 
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losing social status. But where leaders of 
social groups, playing on the unconscious 
undercurrent of frustration, lead them to 
overturn the existing society in favor of 
a new “‘system,” the frustrations do not 
disappear and enthusiasm rapidly gives 
way todisillusionment. Theold set of bosses 
goes out, but a new set comes in, for it is 
impossible to operate an industrial society 
without directors. 

The “‘classless society’’ reveals itself as 
a mere phrase. Commissars, supplanting 
former capitalist managers, enjoy powers 
no capitalist ever did, and form a class 
separate and privileged. 

Theoretically, the people own every- 
thing, but this is no more visible than that 
the thousands of stockholders of a great 
corporation own its industries. Ownership 
divorced from control is dubious ownership, 
although the private stockholder can cash 
shares at some price in an emergency. All 
the people in a totally socialist state put 
up the capital—involuntarily, in the form 
of taxes—for dividends in services which 
they may or may not want, one of these 
being a ubiquitous secret police to keep 
them in order. 

The main emotional drive behind social- 
ism is an urge for equality. But new frus- 
trations and inequalities supplant the old. 
Universal economic equality, as a great 
Russian, Dostoevski, foresaw, is possible 
only under universal slavery. The classless 
society is, therefore, pure illusion. 

The various ideologies 
which have promised 
man the millennium fail 


because they construct $ I believe that the test of a 

truly great man is his hu- 
mility. I do not mean by hu- 
mility doubt of his own power. 
But really great men have a 
curious feeling that the great- 
in them but 
through them. And they see 
divine in 
other man, and are endlessly, 
foolishly, incredibly merciful. 


ideal intellectual systems 
divorced from life and 
reality. The systems ap- 
pear perfectly good for 
the average man; the 
only trouble is that men 
are not average. 

People do have much 
in common, but it is pre- 
cisely the things they 
have in common thatalso 
make them different. All 
persons have egos, the 
frustration of which makes them wretched. 
The problem of society is not to repress 
the ego; the problem is to refine and har- 
monize ambitions. 

This is not impossible. We see it every 
time we observe a philharmonic orchestra. 
The best society is one which releases the 
greatest amount of energy into co-opera- 
tive effort. There is no over-all blueprint 
for achieving this. It demands not a “‘sys- 
tem,”’ but insight into human nature. 

Energy and co-operation are released 
through human happiness. Happiness re- 
quires far more than 3000 calories a day, 
a weatherproof lodging and adequate cloth- 
ing. The progressives have assumed that if 
everyone were well fed, well clothed and 
well housed, human misery would end. 
This puts man on the level of the domestic 
animal. 


ness is not 


something 


A coop society does not allow competi- 
tion to start on the level of mere survival, 
in which failure can mean starvation or the 
bitterest want. If that is allowed, the ug- 
liest qualities are developed. There must 
be a floor under human existence beneath 
which no person can sink. 

But the floor must not become a sofa 
inviting effortlessness, since general prog- 
ress and even personal happiness and 
growth are impossible without the expendi- 
ture of effort. 

Education, from the primary grades, 
should teach respect for all productive 
work, and inculcate admiration for those 
who do it well, and encourage the young 
to develop their inherent capacities. Every 
child should know that the manually 
gifted are not inferior to the intellectually 
gifted. The brain directs the hand. Every 
great artist is not only a person of imagina- 
tion, but a manual worker and craftsman. 
Until this truth is firmly implanted, we 
shall not have a real democracy or a happy, 
co-operative society. 


November, 1949 


Effort requires incentives, the first of 
which is recognition. No human being will 
be other than frustrated if he is treated 
as a replaceable cog. Above the floor to 
assure survival, superior work should be 
encouraged and rewarded; this applies to 
the individual, his working team, and th#) 
workers as a whole. 

Every human being has a desire to love 
and be loved. Persons who lead and direct 
others are essential to any society. But if 
force is to be kept to a minimum, these 
leaders must inspire respect and affection, 
and these are evoked only by genuine su- 
periority of brain, skill and character. 


Men are not equal in all things, and 
everyone knows it. I do not consider myself 
the equal of my physician in the diagnosis 
of my own body. I gratefully accept from 
him a strictly limited dictatorship, though 
I would bitterly resent his dictating my 
views on writing style. But I willingly 
accept criticism from writers whom I 
know to be superior to myself. Indeed, 
without better writers than myself from 
whom to learn I would never have become 
a writer. 

As there is an instinct in everybody to 
self-assertion, so is there an instinct to seek 
examples on which to model oneself. That 
is why the masses will never be better than 
the leadership. 

The sublimation of the ego and the 
erotic instinct is the source of all culture. 
It produces great artists 
and is the instinct behind 
the desire for comeliness 
and decorum. The man 
who wishes to give his 
family a pleasant home 
is helping build civiliza- 
tion. Every encourage- 
ment and aid should be 
given to people to own 
their own homes, not 
only or chiefly because 
of economic security, but 
because of the emotional 
satisfaction it gives to 
the father, and because 
of the creative activity 
it suggests. The British Labour Govern- 
ment has made a ruling that aman may not 
repair his own house! It is as stupid as to 
say that a woman may not make her chil- 
dren’s clothes! The greater the division of 
labor in factories, the greater the necessity 
for creative outlets of a private nature pro- 
viding satisfaction for instincts invariably 
found in voluntary work, to improve one’s 
surroundings, create a garden, and make 
some visible individual imprint on one’s 
community. 

The collectivism necessary to a highly 
organized industrial society must be offset 
by systematic attention to the needs and 
instincts of the individual. The desire to 
own property is a universal human urge, 
and no socialist state has exterminated it. 
The greed of Russian soldiers for wrist 
watches and mobile property in general 
told volumes. In societies where ownership 
of property is widespread, respect for other 
people’s property and rights is in ratio. 
Great extremes of ownership foment envy; 
the total suppression of the ownership in- 
stinct incites greed. 

In short, what we need is not a revolu- 
tion in systems, but a revolution in values, 
and a humanizing of society, effected by 
studying the nature and needs of human 
beings. The fallacy of the last and present 
century has been to believe that man is 
purely an economic animal. He is not. He 
has manifold needs, aspirations and long- 
ings—bodily, spiritual and instinctual. The 
creation of a better society must start not 
with a preconceived system, but with life, 
nature and experience. The art of politics, as 
Aristotle said, is to discern what is good for 
mankind—and what makes mankind good. 

More is known today about human psy- 
chology than was ever known before, but 
this knowledge is not being properly applied 
in political life, in industry or in society. 
Its application is the neglected art—and 
the neglected science. THE END 


every 


—JOHN RUSKIN. 


PLeey NE 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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14 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


a 
A aa a me 


Do you ever say: 
| ought fo cut down on coffee ! 


Mo" THAN LIKELY you have said 
that to yourself a number of times 
—if you’re really a coffee lover. 
Because, while coffee may be your fa- 
vorite beverage, you realize what a bad 
effect the caffein in it has on some peo- 
ple. How it can make them feel irritable 
and jumpy...and even keep them awake 
at night. Maybe it has that effect on you. 


So when you feel jittery or nervous— 
or if you're sleepless at night-——you auto- 
matically wonder about the coffee you 
drink. Are you drinking too much of 
it? Should you cut down on it—or, 
much as you hate the thought, cut it out 
altogether for a while? 


Should you? Not at all! Just use Sanka 
Coffee. So rich and full-bodied, Sanka is 
a grand-tasting coffee that you can drink 
without worry! 

And Sanka has all the qualities of very 
fine coffee—the satisfying flavor—the 
bracing cheer, 


ALL COFFEE- REAL COFFEE- 
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The big thing is that Sanka is 97% caffein- 
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So why not try Sanka Coffee tomor- 
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sibly a great deal to gain. 


sanka Coffee 


Real coffee with the worry taken out. 
Drink it and sleep! 


(<2 
ass sso Se 








November, 1949 


REPRINTED COURTESY OF THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 


‘It sounds like your mother. Then again, it might be a dial tone! 





yo> 


Under-Coover Stu 


By BERNARDINE KIELTY 


WINING A MENCKEN CHRESTOM- 
ATHY is not quite so good as hav- 

ing a complete collection of it. L. 
Mencken’s works, but the Chrestom- 
athy (anthology to us!) includes what 
Mencken himself considers his best short 
pieces. The nice surprise is how the man 
stands up! If in college days Mencken 
and George Jean Nathan and The Smart 
Set seemed the last word in sophisti- 
cation and cynicism, you’d expect by 
now to be let down. But not at all. 
H. L. Mencken can still make you mad! 


“The reason why the average bachelor 
of thirty-five remains a bachelor is really 
very simple. It is, in brief, that no ordi- 
narily attractive and intelligent woman 
has ever made a serious and undivided 
effort to marry him.” 


““A man dislikes his wife’s relatives for 
the same reason that he dislikes his own, 
to wit, because they appear to him as 
disgusting caricatures of one he holds in 
respect and affection, to wit, his wife. Of 
them all, his mother-in-law is obviously 
the most offensive, for she not only bur- 





lesques his wife; she also foreshadows 
what his wife will probably become. The 
vision naturally sickens him.” 


“No man ever quite believes in any 
other man. One may believe in an idea ab- 
solulely, but not in a man. No married 
woman ever trusts her husband absolutely, 
nor does she ever act as if she did trust 


him.” 
e 


“The holy Thursday comes at last, 
and a whopping turkey, a dozen 
squash pies, two dozen mince, and a 
hundred tarts trembling at their open 
hearts with crab-apple jelly. It snows 
uncles and aunts. It rains cousins. 
There are hazelnuts, apples red, green 
and golden, beechnuts, and cranberry 
sauce molded into stars. There is joy 
in the air, and the whiff from the 
oven is Eden.’ 


There’s no mistaking where that para- 
graph comes from. Of course. It’s New 
England. It’s Maine. And it’s quoted 
from a delightful book by Robert P. 
Tristram Coffin: COAST CALENDAR. 

(Continued on Page 16) 


WIDE WORLD PHOTOS 
mt re 





Thanksgiving —from a painting by Doris Lee. 





» easier, more economical cooking! You get 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


~the ‘wal Kange 








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16 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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(Continued from Page 14) 
It is a gift book, not in poetry as 
one would expect from R.P.T.C. but in 
fine, simple, natural prose. Each of the 
twelve chapters is a gem about each 
month in the year as seen from a farm 
on the coast down Maine. It is a dream 
of what you want every month to be. 
It’s a book that will make New England- 
ers drop a tear, because they’re folks 
who don’t like to see the world change 
too fast. Note it down for Christmas. 
(Bobbs Merrill Co., Indianapolis, Ind.) 


What they think about America is 
now out in two books, one a good, 
sound, thoughtful report, the other a 
long whine of hate. 


EUROPEAN BELIEFS REGARDING 
THE UNITED STATES represents the 
conclusions of 1702 qualified and rep- 
resentative observers of opinion abroad. 
It is the result of a survey by the Com- 
mon Council for American Unity under 
the direction of Henry Lee Munson. It 
is good for us to know what Europeans 
are thinking. About the U.S. and Rus- 
sia, for instance. Three out of every 
four people in ERP countries believe 
that “‘Russia is plotting to dominate 
Europe” and that American propa- 
ganda is more reliable than Russian 
“news.” More than one fifth of the 
people believe that the U.S. is plotting 


COLLIER'S 





‘“‘We may seem a bit in- 
quisilive, but I want you 
to know we’re not spies.”’ 


war against Russia, and an almost equal 
number believe Russia and the U.S. 
to be equally at fault. 


The other book tries to smear the 
whole U.S.A. In spirit and literary 
quality, it might have been written by 
any government-sponsored organ of 
Hitler Germany or Stalin Russia or by 
any of the unsound rabble rousers so 
articulate in this country in the late 
1930's. 


MOONSHINE AMERICA is written by 
a Londoner who sounds dangerously 
neurotic. ““Enter Prince Charming, 
Chewing Gum”; “The Master Race 
c/o Wall Street’’; ‘The Culture of the 
American Aborigine’; “State Dept., 
Inc.” are a few of the chapter headings. 
The author describes the American G.I.’s 
in Europe: “For these lords of creation 
only the fancy dress of flying suit, flying 
boots and flying helmet. It was a com- 
mon and always funny sight to see them 
strutting around in all the parapher- 
nalia of their profession. . . . Europeans 
were more accustomed to see this gawky 
desire to be admired from the Nazis 
than from the Americans. Another in- 
fantile habit I call the ‘wad trick’— 
pulling out a wallet to get a comb or 
photo and revealing, by the most ingen- 
ious coincidence, a protruding wad of 
dollar bills. This must have been done a 
million times.” . . . ““Amassing material 
wealth is America’s whole concern.’’.. . . 
“A reasoned plan for living with others 

(Continued on Page 18) 








November, 1949 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 










Because you don’t buy a washer every day... 


..be sate to see a Maytag! 


When you buy a new washer, you want it to 
last for years. Maytags do. Right now, many 


women are using Maytags that are 20 or 25 years old! 


You want your washer to get clothes really 
clean, too. Maytag’s exclusive Gyrafoam washing 
action gets clothes sparkling clean quickly. 


And you never have to hang up heavy, dripping 
clothes. The exclusive Maytag Roller Water Re- 
mover takes water out thoroughly. 


You'll find three beautiful Maytags to choose 
from. There’s one to suit your washing needs at the 
price you want to pay. 


And... you can pay for your Maytag while you 
use it. Your dealer will give you a liberal trade-in 
on your old washer. You pay the rest in low 
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Because you don’t buy a washer every day— 
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(Continued from Page 16) a 


has no more been devised by the Amer- 
ican nation than it has by the hedge- 
hog.”’ Moscow will certainly be publish- 
ing this. But why an American pub- 
lisher? 


By way of contrast we give you Lord 
Tweedsmuir, onetime Governor General 
of Canada (John Buchan, to those 
who love detective and spy stories, notably 
THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS): 


**You have to go to America, I think, 
for the wholly civilized man who has 
not lost his natural vigor or agreeable 
idiosyncrasies, but who sees life in its 
true proportions and has a fine bal- 
ance of mind and spirit. It is a char- 
acter hard to define, but anyone with 
a wide American acquaintance will 
know what I mean. They are people 
in whom education has not stunted 
any natural growth or fostered any 
abnormality. They are Greek in their 
justness of outlook, but Northern in 
their gusto. Their eyes are shrewd and 
candid, but always friendly.”’ 


It’s not only we grownups who are 
busy. An English teacher in first-year 
high school gave her students a list of 


COLLIER’S 





**He’s always the first one in 
the class with the answer — 
but he’s always wrong.’’ 


words and asked them to use each one 
correctly in a sentence. One girl wrote, 
“T have never had time to be contempo- 
rary.” 


For vivid writing we hand you acom- 
position by a seven-year-old child in 
the third grade whose teacher urges 
the children to write of what most 
interests them. 


“Mary started the fight. Mary pushed 
me and then pushed the other children. 

And then the fight. 

Mary kicked me, I did it back and then 
it was slap kick hit, slap kick hit. 

And Mary called me names, bad names, 
Bogyman, Dirty Stinky girl and others. 

But I did not call Mary names. 

Mary thinks she is Princess Elisebth. 

Dorothy Ann.” 

Also: 


“To Carol. 


T hate you. 
You are Bad. 
I hate you. Love, Mary.” 
Since Children’s Book Week is No- 
vember 13th to 19th, we’d like—ap- 
propriately—to mention a series of books 
that teen-agers might find satisfying for 
themselves, and certainly useful in their 
school work. They are MADE IN 
CHINA, MADE IN INDIA, MADE 
IN CANADA, MADE IN’ FRANCE, 
MADE IN USSR, MADE IN PO- 
LAND. If it’s possible for young people 
to know more about their counterparts 
in other countries of the world, so much 
the better. Of these books we’ve read 
only MADE IN POLAND, by Louise 
Llewellyn Jarecka. It tells about 
(Continued on Page 21) 


November, 1949 








and a package of song! 


A “treasure chest” for any lover 
of canaries—a chest so packed 
with golden song that it’s pre- 
ferred by 7 out of 10 canary 
owners! 


Here is a complete diet— 
not a few common seeds. 
French’s Bird Seed and Biscuit 
is a diet of the twelve tested 


ingredients that keep your pet 


healthy and happy. 


And a canary that is healthy 
and happy is a canary that 
sings—brightly, thrillingly. 
You can prove that: just feed 


French’s Bird Seed and Bis- 
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This PLUS in the package 


means song in your home! 


Watch yourcanary 
go for the French’s 
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When fed with 
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BIRD SEED 
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« 


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3 





af LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





"ea 





Nice furniture — but no rug on the floor. Paul and Lavonia Goolsby 
moved from apartment to house to give their son, young Michael, elbow- 
room. Their old living room rug went into their new dining room. Their 
new living room floor went bare. Naturally, the Goolsbys wanted broadloom 
— found they cou/d afford it in an Alexander Smith Floor-Plan Rug, ready- 
made to fit their room. They bought it at Black’s in Houston — 12’ x 166” 
— for only $165. Sce it, in color, at the top of this page. 





Color Cards by Clara Dudley, Alexander Smith color-consultant, helped 
the Goolsbys choose a Floor-Plan pattern that would blend with the colors 
ilready in their living room. Prices for all 40 Floor-Plan patterns are amaz- 
low. In the g’x 12’ size, the beige floral at the right is about $70; the 


Copyright Alexander Smith & Sons Carpet Company, 1949 





eee 


SE ESAS ea ae on de 


conser 


are priced casy-to-buy because theyre ready-made to fit 


You can afford broadloom. For Floor-Plan Rugs are ready-made of broad- 
loom in 20 sizes to fit big rooms, small rooms... very nearly all rooms. 
Ready-made to give you the savings you expect when you buy anything 
ready-made instead of custom-made. See Clara Dudley’s Color Cards in 
your store. And mail the coupon for her new color-idea book “Colorama”’. 


| 1 Lf 3% es al 
GX naer “Smith 

Ia ic | \ ae , | 
A Z4LOA LIALUL RJ SREEOUR ED 


3845 
FLOOR-PLAN RUGS €$~7 BROADLOOM CARPETS 


Ae 


Sh 















CLARA DUDLEY, Dept. LH-11. 
ALEXANDER SMITH & SONS CARPET COMPANY 
285 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK 16, NEW YORK 

I enclose 25¢ for your new 24-page ‘‘Colorama,’” 
showing me how to color-scheme on a low budget. 


Name. 


Address 








20 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL November, 1949 


Weve taken , : 
the sighs out of size 


You needn’t put up with the old-fashioned, breath-taking 
squeeze of standard sizes—thanks to Warner’s 3-Way-Sizes. 


e First you pick your exact size, then choose your length, hip 
size and just the control you want from over 300 styles and sizes. 


e Even short-waisted women can find exactly what they want 
in Warner’s. For instance, if you usually take half-size dresses, 
Warner’s have a Half-Size corselette designed exclusively for 


you. It’s 3-Way-Sized, too, for perfect fit. 


e If you're looking for the answer to your prayers, look for the 
Warner’s that’s planned just for you... 3 Ways. Girdles begin 
at $3.50. Corselettes at $10.00. At finer stores. 





Choose your length......... es 


Warner’s go to any length to please you with short, 
medium, long or extra long lengths. Incidentally, only 
Warner’s make Half-Size corselettes, like the one shown 
here. They’re long on comfort, if you're short-waisted. 


Choose your hip size ........ eee 


A girdle that’s too small at the hips causes unlovely 
thigh bulges. One that’s too wide ripples down the sides. 
For the smoothest trimming ever, Warner’s girdles and 
corselettes are hip-sized: straight, average and full. 


Choose your control. ..... rea pee 


You'll be hugged but never squeezed in a Warner’s 
... whether you choose the light mesh or the tightly 
woven elastics. Warner’s corselettes are ABC cup-sized 
just like all famous-for-fitting Warner’s bras. 










Le Gant “Half-Size” corselette #2702B, pink. As shown or in nylon, $18.50 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 2 


(Continued from Page 18) 
Polish peasant art, music and dancing, 
Polish cooking, wedding ceremonies, 
Easter and Christmas fetes. And what a 
world apart from our own it is! 


Item for the What-Might-Have- 
Been Department: Viola Layne was 
the original choice for the child role 
in Baby Takes a Bow. But Viola got 
the mumps and in her place the stu- 
dio sent for a little girl named Shirley 
Temple. (This was the movie which 
made our Shirley famous.) 


A WRITER’S NOTEBOOK, by Somer- 
set Maugham, is just what it pur- 
ports to be—jottings that the now fa- 
mous writer has been putting down since 
he was eighteen. Many of the observa- 
tions would make wonderful short sto- 
ries; many of them, in fact, have made 
famous stories. There are three para- 
graphs written when Maugham was in 
Pago-Pago: The Missionary, The Lodg- 
ing-house, Miss Thompson. ‘“‘On these 
three notes,” says he modestly in a foot- 
note, “I constructed a story called 
Rain.”’ Every fiction writer will read 
this notebook avidly. It is provocative— 
alive with ideas—overflowing with im- 
pressions. 


On January 26, 1944, Maugham wrote 
what amounts to his own obituary. ‘‘ Yes- 
lterday I was seventy years old. As one en- 
lers upon each succeeding decade it is nat- 
ural, though perhaps irrational, to look 
upon it as a significant event. When I ->2s 
thirty my brother said to me, ‘Now you 
are a boy no longer, you are a man and 
must be a man.’ When I was forty I said 
to myself, “This ts the end of youth.’ On 
my fiftieth birthday I said, ‘It's no good 
fooling myself; this is middle age and I 
may just as well accept it.’ At sixty I said, 


WIDE WORLD PHOTOS 





Somerset Maugham 


‘Now it’s time to put my affairs in order, 
for this is the threshold of old age and I 
must settle my accounts.’ . . . But of all 
anniversaries I think the seventieth is the 
most momentous. One has reached the 
three score years and ten which one is ac- 
customed to accept as the allotted span of 
man, and one can but look upon such 
years as remain to one as uncertain con- 
tingencies stolen while old Time with his 
scythe has his head turned the other way. 
Al seventy one is no longer on the thresh- 
old of old age. One is just an old man.” 


This was written almost six years 
ago. Since then Mr. Maugham has 
written three noyels, and a young 
friend yisiting him on the Riviera, 
where he now lives, writes the follow- 
ing: ““He’s a really great host. We 
swam in the Mediterranean each day, 
which means that we descended a tor- 
tuous path, bathed and ascended the 
same cliff each time. WSM was never 
even winded. Pretty good for a man 

* of seventy-five.” 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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a aCe | 


From Refugee Camps 


By MARGARET HICKEY 


HERE are still 300,000 homeless Europeans in camps in 

Western Germany, Austria and Italy, waiting for interested 

people in this and other countries to help them piece to- 
gether the fragments of their broken lives. 

Our Government has made it possible for us to bring into 
the United States a total of 205,000 displaced persons over a 
period of two years. During the first year after President Tru- 
man signed the Displaced Persons Act of 1948, only about 
40,000 persons gained entry. The program got off to a poor 
start, with only 2500 persons of all faiths arriving in the first 
six months. The machinery has been working smoothly for 
some time now, however, so that the number of arrivals has 
been stepped up to at least 16,000 a month. 

To be eligible to emigrate to the United States, displaced 
persons must be sponsored by an American agency or indi- 
vidual who gives certain assurances in accordance with the 
law. The refugee is thoroughly screened for any undesirable 
political characteristics. His sponsor must guarantee his trans- 
portation from port of entry to his new home; give assurance 
that the displaced person will not become a public charge, will 
have a home without displacing a resident and a job without 
displacing another worker. Actually, the refugee program is 
supplying workers in fields where there is a labor shortage, as 
in tailoring, stonemasonry, farming, mining, lumbering and 
domestic service. 


Religious Groups as Sponsors 


Religious groups have been most active in helping refugees 
enter this country. The resettlement of displaced Catholics, by 
far the largest group arriving, is being directed by the National 
Catholic Welfare Conference. Church World Service, official 
overseas relief and reconstruction agency for 23 Protestant 
and Eastern Orthodox churches, secured 25,163 assurances 
in little less than a year after the program got under way. 
The National Lutheran Council has resettlement offices 
established in 39 states and the District of Columbia. The 
‘United Service for New Americans expects 17,500 Jewish 
displaced persons to enter the United States under the act 
by June, 1950. 


Local Group Activities 


In Washington, D. C., the Federation of Churches observed 
last June as Displaced Persons Month. The churches carried 
on an intensive educational program to help their congrega- 
tions understand the needs of displaced persons and the prac- 
tical steps that must be taken to help them. 

In St. Louis, Frieda Romalis, executive director of the Jew- 
ish Family Agency, described their program, in which volun- 
teers instruct the wives of displaced persons in shopping at 
supermarkets, deciphering the canned- and packaged-food la- 
bels, and ordering a particular cut of meat. 

One North Dakota community leader writes, ‘Forget that 
term ‘displaced persons’ quickly. When they come into their 
new country, they’re no longer displaced. They’re in the right 
place. They’re home. They're new neighbors.” THE END 


A DP ship pulls into New York harbor. Viewing his new 
homeland for the first time through a porthole, this 
young American-in-the-making seems to like what he sees. 


DISPLACED PERSONS ... 








To “Grand Hotel,” 1949 


OTTE MEJIA was late for lunch that day. She sat in the straight-backed 
chair at the window of Room 507, her hands in her lap, staring at the 
street below until a hotel attendant knocked, opened the door and told 

her to come down for lunch. 

Lotte Mejia rode down in the elevator, not hungry, really, but wanting to 
please these kind, ge=tle people of the hotel. She stood in a corner of the ele- 
vator, a slight pale w- man. She was thinking of the job she was soon to take 
as a garment worker, hoping she’d make out here in America. 

When the elevator doors opened, the operator had to remind Lotte that 
they were on the ground floor. She nodded and moved forward slowly, stop- 
ping just outside the elevator to look toward the door through which the new 
arrivals were entering the hotel. She saw a man and a child, then a middle- 
aged woman. She thought, Another boatload of us to tax these good people. She 
thought, Why don’t they take the young and the young only? Why me? Why me, 
who has lost a husband and who has lost a daughter? And she thought again 
of Anna and saw Anna again in her mindas she had every day for three years. 

She saw Anna in her mind and, watching the doors, there beyond the two 
small boys, she saw Anna coming into the hotel. 

“No,” she said, “no, no,” and closed her eyes, for Anna was dead. Then 
Lotte opened her eyes and looked again, took one step and stopped and raised 
her arms and screamed, “‘Anna, Anna, my baby!” She began to run toward 
her daughter. 

The younger woman dropped her suitcase. “Mamma!” she said. “Mamma!” 


almost in a whisper, disbelievingly. Then she opened her arms’to her mother. 


“All the time,” said Ralph Astrofsky, who looks after such newcomers to 
the Hotel Marseilles, just off upper Broadway on (Continued on Page 261) 





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ZA. LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 











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GIFT QUICKIES 


IMPLE yet clever gifts are always Christmas “musts.” Youll want 
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Use different colors, bright yarn. 


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Can be made from heavy cotton ticking. 








2525. COSMETIC BAG. 15c. 
Make from taffeta, line with plastic. 


2526. QUILTED BAG AND SLIPPERS. lic. 
Lovely in quilted satin or taffeta. 


2527. SOAP MITT. 15c. 
Use terry cloth, contrasting palm. 
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Sheet includes drawstring design also. 


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Felt and yarn are used for faces. 


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Second design included with pattern. 


2102. HEART-SHAPED POTHOLDERS. 10c. 
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OTHER FEATURES 


Lists are sent free on request. They give the title, number and price of all our booklets and patterns. 


2076. THINGS- TO-WEAR_ PATTERNS. 
Aprons, blouses, accessories. 

1571. REFERENCE List OF KNITTED AND 
CROCHETED PATTERNS. j 

1752. HANDICRAFT PATTERN List. Things 
for you to make for your home, 
your children, gifts or yourself. 


2008. List oF DEPARTMENTAL BOOKLETS. 
For your home, garden, beauty, 
entertaining and child care. 

1695. Sus-DEB BOOKLET LIBRARY. 

1660. List oF JouRNAL Hat AND BaG 
PATTERNS 

2333. CHILDREN'S PATTERNS LIST. 











We will gladly send any of these booklets and patterns if you'll order by name and number. They 
will be mailed anywhere in the United States and Canada upon receipt of cash, check or 
money order. Do nol send stamped, addressed envelopes or Savings Stamps. Readers in all for- 
eign countries should send International Reply Coupons, purchased at their post office. Please 
address all requests to the Reference Library, Ladies’ Home Journal, Philadelphia 5, Penna. 












November, 1949 

















LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 







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Making Marriage Work 


By CLIFFORD R. ADAMS 


Ph.D., Pennsylvania State College, 


Department of Psychology 


Mire lhuan WUPME La ws WAS VA when 


Looking to the Future 


ROM birth to death, man is on a constant quest 

forbelongingnessandsecurity. Ashegrows older, 

he should gain some measure of each. Through 
family, church and friends he may achieve the feeling 
of belonging. But he can never have complete emo- 
tional security without some financial security. 

Of the country’s 10,000,000 people now over 65, 
more than half are jobless and dependent on relatives 
or the community for support. For most of them life 
is little more than a period of retrospect and waiting 
for death, because they are insecure. 

But long before retirement age, financial problems 
cause friction in nearly every home. Half of all do- 
mestic quarrels center around money—either the 
lack of it, or the way it is spent. These arguments, 
harmful in themselves, are also symptoms of basic 
weakness in the family’s financial management. 

The median family income today is about $3000 a 
year after income taxes. Only one family in eight re- 
ceives $7500 or more, and one family in nine has an 
income of $1000 or less. For the lowest-income 
groups merely maintaining existence is a struggle, but 
the average family can and should look to the future. 

Financial planning should begin during the engage- 
ment. The wise couple try to accumulate savings 
amounting to 10 per cent of their annual income, and 
to maintain that ratio throughout their married life. 
This fund constitutes a reserve for emergencies and 
to finance investments. 

The family income should accomplish the three ob- 
jectives of (1) supplying the actual material needs of 
the family, (2) making provision for the conveniences 
and pleasures of living, and (3) gradually establishing 
financial independence for old age. 

The first step toward these objectives is maintain- 
ing a margin between income and outgo. Until this is 
done, even a large income cannot provide security. If 
income does not cover expenses, the situation can be 
brought into balance in one of two ways: either by 
increasing income, or by reducing outgo. And the lat- 
ter is the more dependable choice. 

This principle can best be put into practice by 
budgeting. The purpose of a budget is to get maximum 
returns from the family income, both in spending and 
in saving. Here are budget plans for three different 
incomes: 


Income after taxes of $3000 $4000 $5000 
Food 1100 1400 1600 
Rent, home operation 720 960 1200. 
Personal expenses. . . 330 440 550 
Clothing. 300 400 550 
Savings, insurance 150 250 350 
Car, transportation 150 200 300 
Medical . 150 200 250 
Furniture 100 150 200 


Any budget plan must be adapted to the specific 
needs of the particular family. If you live in the coun- 
try, you may be able to economize on rent, spending 
more on transportation. Such modifications are rea- 
sonable, so long as you provide a specific offsetting 
economy for every excess expense. 

One of the commonest mistakes of young couples 
today is to overspend on housing. The expenditure on 
this item—or any other—should not be so great as to 


pusrgtod coupe ls yuarvel abowul th 


require eliminating other comforts and skimping on 
necessities. Nevertheless, home ownership is desir- 
able, both in itself and as a form of saving. But the 
cost of a home after the down payment should not ex- 
ceed twice the annual income. 

For families of low income, insurance on the hus- 
band’s life may be the only feasible form of saving. 
Term insurance provides protection at the lowest cost. 
When income permits, it can be replaced by ordinary 
life insurance or investment insurance. 

Government E Bonds are an attractive investment 
because, though they earn interest, they can be con- 
verted into cash at any time. 

No budget can succeed without sound operation. 
Here are a few tips on making a budget work: 

e Decide who (husband or wife) is responsible for 
what expenses and allot the appropriate share of in- 
come to each for those expenses. Such a clear-cut di- 
vision will minimize friction. 

e Don’t try to keep up with the neighbors. Adapt 
your spending to your needs and wants, not theirs. 
e Avoid impulsive buying. 

e Budget your expenses to total 5 to 10 per cent less 
than income. This is your margin for security. 


Religion and Your Home 
HROUGHOUT the ages, religion has been a com- 


pelling force in the lives of men. Religious contro- 
versies have altered the course of history, through 
wars, revolutions and mass migrations of peoples. 


(PUES TS a 
Are You Planning Ahead? 


Our future happiness is affected by our present 
actions. Discuss these questions with your husband 
and agree on your answers; the size of your score will 
be a measure of your joint money wisdom. Answer 
Yes or No. 


1. Do you two practice a sensible spending plan? 
2. Is the family’s health protected by some medical- 
insurance plan? 
- Does each of you have some personal allowance? 
. Are big purchases planned well in advance? 
- Do you shop the stores before buying? 


. Have you definite plans for home ownership? 
- Do you save on sales by planning ahead? 
- Will a week’s salary cover monthly rent (or mort- 
gage)? 
10. Does your husband often go shopping with you? 
11. Is money available for occasional recreation? 
12. Could you easily get credit if really needed? 
13. Do you have home laborsaving conveniences? 
14. Is your family well fed and adequately clothed? 


15. Does your husband’s insurance equal two years’ 
income? 


3 
4 
5 
6. Are savings available for emergencies? 
7 
8 
9 


16. Is there definite friction over money matters? 

17. Do you have charge accounts except for food? 

18. Are installment payments exceeding 8 per cent of 
income? 

19. Do total debts (home excepted) exceed 15 per cent 
of income? 


20. Is ready money exhausted before payday? 


The last five questions should be answered “No,” 
all others ““Yes.”’ Unless your income is above $5000, 
a score below 18 suggests faulty money management. 
With a score of 15 or less, even a large income won't 
make you financially secure. Let your wrong answers 
guide you in seeking improvement. 


Human beings have repeatedly demonstrated their 
willingness to suffer, to fight, even to die in defense of 
their faith in God. 

The need for such faith is fundamental and uni- 
versal. Just as the child needs faith in the parents who 
brought him into being, all human creatures, adults 
and children alike, need faith in some Power greater 
than themselves. The husband and wife who ignore or 
deny this need are depriving themselves and their 
children of one of the most powerful aids to family 
solidarity and happiness. 

There can be no doubt that happiness in marriage is 
related to religious faith and practice. Numerous de- 
tached and nonecclesiastical studies reaffirm different 
aspects of this truth. For instance: 


Church attendance is a factor. One study shows that 
among couples who attend church regularly, the 
chances of married happiness are more than twice as 
great as among couples who do not attend church. 
And note the emphasis on attendance, rather than on 
membership. The inference is that regular church at- 
tendance reflects faith translated into action. 


Being married in a church is a factor. Another study 
shows that couples who are married in a church are 
more likely to achieve happiness than those who are 
married elsewhere. 


Similarity of faith is a factor. Interfaith marriages 
(such as those between Jews and Gentiles, Protestants 
and Catholics) are fairly common, despite the op- 
position of all the great denominations. Yet records 
argue against such marriages, for statistics show that 
the breakup rate among couples of different religious 
faiths is easily twice that of couples of the same faith. 


Absence of religion is a factor, an even greater hazard 
than a difference of faith. For a still higher divorce 
rate is found among couples professing no religion. 

Thus we see that religion, whether by its presence 
or its absence, profoundly affects the chances of mar- 
ried happiness. Here are a few simple but basic sug- 
gestions for making religion an integral part of your 
family life: 

e inmost households it is up to the wife to initiate 
the family’s religious program. Recognize that this is 
your responsibility. 

e Resolve any important differences between you 
and your husband. If you two are of different reli- 
gions, the ideal solution is for one to embrace the faith 
of the other. Failing that, it is essential to work out a 
compromise acceptable to both. Though this should 
be done before marriage, it is not too late now, pro- 
vided you both approach the problem in the spirit of 
sympathy and good will taught by all religions. 

e Plan to carry out a definite program of religious 
training for the children. In this, Sunday school 
should play a prominent part—for Sunday school 
combines factual instruction with worship. 

e@ Make it a practice to attend church regularly. If 
possible, go with your husband; if this is impractical, 
you and he can take turns. But both should go, sep- 
arately or together. 

e Finally, adopt an active role rather than a passive 
one. A bystander, however approving, is less effective 
than a participant. Your children will learn more from 
your example than from your words. 


Do You Agree? 


Henry and I cannot be married until he grad- 
uates from college two years hence. Should we 
announce our engagement? 


No, because long engagements are seldom desirable. 
Long courtship and short engagement is the rule, 
rather than the other way about. 
















LADIES’? HOME JOURNAL 


elena Rubinstein 


reveals the secret of her new 


Silk Screen 
Face Powder 


akes your skin look 


Silken-Smooth, Silken-Soft—Aglow with Silken Color 


One day I saw a miracle. I watched a woman who 
wasnt even pretty put on a silk cloak. 


Instantly her whole personality was trans- 
formed. The shimmering silk gave her romantic 
allure; made her look vital. 


This gave me an idea! 


Could silk be combined with face powder? The 
thought was so challenging, I hardly dared hope it 
could be realized. 

After years of testing, I have achieved sILK 
SCREEN FACE POWDER, in which pure silk is pow- 
derized to sublime fineness, then whirled with hurri- 
cane speed into the finest face powder imaginable. 





From its first day women went wild over SILK 
SCREEN FACE POWDER. They wrote me. Many tele- 
phoned. They called in person at my New York salon 
to say—“Madame Rubinstein, your new face powder 
is what I’ve dreamed about.” 


See these results on your own face 


1. Observe how my Silk Screen Face Powder clings 
with silken magnetism. Keeps your skin looking 
fresh all day long. 

2. See how it imparts gossamer sheerness—like a 
living finish—to your face. 

3. Thrill to the glorious new silken color—color 
enriched by pure powderized silk. 

4. And finally, enjoy a brave new accent in your 
face powder. I mean the radiance, the glow, the 
lovely young bloom silk puts on your skin. 


8 specially blended shades 


I offer you SILK SCREEN FACE POWDER in 8 specially 
blended shades. Shades richer, more /ifelike than ever 
before possible. Choose the shade that flatters your com- 
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silken beauty. $1.00, $2.00 and $3.50. 
Silk Compact powder... silken powder in compressed form, $1.00 


prices plus tax 


helena rubinstein, 655 fifth ave., new york 22, n. y. 


Dinner coat by Traina-Norell, jewelry by La Vieille Russie 


Avy Yuabe Cou‘ Pla 


UT not all girls have fun! And when you think 

about it, dating is like a game. And like any 

game, it can come easier if you know the rules. 
You won't find this list of suggestions in any et- 
quette book, but follow eecerisns (just tuck the list 
away in your memory to pull out at the right times) 
and you may wind up a date-night w onan 


On Single Dates 


DO take ten minutes out before pickup time to 
think of six things to talk about, especially if this 
is your first ait with the Montgomery Clift char- 
acter. Think about what movie, what book and which 
friend has loomed up as important in your life 
recently. If on-the-spot conversation lags, the other 
topics will pop up just naturally. 

DO have a couple of suggestions for things to do 
up your sleeves, even if you don’t have to use them. 
Know what’s playing at the local movies, if there is a 
dance at the Y, ana how crowded bowling alleys are 
likely to be that night. Saves a lot of “‘w Here shall we 
20° ’ doorstep loiter 1g. 

DO say “This is Gl? or “I’m really glad we came” 
once or twice in the evening. Even the eee eheety joe 
is likely to worry about w Hether or not you're having 
the time of your life with him alone for company. 


DON’T miss this chance to really get to know your 
man. Sound him out, but subtly, on his attitudes on 
everything from bebop to baseball. Remember what 
he says and what he thinks—then flip out those 
memories on future dates (we’ve got our fingers crossed 
for you!). He’ll be flattered to know you remembered. 

DON’T let the evening get into such a romantic 
mood (especially on a first date) that it winds up in a 
midnight clinch with you declaring huffily that you’re 
not that kind of quick- neck. A boy can get so embar- 
rassed that he won’t have courage to sail again. 

DON’T ever let a good friendship die when it’s only 
one date old. Wait out a week and if the man of the 
evening doesn’t call you again, find an excuse to call 
him with an invitation. Every girl has a right to that 
one bid—but after that second evening, it’s up to him 
to decide to try for a third date. 


On Double Dates 


DO be willing to change your own plans graciously 
if the other couple shows up with a good idea. Have 
suggestions of your own, but keep them suggestions 
and not set plans until you find out what the three 
other characters want to do. 

DO make like a chum with the second female mem- 
ber of the quartet. If she’s new to your crowd, 


THE SUB-DEB e EDITED BY MAUREEN DALY 





change the subject or get her into the small talk when 
the conversation turns to private jokes or do-you- 
remember-whens. Two birds with one stone, you 
know—your date will also see that you’re a good gal. 

DO make the most of these double-date opportuni- 
ties to help the lads stretch a dollar. Four’s a crowd, 
and in that case it’s easier to say, “Let’s all go to 
my house and play records.” 

DON’T pull a combination Betty Hutton-Ava 
Gardner act by trying to be the whole party, hogging 
conversation, demanding attention and trying to 
flirt with both boys all at the same time. It’s a double 
date, remember, and the fun has to be split four 
ways—give the other girl a chance to get her share. 

DON’T argue, don’t pull a pout if plans can’t be 
made to suit you. If you’ve already seen the movie 
or if your mother won’t allow you to go to Joe’s Joint 
for dancing, suggest that each couple go its own way 
and meet at deadline time for a good-night Coke. 


Crowd Dates 


DO try to look your very best best, especially for a 
big schooi dance where your boy will want to show 
you off as “my girl.” Skip such last-minute tricks 
that might make you feel self-conscious or just too- 
too-glamour. But give yourself a dress rehearsal the 
night before, complete with accessories, to be sure 
you couldn’t look lovelier (or feel more comfortable!). 

DO stick to being part of the crowd by following 
any plans made. That means no one-girl acts, no 
maneuvering into a solitary twosome with your lad, 
no cat-chatting sessions with the girls. If it’s a party, 
join the games; if it’s a dance, you be in there like 
Ann Miller warming up the floor. 

DO treat your date to a little extra attention. If 
you're out where you two can be seen by the whole 
school crowd, he has his male pride and dating 
reputation to maintain and he'll never forgive you 
if you treat him casually. 

DON’T retreat, pull a snob act or coax your lad off 
into a twosome if you feel a little floored by so much 
crowd competition. Maybe you two are really alone 
together in your thoughts—but remember you're a 
guest and must stay a part of the party. 

DON’T get worried if you aren’t getting enough 
attention. Parties often seem a bit too big to handle. 
Just keep laughing in the right places and, if you run 
out of talk, try an interested expression when some- 
one else is talking. It can often do more for your 
popularity than an hour of solo chatter! 

DON’T get crowd-crazy if you and the gang go out 
for an evening together or just stop off for hamburgers 
and malteds after a dance. The very fact that you 
arrive in numbers is going to attract attention, so 
don’t turn up the juke box full blast, knock over 
sugar bowls or push tables together to seat the mob. 
(P.S. How would it look in your diary if you had to 


write: ‘*. .. and then the manager threw us allout’’?) 


LISTEN. FELLOWS... 


. there’s no reason why the girls 
alone shou! know all the answers! 
How about a little inside information 
for yourself from the “for boys only” 


Sub-Deb booklets, GENTLEMEN PRE- 
FERRED, No. 1192; Know Your 
Girt, No. 1668; and Ir I Were a 
Man!, No. 1546, Just 5e each from 
the Reference Library, Lapres’ Home 
Journat, Independence Square, 
*hiladelphia 5, Pennsylvania. 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 29 


** To keep your sheer lingerie and stockings 


lovely longer... use Ivory Flakes care” 





NATIONALLY FAMOUS DALLAS, TEXAS, FASHION STOF 





Leading stores from 
coast to coast recommend 


the only flake soap 


eee ty tt hk 


with the famous Ivory name 


“Your finest washables will lead a longer, 






lovelier life, if you give them gentle Ivory 


CAbae eh hth th hh hhh ke 


Flakes care.” That’s what buyers in leading 


jam 


fashion and department stores all over the 
country will tell you. Chances are the fash- 
ion people at your own fayorite store will 
agree with the lingerie buyer of Neiman- 
Marcus, famous Texas Fashion Store. She 
says: “When you wash delicate fabrics and 
colors, be sure to use a soap made especially 
for fine fabrics. You want the purest, mild- 
est soap you can buy. That’s why we recom- 
mend pure, mild Ivory Flakes.” 


How right! Just one careless washing can 
ruin color and fit. But you can wash fine 
lingerie, girdles, lovely cottons, nylons, silks 
or wools gently and often in those pure 
flakes, those mild flakes, those Ivory Flakes! 
They Il come out looking bright, fitting right! 
Get Ivory Flakes today—they’re the only 
flake form of baby’s pure, mild Ivory Soap. 


You'll love Ivory Flakes for your nylon 
stockings. too. Just suds them gently every 
night in Ivory Flakes. They Il wear and wear 
...and keep that new, fresh look up to 
twice as long! 


If its lovely to wear 
its worth 


Wory Hakes 
/ caret 


———— 


LINGERIE | 


‘ / 
oe 
4 é - ~— 





“FLOATING FANTASY”, the latest word in boudoir clothes, delicate-looking you almost hesitate to touch them, yet the 
as featured by Neiman-Marcus, in Dallas. The peignoir is buyer tells you to wash them without worry—if you use 
two layers of nylon net—pink over navy. The gown is of Ivory Flakes care. So pure, so mill, so completely safe— 
pink nylon sheer. Set $135. So light they fairly float, so Ivory Flakes are made to order for your fine washables. 





eo 


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SECRET OF AMAZING PERFORMANCE 
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PLUS THESE ALL-IMPORTANT FEATURES 


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WHIRLPOOL DEALER 


= 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





Aa ods has 





...See the Wonder-Working 
as 


November, 1949 








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MADE BY THE FAMOUS NINETEEN HUNDRED CORPORATION 





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© 1949 NINETEEN HUNDRED CORP. 





eee EN 
























LADIES’ 


CURTIS CIRCULATION 


Inclosed is $_ 
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NDIAN COUNTRY GI 
over the » JACK AND 
the fall of 3.2, wus. s. 

is always V 

cold spell, ae x SG: 
out and the ver" 3 
few late flowers t 
spike of dark delp’ 
and sweet wild astt 
chantment; the very,” 
mer” has magic irf it 
people walk again ir 
campfires flicker at 

I f the stream. a 
a Beak as it lasts, wegen the dream. 
Almost any chore can be off to another 
time; we talk idly of the tactiarat storm 
windows ought to be washed. But W sit in 
the garden instead, having aftemon tea 
with cinnamon toast and watchin the 
puppies play with windfall apples. 

At night we take a small drive aund 
some back-country road and everytt g is 
beautiful and strange In the evening :ht. 
An idle hay wagon by a red barn, aim- 
portant white hen scuttling across thead, 
a farm woman calling from the li ed 
kitchen door of an old white house, a nit 
running to the thicket—they are aln- 

ed with beauty. 7. 
pg ies we see a deer, stepping liy 
from the shadows. The shy dark eyesk 
at us, there is a moment of stillnesse 
delicate ears twitch, then there is alv 
leap and the deer is away into the dec 
ing safety of the woods. I say a Sp 
prayer for its life as we slowly drive 

Of course we know this will not last, 

summer in autumn. Jill is getting the 
feeders ready, for soon the yard will be 
of hungry guests. Our best feeder is 

George Bennet made from an old oil 

Two sides of the can make a roof, and 

shelf underneath holds a goodly quan 


Pently, folds 
as softly as 
dless day. It 
ter a sharp 
ake and look 
pn. Always a 

m: a single 
all pale rose, 
B time of en- 
ris Indian sum- 
the vanished 
ods, and lost 
by the cool 


on the tree trunk. An 


amy, and still as a fallen leaf. 


of | Domesticity 


y GLADYS TABER 


bird feed with melted suet or fat and pc 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 






are sheer magic, warm 


it into small tin cans such as baby-food 
cans. When it hardens, the end of the can is 
cut out with the can opener and the can is 
hung by a string from a branch. There is 
always a bird having a buffet meal at that 
counter! 

On these benign days, we eat all our 
meals outside. This past summer the old 
barbecue fireplace finally fell into a slant 
worse than the Leaning Tower, since its feet 
were bedded in swampy soil. We had to 
take it down, and with it went many 
memories of steak and chicken roasts, 
shish kebabs, lobster broils. We finally 
bought a portable barbecue on wheels. I 
have to admit, although I am always al- 
lergic to change, that the new contraption 
is a wonder. For we can move our cooking 
to any warm sunny spot, and we can make 
a very small charcoal fire for a few ham- 
burgers instead of always having a con- 
flagration the size of an office building. It 
is a real joy to sit under the maple trees 
and have dinner merrily cooking right at 
hand. 

Broilers split and grilled are delicious. 
We baste them with barbecue sauce and 
eat them as they drip with goodness. Last 
week we had some particularly delicious 
ones and Jill made the sauce. I asked her 
what she had in it and she said; “I just 
used the rest of the garlic French dressing 
and threw in the odds and ends of mustard, 
horse-radish, chili sauce, catchup and stuff. 
Refrigerator needed cleaning out.’’ So I 
decided the very best barbecue sauce is a 
clean-out sauce. 

I really enjoy frying chicken, the way I 
do it. My recipe calls for a chair beside the 
stove, one of those high perches, a simmer- 
ing iron spider, the chicken and whatever, 
and a copy of the Saturday Review of 
Literature. As the fat gets just hot enough 
but not too hot, I begin with John Mason 


f food. It is easy to move around and Brown and the first chicken. I turn, and 
b ds love it. Then we hang suet in a (read, and sniff the good browning smell and 
a , d finally Jill msavor the good articles. 


(Continued on Page 100) 





31 










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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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November, 










LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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PRINTED INU. S.A. 





ing. Take a brisk walk or run, 
breathe deeply, and keep the 
mouth closed.”’ 


















Children’s hose: “For the winter, 
black shoes and stockings are worn 
by both boys and girls.” 


Goat carriage: “‘A light wagon, 
like a sulky, to which a goat may be 
attached, costs $4.50.”’ 


Household mangles: “When hot 
mangles are used, two persons are re- 
quired to do the work, one to turn 
the handle of the mangle, and the 
other to feed it.” 


Gossip of a New York Girl: “‘To be 
up-to-date this winter, you must 
surely haye some chinchilla fur. I 
have two dozen beautiful skins put 
away in my camphor trunk for 
years.”” 


Thanksgiving dinner: “Stuff ducks 
with potatoes and chopped walnuts 
and serve with browned turnips and 
cranberry sauce.” 


______._.__.... Lene______ State. 


New 
Sen- 
s to 
1ent 
le in 
t in 
heir 
rty- 
xty- 
ther 
will 
aak- 
arch 
side 
e to 
n as 
ards 
and 
floor 
rhile 
munaurcus Ut them 
down with ropes. They used to let 
them soar away at the end of the pa- 
rade, the man at Macy’s said, but the 
airlines began complaining. Gave 
passengers the jitters suddenly to look 
out and see a great fat Santa Claus go 
floating by. 


ftiarenmcrs mu 


Birthdays in November of three men 
everybody knows are: John P. Mar- 
quand’s (whose JOURNAL serial, Point 
of No Return, still tops the best-seller 


PHOTO FROM EUROPEAN 





November child, Winston Churchill. 


lists in book form) on the tenth; Al- 
ben Barkley’s on Thanksgiving; and 
on the last day of the month, Winston 
Churchill’s. 


One Wednesday afternoon we found 
William Fink in the art department 


bu Know. 


t goes on 


" PHOTO FROM EUROPEAN 


Inflated Pilgrims, pandas, other characters top Thanksgiving parade. 


with a look of astonishment on his 
face, caused, it turned out, by the 
fact that on Monday he’d received 
Pruett Carter’s illustration for My 
Brother’s Keeper (in this issue) from 
Hollywood, where Pruett lives; had 
had to return it for a small addition; 
and here it was back again, all fixed 
and finished. ‘'There used to be a say- 
ing,’’ he said, ‘‘about ‘Art is long...’ 
but not when it comes to air mail!”’ 


Gladys Taber and Margaret David- 
son have been having quite a correspond- 
ence with a gentleman in Tokyo about our 
kitchen series in the magazine, which fills 
him with hope for the future of the Japa- 
nese household; for his own kitchen, he 
says, is “‘one step from jungle condi- 
tions.”’ He apologized for a break of three 
weeks in the middle of a recent lengthy 
letter. ““My wife,” he explained, “has 
just had another baby.” 


More boys than girls are born in the 
U.S. each year, and they outnumber the 
girls until the early twenties. Then, 
because more girls live, the women 
catch up, and by middle age there are 
more women than men... . Nearly 90 
per cent of all American adults and 75 
per cent of school children are afflicted 
with foot trouble in some form. Most 
people, says one chiropodist, buy their 
shoes too short. Feet are bigger in the 
afternoon, and therefore shoes fitted in 
the morning are not always reliable. .. . 
A survey shows that 4 per cent of 
American women sleep in the nude, 66 
per cent wear nightgowns, 30 per cent 
prefer pajamas. . . . ‘Women should be 
given a try at ruling the world for the 
next thousand years,”’ says an anthro- 
pology professor. “I don’t believe we 
would have as many wars. They’re nat- 
ural peacemakers.” 


‘Why, pretty soon you'll even be 
roasting our beef and poultry for us,”’ 
Betty Gray told the head meatman at 
the opening of the new superservice 
market near her home downtown the 
other day on her way to the Work- 
shop. “‘We’ll do it right now, if you 
want,’”’ he said, and took her down 
the aisle to a great glass-enclosed ro- 
tisserie. So at six o’clock, on her way 
home, Betty picked up her three- 
pound roast, right off the spit (50 
cents for the roasting), and it was 
wonderful, she said; and as an as- 
sistant food editor, she certainly 
ought to know. 


There is now a new pair of easy chairs 
called ‘Mr. and Mrs.” They look abso- 
lutely identical—size, shape, every- 
thing—but are so cleverly designed, ac- 
cording to Henrietta Murdock, that 
until you sit in them you never learn 
that one is larger than the other... . 
Also new is Miss M.’s umbrella; the 


_ plastic covering as clear as glass, so she 


can hold it right in front of her face on 
crowded sidewalks, and watch for an 
empty taxi. And in the handle are 
nickels, dimes.and quarters, for her fare. 


In Grand Central Station, under a ceil- 
ing with 2500 illuminated stars, there 
ts a place called the kissing gallery where 
more osculation occurs, the station people 
claim, than at any other spot in the world. 
A lot of people, they suspect, come there 
who aren’t concerned with arrivals or de- 
partures—simply use the kissing gallery 
because they won’t be too conspicuous. 


There are plenty of big-name football 
fans around town who have their pri- 
vate boxes every Saturday (or Sunday), 
where part of the fun for them is to be 
seen, as well as to watch the games. 
(The President’s boxes at the Army- 
Navy game, by the way, are steam- 
heated.). But one here, with a private 
box he’s supposed to use, tries his best 
every time to be part of the crowd, un- 


MAX PETER HAAS 





Columbia’s top fans: the Kisenhowers. 


observed in a regular grandstand seat. 
Always, however, by the end of the first 
half, word gets round that General of 
the Army Eisenhower is there, and 
reluctantly, with his wife and friends, 
he takes the place reserved for the Presi- 
dent of Columbia. 




















mre 















N a clear August evening, borne upon the light breath of a fair wind, 
the fleet was entering Torbay. The sight was so lovely that men and 
women in the fishing villages about the bay gazed in wonder, shield- 
ing their eyes with their hands. Since England had been at war with 

Napoleonic France the fleet was often in Torbay. Yet none of these com- 
ings and goings had had quite the unearthly beauty of this arrival of 
two ships of the line and four frigates. 

The last light of the sun was streaming over the green hills to the west, 
brimming the leafy valleys with liquid gold, then emptying itself in a sort 
of abandonment of glory into the space of sky and sea beyond. There were 
ripples on the water, and a fragile pattern of cirrus clouds above, and these 
caught the light in vivid points of fire that were delicate as filigree upon the 
fine metal of the gold-washed sea and sky. Voices were stilled upon sea and 
shore and the white gulls, with their gold-tipped wings, floated silently. 

Into this vast peace sailed the great ships, and were presently at rest. 
Evening fell, there were lights here and there upon the ships, scattered 
lights on the shore. Those on shore saw phantom ships upon the sea now, 
and those on board saw phantom villages gleaming along the shore, and 
after the habit of humankind each man yearned to be where the other was, 
and saw in the place where he was not his heart’s desire. 

Mr. Midshipman Anthony Louis Mary O’Connell, on board the leading 
frigate, was no exception. At the moment he was enduring the punishment 
meted out to midshipmen who sleep on watch. He was lashed in the weather 
rigging, his arms and legs widely stretched, his head burning, his body 
shivering from the bucketful of cold water that had been emptied over him, 
and in his heart black rebellion, fury and despair. For he had been treated 





Copyright 1949, by Elizabeth Goudge 


all 


By ELIZABETH GOUPGE 


PART ONE OF A THREE-PART SERIAL 


ILLUSTRATED BY ANDREW LOOMIS 






with the most shocking injustice. Spread-eagling was the correct punish- 
ment for the offense he had committed, and he would have endured it with 
stoicism had there not been added to it the “grampussing,” the sousing with 
a bucket of cold water. That, though also a recognized punishment for fall- 
ing asleep upon watch, was not meant to be employed in conjunction with 
the other. Either spread-eagling or grampussing, but not both, was the rule 
of the navy. 

But upon this ship there was no justice. It was a bad ship; in fact, in the 
opinion of Mr. Midshipman O’Connell, it was not a ship at all, but the deep- 
est pit of hell. It had the devil for captain, fiends for officers and an army of 
rats for seamen. 

He tried to ease his position a little and a pain like red-hot fire shot up 
his spine. He groaned and cursed softly but fluently. He had been in the 
navy exactly eight weeks and counted only one thing upon the credit side: 
he had learned a vocabulary which for richness and power surpassed any- 
thing hitherto dreamed of by him. 

Nothing in the fifteen years of Anthony Louis Mary O’Connell’s life had 
prepared him for these last two months. He had been brought up in Bath by 
an aristocratic Irish grandmother, a devout Catholic, not wealthy but mov- 
ing in a society where a fashionable wig was held of no account if the mind 
beneath it was mediocre. Lady O’Connell had known Doctor Johnson. She 
had been on terms of intimate friendship with Fanny Burney. Anthony, the 
only child of her only child, another Anthony who had married a French 
wife and died with her at the beginning of the Terror, was to Lady O’Connell 
the reason for existence. Her devotion had made her give him a softness of 
upbringing that was the cruelest thing she could have given him. She had 


him educated by private tutors. He was musical, (Continued on Page 72) 


He could change his name. 


but his heart and his mind were more stubborn. 


36 


THE JOURNAL’s COMPLETE-IN-ONE-ISSUE CONDENSED NOVEL 


ATE cccktail time in New York and Hollywood is the dead hour 
before dinner in Richmond. Since returning to the city, Chris 
Mathers had retained the habit of other places, making the time a 

personal cocktail hour. It gave him an illusion of choice to live outside the 
local customs, just as he preferred his home downtown, on Second 
Street, in the old part of a city which had fled to the suburbs. 

Second Street bisects the heart of Richmond, beginning at the Lee 
Bridge and ending as the Broadway of the Negro district. In the center, 
Second Street crosses Westmoreland, where in ante-bellum times the 
mansions of tobacco princes flanked the smaller, more charming red- 
brick houses on side streets. Today the old mansions have made way for 
shops. By six o’clock these are closed, and the abandoned residential sec- 
tion grows as silent as a ghost town. In that nightly deserted district stood 
Chris Mathers’ small house. 

It had once been the carriage house of a mansion. An artist had con- 
verted the hayloft into a studio, now a magnificently windowed upstairs 
living room. A bedroom, large bath and hallway comprised the first floor. 
The house faced sidewise to the street and its front door opened into a 
brick-walled patio. A solid gate in one wall opened on the street. The 
privacy was complete, and the coolness made of the little patio a sanctuary 
in the still heat of downtown Richmond. There Chris was serving cock- 
tails to Harriet Coles. 

The day had been stiflingly hot. Lying in deck chairs, with Martinis 
beside them, Chris and Harriet watched, over the ivy-covered walls, color 
return to the bleached sky. In the distance, saffron edged the deepen- 
ing blue. The scene became unrelated to their present circumstances, 
to the day which had passed. As if propelled by the escape from the 
heat, Chris and Harriet felt a sense of escape from all normally as- 
sociated with it. The feeling was new to them and, with it, they fell 
into unaccustomed silence. 

They had been very glib in the four months of knowing each other. 
Always before, their pleasures had held an element of escape from the 
Richmond to which they were both returned expatriates. 

As a researcher at the Institute of Virginia History and Research—and 
before that in New York, the West Coast and Washington—Chris shared 
no mutual friends with Harriet, 
and facts about her were few to 
him. She was the only daugh- 
ter of (Continued on Page 114) 
Copyright, 1949, by Clifford Dowdey. This 


is a condensation of the novel soon to be pub- 


lished by Doubleday & Co., Inc. 


By CLIFFORD DOWDEY 


TLLUSTRATED BY PRUETT CARTER 







































38 





ILLUSTRATED BY COBY WHITMORE 

















By MARGARET KENNEDY 


HERE is nothing left of the old house now, 

nor of the cliff on which it stood. Before 
that day in the late summer of 1947 when 
everything ended, the house by Pendizack Cove 
had been filled with summer guests. It was run 
by Mrs. Siddal, as a means of supporting her in- 
digent husband, Dick, and three sons, Gerry, 
Duff and Robin. 

The guests were an oddly assorted group. 
There was Sir Henry Gifford, with his neurotic, 
invalid wife, Eirene; their daughter, Caroline, 
and their adopted children, Luke and Michael, 
twins, and the little hellion, Hebe. Mrs. Cove, a 
money-grasping widow, brought her three small 
daughters, Maud, Blanche and Beatrix, who, 
accustomed to the barest necessities of life, re- 
garded the Giffords as from another world. At 
the hotel also were Mr. and Mrs. Paley, the 
irascible Canon Wraxton and his daughter, 
Evangeline. Nancibel Thomas, a local girl, and 
Miss Ellis helped Mrs. Siddal, prepare meals, 
clean the rooms and keep the’ house running. 

Trouble began almost on the first day when 
Nancibel met Bruce, ostensibly chauffeur for 
Mrs. Anna LeChene, a middle-aged authoress. 
Their beginning romance ended when Nancibel 
learned there was more between Bruce an 1 his 





Copyright, 1949, by Margaret Kennedy. This is a condensation of the novel, a Literary Guild selection, soon to be published, under the title of The Feast, by Rinehart & Company. 





employer than met the casual eye. Hebe organ- 
ized all the children into a secret society and, as 
an initiation, took the Coves to the point of 
Dead Man’s Rock and ordered them into the sea. 
Had not Gerry Siddal and Angie Wraxton been 
out in a boat, Mrs. Cove would have been child- 
less as well as a widow. When the girls were re- 
stored to her, Mrs. Cove locked them in their 
bedroom to await punishment. There Blanche 
discovered, in one of her mother’s suitcases, the 
missing figurine, believed to be black amber, for 
which Sir Henry and Robin Siddal had been 
searching. They had gone to buy it from Nanci- 
bel’s great-great-grandmother, penniless Mrs. 
Pearce, only to discover that it had been bought 
for a fraction of its value by a mysterious for- 
eigner calling herself Mrs. Smith. Sir Henry had 
his suspicions, but now Blanche knew. Terri- 
fied, she threw it out the window. 


CONCLUSION 


HE night was vast and cool. All Pendizack 
Cove lay in a gulf of shadow, but the cliffs 
stood bare in the starlight. Bruce went 
down on the sand and walked, trying to make up 
his mind what to do next. He was sick of Anna, 
but he was afraid of breaking with her. For it 





39 


was she who had introduced him to literary peo- 
ple, the friends of whom he had boasted to Alice 
and Nancibel. He did not like them much, but 
they were a step on the ladder which he wished 
to climb. As soon as his book was published he 
could be independent of her. If he left now,’ it 
might never be published, for he had overstepped 
the truth when he described this event as a cer- 
tainty. Anna was bringing pressure upon a pub- 
lisher friend to accept it. 

Then there was that little matter of the car he 
had stolen when he was Boots in the South Coast 
hotel last summer. He had borrowed it to take a 
girl to a dance, smashed it in a ditch, and killed a 
cyclist. Anna knew about that. She had supplied 
him with an alibi when he was questioned. She 
had rescued him from the police and his black- 
ing brushes and taken him to London. She had 
encouraged him to write. He certainly owed her 
a great deal, though he felt that he had paid for it. 

He disliked his position, and at intervals de- 
spised himself for it. But he would have been 
content to stay on with Anna until his book 
was published if it had not been for Nancibel, and 
the fact that such a choice would cut him off 
forever from Nancibel’s regard. He had an 
idea that she might, in (Continued on Page 215) 


aneneanaainalll 





40 


VLA 
AE MT WIL? 


By BRUCE BLIVEN 


N age-old dream of humanity has come a 

long step nearer to realization. As a result 

of scientific work that is now in progress, it 

seems highly probable that in the future, pro- 

spective parents will be able to exercise a sub- 

stantial degree.of choice as to the sex of their 
children. 

The technique they will employ is not now 
infallible and probably never will be. Yet it is 
accurate enough to change substantially the 
present situation, under which about 105 
babies are boys to every 100 that are girls. 

In experiments made under carefully con- 
trolledseonditions with large numbers of rats 
in laboratories—experiments which should be 
valid for human beings as well—the normal 
ratio of 105 male offspring for every 100 fe- 
males has been altered. The experimenters 
have been able to arrange conditions under 
which litters have been produced where the 
proportion of males has ranged from 149 males 
to 100 females, up to 255 males to 100 females. 

This amazing development, far-reaching in 
its possible significance, is chiefly the result of 
work done by two scientists in the Department 
of Surgery of the School of Medicine of Duke 
University, Drs. Deryl Hart and James D. 
Moody. The fundamental principle which they 
have discovered, and have verified in several 
ways, including experiments with many hun- 
dreds of rats, is this: 

If insemination takes place before ovulation, 
or early in the process, the probability is 
that the resulting offspring will be a female. 
The earlier in the fertility period the in- 
semination occurs, the greater the probability 
of this result. 

And conversely, if insemination takes place 
late in the fertility period, the offspring is likely 
to be a male. The later the insemination, the 
greater the probability of this result. 

The fact that late insemination, in the rat, 


produces a larger proportion of males has been 


verified scientifically beyond any question. 
There is evidence that early insemination 
produces a large proportion of females, but not 
so much work has been done in this direction 
as in the other. New experiments of this char- 
acter are now being carried out. 

In addition to the laboratory experiments 
with rats, these amazing new findings are sup- 
ported by the following items of evidence: 

A study of 9489 cases of artificial insemina- 
tion among married women in the United 
States. 

Studies of twins, including one study of more 
than 86,000 sets, divided into those which are 
monozygotic (born of a single egg) and di- 
zygotic (born of two eggs). 

The significance of these pieces of evidence 
I shall discuss a little later. First, however, let 
me remind you of the chief facts about con- 
ception and pregnancy, which are true of 
human beings and of a majority of other mam- 
mals, and which bear directly upon the dis- 
coveries of Doctors Hart and Moody. 

Among human beings, conception is possible 
only for a limited period of the menstrual 
cycle, during which ovulation occurs. This 
takes place almost exactly halfway between 
the beginning of one period of menstruation 
and the beginning of the next, a cycle which 
normally takes twenty-eight days. The woman’s 
fertile period begins about twelve days after 
the beginning of the menstrual period; ovula- 
tion takes place about two days later, and the 
fertile period lasts, in all, four to five days. 

The ovum, or egg, ripens in the ovary and 
descends, following ovulation, into the Fal- 
lopian tube. There, if insemination has taken 
place, it can be penetrated by one of the many 
millions of male sperm (there may be as many 
as 100,000,000 in a single drop of seminal 
fluid). This whole process is ultramicroscopic; 
the female egg is so small as to be almost in- 
visible to the naked eye, — (Continued on Page 194) 


™ 


Seientists now think the sex of a baby can be 


predetermined by its parents. 


A WOMAN WEIGHING GOLD 


By Jan Vermeer 


AN VERMEER of Delft (1632-75) 
was a master of stillness, of those 
moments of life when ‘all action has 
ceased, held by an ephemeral adjust- 
ment of forces. The canvas in the Na- 
tional Gallery of Art conveys this sense 
of dynamic quiescence, is in fact an 
allegory of balances. The unmoving 
figure weighing gold balances in her 
seales her éarthly treasure, while 
Christ in the Last Judgment in the 
background weighs in His divine 
knowledge human guilt. The woman 
is absorbed, wrapped in the serene and 
mysterious thoughts of approaching 
maternity; and her pregnant body 
half concealing the painting hung be- 
hind her suggests a further equation 
as though, in Santayana’s phrase, 
‘the truth of life could be seen only in 
the shadow of death; living and dying 
were simultaneous and inseparable.” 
Such symbolic profundity is rare 
among Dutch painters of the seven- 
teenth century and only intermittent 
in Vermeer’s own work. The quality 
for which his paintings are always dis- 
tinguished is form rather than con- 
tent. For Vermeer, among all Dutch 
artists, is unrivaled in his mastery of 
optical reality. In his paintings just so 
much detail is included as can be seen 
from a normal distance, not by focus- 
ing the eye successively on different 
objects, nor in an instant of time, but 


with a steady gaze. Similarly, in his ~ 


treatment of tone relations, there is a 
perfect consistency with what we ac- 
tually see. No other painter has been 
able to maintain such subtle distinc- 
tions of color in different planes of 
light, nor to extend this organization 
of tone into such depths of shadow. 
Symmetry and balance in design, 
consistent selection of detail, propor- 
tional organization of tone relations, 
these are difficult to achieve, and Ver- 
meer must have labored long and hard 
oyer each painting. Only thirty-seven 
pictures can be attributed to him with 
certainty, though four or five others 
seem close to his style. Recently a 
Dutchman painted a series of religious 
pictures in his manner; but of these 
forgeries only one, Supper at Emmaus, 
is worthy of exhibition. The rest are so 
poor in quality that nothing but the 
chaos of the war years can explain their 
temporary success. For Vermeer’s mas- 
tery of optical truth cannot be imi- 
tated by the forger and is lost to some 
extent in the most faithfui color re- 
production. : 


—JoHN WALKER, 
Chief Curator, National Gallery of Art. 





A WOMAN WEIGHING GOLD 


By JAN VERMEER, 1632-75 





This is a story 


that will make tomorrow morning 


the most important day of your life. 


By CHARLOTTE EDWARDS 


HE thing with Mr. Ditterman, of course, was that he 

hadn’t expected to be dead. Death, like a rocket trip to the 
moon, was far removed and utterly fantastic. After all, he was 
only fifty-one and in the prime, so to speak, what with golf 
in the summer and handball two evenings weekly all winter. 
Even so, it wasn’t dying that bothered him so much. It was 
the speed. Jet-propelled, you might almost Say. He said it. 

“It was too fast to suit me,” he tried to explain to the Voice 
in the big red leather chair. “I am, by nature, a neat man. I 
don’t like all the dangling odds and ends I left behind me.” 

The Voice laughed. It was a lot like the hearty laughter 
Mr. Ditterman had associated with Santa Claus as a child. 
Which was strange in itself. Because it had been a very long 
time since Mr. Ditterman had believed in Santa Claus or any 
related myths. The Voice chuckled: 

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like it Here?” 

Mr. Ditterman gave the Place a careful survey. “TI like it 


very much,” he stated at once, although he was not given to 


snap judgments. But the great room with its heavenly soft 
rugs, its sky-wide windows and its limitless ceiling filled 
him with warmth and comfort. “However,” he went on pre- 
cisely, speaking with the truth and the clarity on which he 
prided himself, ‘“‘I might say ’'d be a lot more at home if I 
could see as well as hear you. Marjorie—that’s my wife— 
inveigled me into a motion picture one time. The Invisi- 


39 





ble Man, it was called. Uncanny. Somewhat like 
He coughed uncertainly. 

But the Voice took no offense. “‘A good little production,” 
It agreed. “And you shall see Me, of course. You'll see all of 
us in a day or so. These things take time in a case as sudden 
as yours.” 

Which brought Mr. Ditterman back to the point. “I don’t 
like to rush in,”’ he said, “‘where angels fear to tread. I like to 


” 





know a person or a firm before I ask a favor 
He paused. Somehow it was difficult to keep his mind 


on what he was saying. A sort of (Continued on Page 172) 











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By FANE MERRIMAN HORTON 


NEVER thought I’d fall in love with a girl like you,” he said. 
“T don’t see why not.” She was armored in flippancy. ‘““What’s 
wrong with a girl like me? I’m healthy, and industrious and self- 


99 


supporting 
i and intelligent, and self-sufficient, and completely captivat- 
ing,” he finished. 

She felt a sensuous sort of pleasure, listening to his voice, even while 
she picked out the one word which her ego would treasure, going 
over this scene when she was alone. Captivating. It suggested a wayward 
charm that she didn’t, in her heart of hearts, believe she possessed. 

Jo Fenner and Mark Hamilton had met at five in the afternoon. It 
was now eleven o'clock, and they were saying good night. They had 
spent the intervening six hours exclusively in each other’s company— 
with the exception of a few dozen other people at the original party, 
and sundry waiters, taxi drivers and wholly casual passers-by. They 
had spent the time in steady absorbed consideration of each other’s 
personalities. Nothing like this had ever happened to Jo Fenner. She 
had not supposed that it ever would. 

Now the evening was over. She felt like a patient coming out 
of ether—afraid she might have babbled too much. She wondered 
what Mark Hamilton really thought of her. Had she been too confid- 
ing, too eager? She was not accustomed to going more than halfway 
to meet people. In fact, she usually stopped short of halfway, in 
her concern lest she should offer more than was offered to her, in 
any personal relationship. 

“It’s been great fun,” she began, and knew she sounded remote, 
almost formal. 
“Hush!” he said. Smiling and deliberate, he bent his mouth to hers. 


“Don’t get me mixed up with anybody else,” he warned her. Then he 


said, “ll phone you tomorrow,” and was gone. 

Jo looked at her mouth in the foyer mirror. Even in the dim light 
it seemed to glow, to burn with color. She looked at the rest of her, 
questioningly, appraisingly. A slight, blond girl, with a face some 
people called “‘unusual’—which meant she was more than 
pretty, but they were not sure she was beautiful. A 
girl who wore smart dresses and outrageous 
hats because she knew the value of advertis- 

ing, of Jooking (Continued on Page 182) 





UNDER SPREADING EUCALYPTUS 


Terraced on two levels (right), this house on a steep hillside 


overlooking Los Angeles was designed by the owner for his 
wife and himself and their future larger family. Living (above) 
and dining (below) are semiseparated by the chimney and 
share the two-way fireplace. Music, cooking, sewing and 
workshop further occupy the first floor; bedrooms above. 


FIRST FLOOR 


BEDROOM 


UTILITY 
9x12" 


DINING 
Wxig’ 


LIVING 
2120 


CARL LOUIS MASTON, ARCHITECT 











TODAY’S BEST HOUSES 


+ cream ot the coast 


From that vast incubator of new designs between Southern California and the Pacific 


Northwest come these eight fine recent houses rich with fresh ideas. * By RICHARD PRATT 


{rchitectural Editor of the Journal 


STYLE IN SUBURBAN LOS ANGELES 


The distinguished designer of this house in Westwood 
gets maximum privacy on a small corner lot and pro- 
vides utmost convenience within for a couple retired. 





RICHARD J. NEUTRA, ARCHITECT 


Facing the west wind and the sun setting in the Pacific, this house takes in all other 
directions too—mountains, hills, dramatic views of fabulous filmland. Shaded glass 


Bie 
= 
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= 
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SS 
i 
Ess 
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walls under free-standing roof reveal real spaciousness and flexible living arrangements. 











f& 
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48 











CARPORT 
19*36° 












pi. SB living room and all bedrooms. Under flected here in the living-rooms win- 
‘mde the bedrooms platform, wide-window dows. Future hopes for this Seattle 
rah Df sliding doors bring the recreation room family include a larger house up the 
ees into this altogether pleasant picture. hill; this one then for guests or rent. 
| ef} == 
_ KITCHEN DINING || 
5 aT sal a4 | 
LIVING 
15*18" 
BEDROOM BEDROOM BEDROOM LIVING 
14220! Iie} 15" 


ee a a 


PAUL THIRY, ARCHITECT 





This house has not only a colorful 
countenance but an open one as well, 
to make the view of Seattle’s lovely 
Lake Washington, which shares the 
family with the house, visible from 


The architect-owner and his wife did 
some of the work themselves, which 
accounts in part for so much hand- 
some house for such modest money— 
not to mention Lake Washington, re- 


BLISS MOORE, JR., ARCHITECT 












PREVIEW OF NEW IDEAS 

















Nestled in the Marin County hills near 
San Francisco, this house of precast 
lightweight concrete panels, floor- 
heated by hidden hot-air piping, gets 
open spaciousness and privacy through 
novel planning, and points the way 
for low-cost livability. Note the con- 
venience of work and living areas. ’ 


ee bea ee 





PARENTS 
9x15" 





CARPORT 
23'«20° 





JOSEPH ALLEN STEIN, ARCHITECT 





ALBERT HENRY HILL, DESIGNER » 


A CURVING FRONT IN CARMEL 


Behind the exuberant flower boxes of the can- 
tilevered platform, and shaded by the projecting 
roof, the curving wall of windows sweeps across a 
panorama of romantic shore line, hills and ocean. 





BEDROOM 


UTILITY 
Bas’ 


esigned for simple, easy living and an excitin 
Designed f pl y living and ting 


outlook, the house has an independent guest wing. 
cance SEO BED-STUDY 
a ite 








LIVING SH BEDROOM 
- 10x10" BEDROOM 


iso’ EDX | ion RANCH HOUSE IN RANCH COUNTRY 


A house of simple form, simply built of simple 
materials, thus becomes considerable house for an 
unusually low unit cost; lots of elbow room for 
parents and two growing boys, to go with the roll- 
ing California countryside. A roof-cooling sprin- 
kler system is added precaution for hot weather. 







ANSHEN & ALLEN, ARCHITECTS 


PHOTOGRAPHS BY EZRA STOLLER 





30 





PHOTOGRAPH BY JOHN ENGSTEAD 


when (Og CHM, CUONMCECI 


Miss Sarah Churchill, daughter of Winston Churchill, stars in 


{merica’s “Philadelphia Story,” wears a champagre moire at-home robe 


Champagne moire and black with pink slipper satin 
i ; 5 5 (jj r] ' ; by Joseph Whitehead of Herbert Sondheim; brocade and pink satin by 

or dinner or after-the-theater guest } i : 
/ : ner OF ajler-the "ES 8. %& By WILHELA CUSHM LN Rose Barrack; red wool and gold velveteen by Brigance of Charles Nudelman; 
Fashion Editor of the Journal pearl-and-gold bracelet by Otto Grun, turquoise collar by Arpad; 
multicolor pin by Seaman Schepps ; jeweled slippers by Ben Sommers, 
satin-and-velvet sandals by Herbert Levine. 








51 

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es 

PHOTOGRAPH BY FONSSAGRIVES { 
Sunday evening, time for frieuds— Ruth Hussey ; 


(Mrs. Robert Longenecker), star of “Goodbye, My Fancy,” likes the 





fashion of dotted pink slipper satin and black ottoman. : 


PHOTOGRAPH BY JOHN ENGSTEAD 


Miss Sarah Churchill loves the ankle-length, 
two-piece fashion of a pastel brocade skirt with a pale pink slipper- 






satin blouse with long, fitted sleeves. 





PHOTOGRAPH BY JOHN ENGSTEAD 





Brontrs. Drayton Cochran delights in brilliant 
Ly é 





\nights at home in New York, chooses scarlet 






The fluted neckline dress in black taffeta, 
in short length, $49.95, by Ceil Chapman. 






Worn with a rope of pearls. 





O 
No 


what are you doing TONIGHT? 


By RUTH MARY PACKARD 


The quick phone call, the impromptu party . . . the 
romantic hour or evening that might be Monday, or Saturday 
night... these accelerated days call for fashions not 


deliberately too dressed up. The slim black crepe that could 





_be a luncheon dress, changed for dinner with 


white feather hat or furs or rhinestone jewelry . . . the short Kodaine dreads ie See en 


: : ‘ d taffeta with a jacket, by Phil Cole, $49.95. 
taffeta or faille with a jacket that goes bare-top ee 


through the evening . . . the net, tulle or lace-over-taffeta 


dance dress, not sweeping the floor, but ankle or mid-calf length. 


PHOTOGRAPHS BY LEOMBRUNO. BODI 


These are the fashions for the young, the knowing, 


chosen with a man in mind. 





Full-skirt coat-dress in smoke- 
gray taffeta with jet buttons, a Paris copy, 


worn with pink flowers, $29.95. 





Wed 
/f 


Miss Sarah Churchill, daughter of Winston Churchill, stars in 


{merica’s “Philadelphia Story,” wears a champagre moire at-home robe 


( 
by Joseph Whitehec 
Rose Barrack: red wool a 


for dinner or after-the-theater guests. *& By WILHELA CUSHMAN 
Fashion Editor of the Journal pearl-and-go. 
multicolor pin by S 





eee ee re De ee ee oe ee Peet 

















Jersey with crinkled taffeta, $29.95, 
by Samuel Zahn, velours helmet by Mr. John, 


amber necklace by Lilly Dache. 





Rhinestone-buttoned black 
velvet, $29.95, with Maximilian’s ermine muff, 
white gloves. David Evins profile pump. 


BODI 





LEOMBRUNO - 





PHOTOGRAPHS BY 





Confetti-brocaded taffeta in sentimental mauve and .- 
pink, $35, worn with looped pearls. By Syd Rappaport. 





Bronze brocade, the side-panel dress by Samuel Zahn, 


$29.95. Pearl-and-gold collar, Miriam Haskell. 


The fluted neckline dress in black taffeta, 
in short length, $49.95, by Ceil Chapman. 
Worn with a rope of pearls. 





SIX IMPORTANT PATTERNS... keyed to the right fabrics 


With you in mind, we selected six important patterns. Important because they emphasize the value 
of selecting the right fabric. The current slim silhouette predominates . . . popular pocket detail 
appears on several, but is used differently on each .. . many are “Easy-to-Make” ... all are the 


kind of clothes you will like as much next year as you do this year « By NORA O’LEARY 


* 


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=e : s Camel-color corduroy; leather 
‘ty #2? €. . y wa t sh a , ? H : 
i ‘ eri irae ___ belt, buttons. “Easy-to-Make” Vogue 
7 %y Design No. 6834, 12 to 20. { 


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Beautiful checked fleece in a slim coat: patch pockets. Inverted Orange fur-felt hat and leopard-and-wool 


: . % : crochet hat by John Frederies, carryall 
pleat in back, opt ional half-bel t. \ ogue | Jesign No. 69 18, 12 to 20. nie ae by ve Cline taffeta searf 

by Emily Weatherby. plaid wool 

drawstring bag and cloche by Blizabeth Marks, 
turquoise felt Breton by Irene, 


Back and Other Views and Prices are on Page 262 ; . ’ 
i ‘ beige felt with shirred red velveteen 





Buy Vogue Patterns at the store which sells them in your city. Or order by Chanda, mouton jacket by Esther Dorothy, 
them by mail, enclosing check or money order,* from Vogue Pattern Service, jade-and-gold jewelry by Seaman Schepps. 
Putnam Avenue, Greenwich, Conn.; or in Canada from 198 Spadina Avenue, To- 


ronto, Ont. (*Connecticut residents please add sales tax.) 


Slim, one-piece “‘Easy-to-Make”’ dress. Kimono sleeve, 
buttons in back. Vogue Design No. 6896, 12 to 20. 


4 





"HOTOS BY GENEVIEVE NAYLOR 


é Handsomest of this year’s dress woolens—red tweed. Interesting 
pocket and sleeve detail. Vogue Design No. S-4039, 12 to 20. 


FABRICS are taking on special significance. The colors 
are exciting, the textures and uses new. Outstanding 
among the dress fabrics are LIGHTWEIGHT 
TWEEDS. CORDUROY comes to the front as a 
dress material and in an assortment of jewel colors. 
NOVELTY JERSEYS make news in polka dots, 
checks, prints, stripes . . . many with co- 
ordinated plain colors. Excitement in coatings 
runs to CHECKS, PLAIDS, TWEEDS, in 
both nubby and fleecy finishes. It’s a 
nice idea to blend a color from your coat 
with a lightweight dress woolen 


to complete an ensemble. 


Polka-dot jersey. Blouse, Vogue Design No. 6911, 
12 to 20. Skirt, Design No. 6860, 24 to 32 waist. 


Contrasting fabrics, same color: wool jersey blouse, Design No. 6870, 
12 to 20; silk damask skirt, No. 6910, 24 to 32. Both “Easy-to-Make.” 


















© VOGUE 


uw 


v1 


26 


IOTOGRAPHS BY LINDSAY-McADOO 


AMERICAN 
BEAUTY’S 


$100 Wardrobe... 
with the touch of velvet 


Eighteen-year-old Jean Patricia 

By ae Fritz, of New York, has a way and 
a purpose with clothes. A young 
business girl, Jean is businesslike 
about her wardrobe problems 
for the coming holiday season. 
This time of year means work- 
ing days, football games, many 
dancing evenings. Planning care- 
fully with a backlog of tweed 
skirts, jersey tops and a beloved 
beige topper, she chooses a few 
dark outfits, well priced, to make 
her ‘wardrobe attractive and 
changeable. Jean loves her black 
velveteen suit, the jacket of which 


can be belted and scarfed, worn 





open over a pretty blouse or as an 
A dream of a black jersey dress, bone- accessory for her tweeds and 

oned ¢ valf- . AT $29. ‘ 
buttoned and calf-belted. Around $29 wobls, A simpletlatics eee 


sees her round the clock, with the 





‘avorite touch of color, bright pink mock-fur jacket at $14.95, for bright change of a satin-striped 
lressy evenings or with any of Jean’s changeable dark clothes. 


ribbon or silk scarf from her col- 
lection. A wonderful buy, a lux- 
uriously warm mock-sealskin 
fabric coat, fits in anywhere, any 
time. Last but not least, Jean fell 
in love with the brightest pepper- 
mint-pink fur-cloth bolero she 
could find, wears it in a variety of 


ways with all her basic clothes. 





velveteen suit in a dancing Black velveteen suit, belted, with Silky-piled fur-cloth coat, with deep 
cuffs and slim shoulders, $29.95. 


od or for dinner and theater date. violets and silk searf, about $29. 





PHOTOGRAPHED IN PARIS BY WILHELA CUSHMAN 


Paris gives every woman a choice in fashions for 1950. 


There’s a welcome return to a simple way of dressing, 





the coming in of a new kind of casual, neither 


full nor'slim ... news and more news in sleeves. 






belts, buttons, collars and the wearing 





of a rose. » By Wilhela Cushman 
7 : Fashion Editor of the Jo } 
Sult-and-pepper tweed. Two-piece peton Eamets Of the Jeursia 


dress, bloused back, panel skirt by Jacques Fath. 


SY 





Indicative trend—narrowest silhouette, 


bolero-box jacket. Checked wool by Molyneux. 


feu) A 
Es ice Ee 
en 
arr 





Fath’s highwayman coat, 





important for its great width, 


buttons, high collar, big sleeves. 


Schoolgirl coat in smoke-gray flannel by 


Dior. Grosgrain bow at the neckline. Velours cap. 









: 





PP 


Nay NSE nae ERR — 


ne aan < Rs 


ee 


Christian Dior’s red velvet two-piece 


shirtwaist dress, patch pockets, 


narrow calfskin belt, black velvet cap. 


x 


5 
Paris gives it to us in new details— 


, 4 | a spectator shirtwaist dress with full- 
it belted overblouse and box-pleated skirt in red 
| =. crepe de Chine. This is the prophetic 
F silhouette, crepe de Chine the significant 
| ( fabric, red the flash of color you keep seeing, 
| along with winter blue, smoke gray, sharp 
j .| yellow and black. The narrow line is news, but 
alae there are as many full skirts as slim ones. 


Sleeves may be tremendously full, flounced 

if or skintight. The chemise dress is back 
again. The short evening dress 

is the important one. The flower of the 
collections is the rose—in silk, velvet, 

organza, cotton. Belts and buttons are 

played to the hilt night and day. Peaked 

hats, long gloves, the linen collar 


and the velvet shoe are head-to-toe fashions. 


Flounced dress with flounced sleeves, 


Smoke-gray sheer wool with a feather cap. By Dior. 





age a 


2 ERD 


es 





New casual of 1950—belted shirt-blouse, 
and pleated skirt with a straight line. By Dior. 


Fath’s day and evening suit—strapless 
camisole dress, fitted jacket, white linen collar. 











e 


Double-breasted salt-and-pepper gray 
wool suit with scarlet velvet revers. By Dior. 







Narrow jacket dress with hipline bows. Black 
wool, linen collar, velvet camisole. Jacques Fath. 


i Brown-and-black checked wool. Straight 
| dress with peg-top skirt, patent-leather belt. By Fath. 











Significant blouse-jacket in navy satin, 
black wool skirt, stitched satin visor cap. By Dior. 





termes ans seer 
Seite 





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SRR amen pee FETE PUTT ET 








\ 
\ 
Short and full, dinner fashion. \ 
Pleated tulle skirt, striped satin blouse, linen | 
collar, red rose. Jacques Fath. \ 
t 
4 
— 
PHOTOGRAPHED IN PARIS 
BY WILHELA CUSHMAN 
Black organza short evening dress 
with a Byron collar and floating organza panels . 


dipping to the ankles. By Jacques Fath. 





any other wild Y 
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ae 





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a 


NEVER thought, when I agreed to help Beth 

out of her trouble, that a two-day visit at her 
home at West Point would change the lives of 
so many people. We had just walked off the 
platform with our diplomas; she in Home Ec, I 
in Dramatics. My life was all settled with a job 
in summer stock. Hers was a ghastly mess, and 
that is where the United States Military Acad- 
emy came in, with a backdrop of June Week, 
which is the big social season at that institution, 
for the seniors—I mean the First Classmen. 

Now, at West Point, Beth had, besides her 
trouble, a father whose lifework was teaching 
the inmates, and a mother who liked having 
house guests. The trouble was a cadet named 
Stewart Langford, about to graduate and go off 
into the uncertain future without even hinting 
at a wedding. That was what had Beth in tears, 
and it worried me, too, when she told me how 
things had gone, and especially looking at Beth, 
who is the prettiest girl in our class. 

After she stopped erying and was finishing up 
our supply of cheese and crackers while I 
packed, she had a thought wave. 

“Two years he’s been stalling, and now there 
are just two days left. It’s either another girl or 
inertia. I’ve got to know and you're going to 
find out for me, Andrea Hunt.” 

I nearly shut the trunk down on my head. 
“Me straighten out your love affairs? When I 
don’t even know what a date looks like!” 

Sut Beth’s expression didn’t change. She is 


little and soft-looking and blond, but really 






By DOROTHY POTTER BENEDICT 


stubborn. She just kept on nibbling and said, 
“You got honors in Dramatics, didn’t you?” 

The answer to that one was yes, and so I went 
to West Point, but illogically. The yes really 
meant that I got honors because I didn’t know 
anything about men, having spent my time get- 
ting the honors. I mean the kind of men that 
make wisecracks at dinner parties and take you 
out in the moonlight. Being quick on the uptake 
with Romeo or knowing how to push Macbeth 
around added up to zero when I found myself at 
a long table with Colonel Gillis at one end, Mrs. 
Gillis at the other, Cadet Langford on my left, 
and Beth sitting opposite expecting me to 
handle her love affair. 

At Mrs. Gillis’ suggestion Cadet Langford 
had, with great formality, escorted me into 
dinner and now just sat. He gave me my cue 
with the fruit cup by saying very politely: 

“You and Beth have been roommates for 
four years, haven’t you?” 

That was true and I admitted it but ecouldn’t 
think of anything to add to it, so there we were. 
J guess I was stymied by the difference between 
Beth’s uncontrolled descriptions and Stewart 
Langford in person, He did have broad shoul- 
ders and that nipped-in waist that the New 
Look got from West Point, but His 
“heavenly eyes” were pale, his “kissable 





mouth” was enormous, and his ears stuck out 
like wings beyond his close military haircut. 
Just when the stalemate became unbearable, a 


voice broke in. (Continued on Page 198 


we 
oe 












































He looked at me and 


I knew he was going to 






say something crucial. 








—2 


High school can mean 

more than an education: — 

a girl’s chance “to get ahead 
and be somebody —to get . 


out of this town.”’ 





Born and yeared in northern Maine, Muriel dreams of Profiting from wartime potato boom, Presque Isle built new, air-conditioned, $600,000 high school geared to meet 
being a beauticfan in Boston, vacationing in Norway. local needs. During fall potato picking, one third of students are excused; they may earn as much as $75 a week. 


PHOTOS BY ESTHER BUBLEY 


See ere eer ee 





“Sometimes I think all I do is work.’ Muriel scrubs, 
cooks, watches children for room, board, $2.50 weekly, 








It takes all kinds of young people to make up the teen-age 

» world. This is the sixth of a series of articles about teen-agers 

and we still haven’t found any two alike. What’s done in Iowa 

may be frowned on in Idaho; the hit dance step in Columbus, 
Georgia, may be old stuff in Columbus, Ohio. 

Objectively, candidly, we are presenting young people as we 
find them, in the high schools they work in, the homes they are 
growing up in, places where they find their fun; at their best 
and at their worst—twelve Profiles of Youth. 








When their parents go out, Muriel stays with Delong children—‘‘sometimes every 
night, sometimes none, but I don’t dare make plans of my own until the last minute.’ 


NE October morning three months after her sixteenth birthday, 

Muriel Brewer got up earlier than usual and, instead of going to 
school, found herself a job picking potatoes at 21 cents a barrel on one 
of the many rich, Aroostook County potato farms surrounding her 
native Presque Isle, Maine. She had almost $30 by the end of her first 
six days, but her back was so tired she could hardly stand up—and 
her mother found out she had left school. Mrs. Brewer took it hard— 
“T quit school in the eighth grade and I’ve spent my life doing other 
people’s housework.” For the next two weeks Muriel worked in the 
fields by day, argued with her mother by night. When reasoning 
failed, Mrs. Brewer finally grabbed a shingle and applied it firmly to 


Muriel’s backside—‘“‘I had to show her I meant business.’’ This— 





combined with an offer to do household work for young Mrs. Charles 
Delong in return for room, board and $2.50 a week—sent Muriel back 
to school. Now she’s glad—“I won't quit again until I graduate.” 





For high school to Muriel, now a senior, is her ticket to the future— : ie 4 ro ; f 
Muriel finds most boys “‘a nuisance,” was engaged once with no ring or announce- 


<§ $0 > 7? PT “ne " . ° ° ° . . °° 
her chance to “get ahead and be somebody.” After school, when other ment— “Many kids do it this way because there’s less notice taken when you break it off. 


’ girls of seventeen in Presque Isle are off to Mackin’s or City Drug to 
kill the afternoon over a Coke, or meet the boys for a fast ride in the 





country, Muriel trudges back “home” to her job. Evenings, when her 
classmates get together at the Recreation Center or bowling alley, 
Muriel is home baby-sitting or taking advantage of a free evening to 
visit her “mum,” housekeeper for the mayor over on the other side 
of town. Muriel and Mrs. Brewer, whose three other children are 
independent now, have had no home of their own for sixteen months— 
“Not an easy sixteen months,” says Mrs. Brewer, “but we’ve got to 
get Muriel through high school the best we can.” 

Muriel’s looks belie her heavy schedule. She walks slowly, with an 
almost-indolent grace, her loose-leaf notebook tucked casually under 
her arm, wearing a maroon-and-white ‘Bangor Rams” football jacket 


over her blue-plaid skirt and white sweater. Her hair is light brown 


and reaches her shoulders—but she’s (Continued on Page 236) 





Evenings with boys are rare for Muriel. She doesn’t eee how to dance, has never been 
toa i -girl party, dreams of the day when she can entertain in a home of her own. 


ene oc 
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aya ts32 





“A spanking never changed my mind, but talking does me a world of good. ” Muriel calls Muriel ae a stack of fifteen different love magazines next to her bed, likes to read one 
on her mother often, defends her choice of friends) tries not to “sass mum back.” each night—“‘They’re cute and real interesting, even if the plot’s always the same. 





64. 


What makes a boy a “scrounger”’ or a “slob.”’ 
a girl a “mole” or a “mugwump’’? 


Through Journal survey. 






high-school fellows and girls 


reveal pet personality dislikes. 


its 


How to tell 


“That glint in her eye means gold— 
and, brother, you’d better have it!” 
Female °49-er demands orchids or 
nothing; suggests taking cab when 
boy’s budget barely allows busfare. 


Even a movie date with her is ex- 


? 


pensive—she wants popcorn, candy, 
soft drinks, still expects a “super 
slop” (hamburger with everything) 
after the show. Fora gold digger, two 
boys are better than one; she gets 
double attention, plays one boy 
against the other for favors. Other 
signs of the g.d.: she drags date 
into expensive place when he plans 
movie, orders a la carte, watches to 
see if date leaves tip; doesn’t say 
“yes”’ to date bid until boy outlines 
plans, eyes class ring or letter sweater 
on first date. Cash-conscious miss 
prefers boys with flashy cars, re- 
fuses to date boy who doesn’t drive 


unless he is extra-popular, won’t 





ride to dances in fellow’s jalopy. 


“And I'm still hungry!” 


Poison personalities 


One date is enough for boy to spot 
the “‘super-sophisticate” who is “too 
utterly bored” by everything, thinks 
kissing is “silly,” dancing is ‘“waste 
of time.”’ The s-s wears black when- 
ever possible, likes lots of jewelry, 
uses cigarette holder. Opposite type 
and equally poisonous is the “glad 
girl,’ a rah-rah character who 
thinks everything is “‘all right to- 
night,” doesn’t mind telling cute 
boy he’s “‘good as hog”’; she giggles 
constantly, must be life of the party. 
A “Virginia creeper” (clinging vine 
in the incurable stage) latches on to 
special boy, dubs hima “real mon- 
ster,” acts affectionate in front of 
his friends. ‘Intellectual’ who 
studies too hard and thinks athletes 
are bores is considered “ripe for 
the circus.”’ Other ‘“‘moles” are the 
“slow boat” (“she dares you to show 
her a good time’), the “‘pff” (pro- 
fessional faultfinder), and the 
smart and smug “know-it-all.” 
























































Virginia creeper 


How to tell 


vy 








A “hot rock’’ never waits for an in- 
troduction to new girl, is content to 
whistle at her on street corner or 
follow her in car (standard equip- 
ment for wolves) at one mile an 
hour; on first date he heads for the- 
ater balcony or darkest corner of 
drive-in movie “passion pit.” Girls 
spot wolf by his corny sincerity 
(“Baby, this never happened to me 
before”’), his insistence on sitting in 
back seat of car to concentrate on 
breaking down her resistance. These 
“high-octane operators” are happiest 
when “necking up a storm” or 
“making out like ten men,” dub girl 
a “grandmother” if she refuses to 
neck “‘like all the other girls,” tell 
everyone about “the big make-out I 
had last night.” Girls say wolves dis- 
courage easily (“After they date you 
once and get nowhere, they try 
someone else”). One girl reports, 
“Real wolf never stands around and 
whistles; he waits until he’s in ae- 
tion before he puckers up.” 





The intellectual 





m!”” 





“Mmmmmmmmm 





***Course I mean it!” 





“Determined Romeo” isn’t happy 
unless he has a date every night, 
thinks high schoolers are too naive 
for him and dates older girls, em- 
barrasses gal by asking, “Still love 
me?” in front of her family, always 
carries “‘little black book”—and 
uses it. The “line man” corners ev- 
ery cute “drag,” sweet-talks her with 
“the old con,” tells each “doll” the 
same smooth story. Girls dislike 
““muscleman’’ who shows off bi- 
ceps, likes to strut on beach, stands 
with arms folded to make muscles 
look more impressive; turn thumbs 
down on the “male Emily Post” who 
is “too polite,” makes a “big fat 
thing” of good manners. He dresses 
up even for school, treats every 
date “as if she were his mother.” 
Also frowned on are “gangsters,” 
who never go out without the same 
crowd, “leeches,” who expect girl to 
help pay for dates, “wheels” driving 
flashy cars, “bubbles” (blown-up 
drips) who brag about dates. 








“Don’t be that way!” 


Junior Atlas 


Girls avoid the 



















The eccentric 


Slowest “‘schmoe” on the dance 
floor is the learner, who watches his 
feet, holds girl ramrod stiff and 
counts aloud to music. Girls dub a 
boy who rumbas solo a “Latin who 
should go back to Manhattan;” turn 
down bids from eccentric dancer who 
does exaggerated dips and bends, 
and uninhibited jitterbug who jives all 
over floor. Other complaints are 
‘fast joes’ who make love while 
dancing, show-offswho croonin girl’s 
ear, boy who tries new steps with 


new girl, one who refuses cutins. 








Mad Latin 






No matter how nice and attractive a teen-ager may be, inevitably he must join a clique—or tread a solitary path. 


A crippled boy mocked in the hall; 
a girl snubbed in the drugstore— 


is this mean or merely thoughtless? 


Me ALICE J was a big, good-looking cirl. When she 
smiled and that was often she made you feel good. Most 


people liked her, but she was shy and she never thought of herself 


as “popular” and no one else did either. To be popular, in the high 


school she went to, meant being at “the” hangout a lot, going with 


a boy who was well known, and being “in” with “the gang.”” Mary 
Alice usually dated on Friday nights, but not with one of the 
“smoothies.”’ Thus, when she was elected queen of the junior prom 


through a freak, no one was more surprised than she was. Her 


pleasure, however, didn’t last long. The “popular” girls ganged up 


on her and, after a series of whispered conferences in the halls, 





punctuated with snickers and sneers, they persuaded “the gang” to 
boycott the prom and have a party of their own instead. Although 
there were only 40-odd of them, and there were some 250 students 
in the class, they were the “big shots,” the kids to be envied, and 
their absence ruined the mood of the prom. They sent in word that 
they weren’t coming to any party run by “the cheap kids,” and 
some even went so far as to say their parents had forbidden them 
to attend. Another girl might have fought back, but, as her brother 
said, “Mary Alice didn’t know what hit her.’’ She told her best 
friend she “couldn’t take it any longer’’ and left home. She got a 
job as a waitress in Chicago and her whole life was changed. 

This tragedy played itself out in a small Midwestern city, but, 
with variations, it could have happened anywhere in the country. 
There was no cold, deliberate plan to wreck Mary Alice’s life; the 
tragedy was simply a type of cruelty that is repeated over and over 


in our high schools—“‘crowd cruelty.” (Continued on Page 107) 





eresaM 





By HARLAN MILLER 


Inspirational thought while carving your 
turkey at the Thanksgiving family dinner: You 
can understand your wife better by studying your 
in-laws carefully. (You can understand them 
better by studying your wife too.) 


> <> 


My lawyer-neighbor, who's earned (or collected) 
several $50,000 fees, estimates sadly he spends 
$1,000,000 worth of his time a year arguing with his 
children about how late they're to stay out on how 
many datesa week. 4 4 


The bobby-soxer next door confides to me 
that Clark Gable is exactly the type she'd love to 
have for a father-in-law. | 


> > 


One time my poker face betrays me is when I 
intercept my Beloved One clipping a fancy recipe 
for some exotic dish I don’t like. I can feel the 
diabolical expression spread across my face like a 
lather. epee 


“I often manage to come downstairs just ten 
minutes late for our own parties,” confesses Peter 
Comfort, plunging a pitchfork into a mole run. “That 

.- . e ”° 
forces my wife to mix the first round of drinks. 


> + 


I doubt that any of the invincible old-fashioned 
fathers, the tyrannical, pompous, bombastic ones, 
could have stood up successfully to a modern wife 
and kids ganging up on him. 

> + 

My neighbor around the corner married an 
heiress, but now tells his pals at the club it doesn’t 
pay. “She'll squander more of your income while 
it’s still puny,” he says, “than she can possibly 
make up later with what her old man can leave 
her under modern tax laws.” 

> > 

I must be a push-over for the ads. Today I counted 
on my bathroom shelf nine kinds of soap, seven den- 
tifrices and five different kinds of shaving cream. (I 
hope I’m combining the magical virtues of each.) 

ae 

Next to drumming up enough courage to ask 
the boss for a raise, what requires the most pluck 
for a modern father is to ask a modern son to sweep 
the driveway or wash the car. (Of course, it helps if 
you catch the lad in an amiable mood.) 


Gush and garrulity are bad enough in a homely 
woman. Ina pretty one they’re positively disastrous, 
because they're so unnecessary. 


> > 


“My, but it’s helpful to get my husband’s help 
disciplining the kids,” says Betty Comfort, putting 
Junior’s shoes with vain sarcasm in the exact center 
of the living room. “He always tries to remember 
what Mr. Aldrich of the radio would do in a similar 


crisis.” ae ees 


The man next door relays his wife’s canasta 
club’s unanimous opinion: That maids are doing 
less and less work for more and more money. 


“But it won’t wreck civilization,” he adds, “if . 


their mistresses do a little more.” 
> > 


If women understood how much religion dwells, 
for many men, in a woman’s sweet and gentle face, 
they'd behave more like goddesses and less like 
bargain hunters. ea: 


“T want something for my tax money!” said my 
seventy-year-old spinster neighbor tartly. So she mailed 
a letter to her congressman demanding that we swap 
some atom bombs for a tankerful of Russian longevity 
serum. (Then she learned the Russian longevity expert 
died at fifty-seven.) ei 


I counted on the clothesline four more of 
Junior’s shirts than mine, and it made me feel my 
age. (Especially since some of my best ones now 
bear his name tape.) 


> > 


Every father needs a den or ex-coalroom or 
someplace to hide or barricade himself against his 
tireless adolescents. Otherwise he’s at the dis- 
advantage of spending all his leisure arguing how 
they'll spend their leisure. 


La Sr 


I feel the normal brave-new-world thrill at my 
neighbor’s power lawn mower and his motorized 
snow remover. Then I remember they merely elimi- 
nate two more of the few remaining yard chores 
essential to build up our sons’ character. 


> > 
When I brood too much on the strange and 


mystical relationship between a father and his son, 
it comforts me to realize that I may someday be a 


an in the House 


wonderful grandfather. (After all, I’ve never been 
the father of a sixteen-year-old before!) 


> + 


Among the smartest women in our little circle are 
the ones who sense the precise moment to remove the 
pressure on a husband, just one wink before he ex- 
plodes. (When a man cries out “I won't be a hen- 
pecked husband!” it’s probably too late.) 

> > 

Our town’s most elusive bachelor thinks 
women put on their faces artistically enough and 
then spoil the masterpiece with a mask of spurious 
boredom or arrogance. “A sweet facial expression,” 
he argues, “is as important as cosmetics.” 


> + 


I see no harm in a lively discussion between me 
and my Dream Girl, or even an argument, if it doesn’t 
get so staccato the children mistake it for a quarrel. 


> > 


We husbands are not so mysteriously hard 
to please as some female masterminds pretend. 
Some corned-beef hash, a favorite phonograph 
record and a kiss, and we’re as happy as children, 


> + 


Maybe it’s the influence of radio (heaven for- 
bid), but ’'m more than ever persuaded that no 
woman can be homely who has a'charming voice. 
At least in the dark, or with my eyes shut. 

> > “ 

When I meditate on the sort of food I have 
to eat downtown at lunch, I resign myself more 
cheerfully to eating at home the sort of food my 
wife’s sorority sisters like. 


He i 


When Junior (at sixteen) suggests that the two of 
you drive out to Yellowstone next year and let your 
beards grow . . . and your daughter concedes out loud 
that you had her first four boy friends sized up 
shrewdly enough . . . when your nine-year-old invites 
you to park your trailer in his back yard when he’s 
married and you're a grandpa . . . and your Beloved 
Woman suddenly understands one of your quirks 
you've always sworn she misunderstood . . . then you 
can meet all the foot-loose bachelors of your college 
class at home-coming with aplomb and treat ’em with 
the same patronizing affection you'd lavish on any 
sophomore. 





If males had been stuck with a baby, a diaper 
and two safety pins, they'd have hit on a more in- 
genious way to sheathe baby’s derriere, long before 
they bothered about inventing an electric horse. 


an 
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Tomato Juice Hors d’Oeuvres 

Roast Turkey 
Oranges Stuffed with Prunes 
Glazed Sweet Potatoes and Pineapple 

Brussels Sprouts with Mushrooms 

Cranberry Sauce 
Jellied Cider-Apple Salad — Horse-Radish Dressing 
Walnut Torte — Coffee 

(Planned for 6) 


By ANN BATCHELDER 


T doesn’t seem possible, does it, that summer has come and gone and Indian os 
summer, that postscript to summer that is the loveliest time of all the year, has e 
arrived, But so it is. And in such a little while there’ll be a hard frost to call us to WWM, Turkey Divan 
e 


terms. And Thanksgiving, the first of the big holidays, will be here, 


A long time ago a favorite pastime of mine and my “gang” was to go out 
in the woods to gather nuts. Black walnuts were a great attraction. And beech- 
nuts! Those wretched little three-cornered sharp-pointed characters. Every other 
fall we gathered all the butternuts we could come by, far and near. For they were 
prize pieces, I can tell you. Butternut trees bear only once in two years, as if to 


let you know that they are aware of their true worth. And if you ve ever tried 


to get at the meats, you'll know what I’m talking about. Might as well tajk of 


4 : ! 
splitting the atom! (Continued on Pag 





PHOTOS BY STUART-FOWLER 


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Poached Eggs 


ay Turkey Hash 


DPUMUH, caw Sandwiches 








I This last summer I went on my annual pil- 
grimage to my beloved Vermont and my old 
home town. My friends seem to have spent the 
summer in Europe. Well, the Alps are sightly 
mountains. But for me, the green hills of Ver- 
mont! They call me back and always will. 


2 Most good eating places have a “Specialty 
sof the House.” That’s the result of studying 
--the customers’ likes, You may do the same, 

and this doesn’t mean custard pie every night 

either. Bais 4 

3B A little snack—and I am one who cares 

little for that word—is a hot-apple sandwich. 

It’s only a slice of buttered toast covered with 

hot applesauce, then with crisp bacon; grill for 

a minute and serve very hot. 


A And here’s another. Serve sautéed mush- 
rooms on hot French toast. Season well. 
Frizzled ham on French toast makes good too. 


« If you don’t like your bacon in permanent 

twaves, fry it slowly. Start in a cold pan. Broil- 

, ing it, don’t get it too near the heat. It will 
come out as flat as a ribbon. And crisper. 


6G A little nutmeg in a potato soufflé, or even 
in plain mashed potatoes, gives something no 
other seasoning does. Only a little, though. 


7 Lots of folks look at a dish of leftover 
mashed potatoes and wish they’d had nothing 
to do with them in the first place. Don’t be like 
that. You can take action and get results. 


3b For instance, beat them up again with some 
hot cream, add a scraped or grated onion, a 
beaten egg, a good piece of butter or margarine, 
and pepper and salt, pile the potatoes in a 
casserole and bake in a moderate oven, 350°F., 
until they are puffed up and brown. Serve hot. 


9 That’s one thing to do. Another is to pro- 
ceed as above. Then add half a cup or so of 
chopped cooked ham or chicken before baking. 


10 Getting right down to earth via the potato 
route, try stuffed sweets. Scrub large sweet 
potatoes, dry them and oil or butter them all 
over. Bake until done. That’s the first part. 


I Then scoop out and mash the pulp, season- 
ing it with salt, pepper, beat in a generous 
piece of butter or margarine and a tablespoon 
of orange juice for each potato. Stuff the shells, 
add little pieces of butter or margarine and 
brown them in a hot oven. 


12 Something pretty fancy in the way of a 
steak is a broiled filet mignon, cut thick, broiled 
rare and served with grilled or baked bananas. 
Pass a cream horse-radish sauce with the steak. 


BORDER BY ROBERT TAYLOR 


By ANN BATCHELDER 


133 For luncheon, or for supper, may I men- 
tion the devil? I mean in the form of deviled 
ham on hot buttered toast or English muffins, 
with highly seasoned scrambled eggs on top. 
And don’t forget a pickle or two!’ 


14 As the little girl said, “Am you got cook- 
ies?’’ And the other little girl replied, ““Course 
Lare. Everybody do.” So I assume that “every- 
body do,” speaking not of cookies but of old- 
time gingerbread. Good, eh? 


15 Make a fine gingerbread (it pays just to 
smell it baking), cut in squares, split them, 
butter, spread with a mixture of cream cheese, 
cream, chopped dates and walnuts, and put 
together. Frost each square with whipped 
cream flavored with crystallized ginger. Why, 
this might become a specialty of the house! 


16 From an old cookbook: “A good cup of 
coffee is a meal in itself. First buy the best. 
Buy a pound at a time. Go to the tinner’s and 
have him make you a large tin pot. This is 
expensive. It will cost you about thirty-five 
cents. But it pays to have the best.” Figure 
this out for yourselves. 


W@ Have you made a condé lately? No? Can’t 
quite place it? Well, cook enough rice for sup- 
per or luncheon. Cook any nice canned fruit in 
its sirup, with a little sugar, to a good thick- 
ness. Serve this on the hot rice. It’s delicious. 


1 It’s a good idea, so I have found, first to 
mix the crumbs intended to finish an au gratin, 
or crumbed, dish with melted butter or mar- 
garine. Found that the crumbs brown better, 
more even. 


19) Maybe I’ve told you this one long ago, 
maybe you've forgotten. It’s this: Cut chicken 
liver or very tender calf’s liver into small 
pieces. Dip each lightly in salt, then in fine 
sugar, then in flour with a sprinkle of pepper, 
and fry quickly in deep fat. For the hors 
d’oeuvres platter. 


20 Have you ever come across condensed 
mock-turtle soup? Add six tablespoons of 
water to a can of the soup and heat it until 
it is very hot. Boiling hot, in fact. And you’ve 
got a sauce for a meat loaf that’s hard to beat. 


WIND IN NOVEMBER 


The wind that beats a strange tattoo 
Against the dull gray sky. 

Echoes from places far away, 

And the loon’s lonely ery 

Is muted music to my ears 

And only wild strings play. 


21 For a Sunday-night supper, get out the 
chafing dish and let’s have creamed oysters on 
toast. Have the oysters in a rich but very light 
cream sauce, adding a little grated lemon rind. 


22 The buckwheat cake may now be had— 
not that it couldn’t be any time, I reckon, 
what with mixes and all. I hope you'll get 
some real stone-ground Vermont buckwheat 
this year, and try my raised-overnight cakes. 


2:3 And that reminds me of something. Sort 
of one thing leads to . . .a certain chicken dish. 
Steam a fine large roasting chicken until very 
tender. Cool it and slice the breast and a 
second joint if the breast isn’t enough. 


24 Second lesson: Now make a really rich 
cream sauce and season it high and wide with 
salt, pepper, paprika and a pinch or so of 
orégano. (Leave this out if not on hand.) Re- 
heat the chicken in the sauce ard serve it on 
toast with thin slices of fried ham. And here’s 
the gimmick—serve with this dish buckwheat 
cakes! 


23 On the subject of chicken, don’t forget the 
guinea. Know what I almost wrote? The 
beautiful guinea. Then I remembered how they 
clack, clack from dawn to dark. But beautiful 
to eat, yes. Always serve whole hominy cooked 
in cream, and currant jelly, with this delicious 
fare. 


26 Let’s glance at another down-to-earth 
dish. Corned-beef hash, to let the cat right out 
of the bag. Why not? It’s a pretty popular 
item among the specialties of my house. 
Here’s one way, and you may want to go for it. 


27@ Take two cans of the finest. Empty it into 
a large heavy frying pan and mash or break it 
up well with a fork. Have enough butter or 
margarine in the pan so the hash can cook 
slowly and not stick or burn. 


2% Chapter IT: Loosen the hash from the 
bottom and sides and cook until it’s crisp and 
brown. When it’s almost ready, prepare some 
scrambled eggs, very soft ones. Turn the hash 
onto a hot platter, cover it with the well- 
seasoned eggs and fold over like an omelet. 
The eggs should be soft and creamy enough to 
ooze out at the edges. There! 


2% One more—but not the same. Openatin ~~ 


of those opulent skinless and boneless sardines. 
Sprinkle each one with lemon juice. Roll out 
very thin rich pastry, cut and wrap each fish 
and pinch the edges together and bake. Won- 
derful on the appetizer tray or with the salad 
course. Hot. 


:8@ November pleads guilty to only 30 days. 
But Thanksgiving makes up for everything. 





(ie 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


The soup that goes to Parties... 







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MUSHROOM SOUP 


LOOK FOR THE REO-AND-WHITE LABEL 






A blend of cultivated z 


Mushrooms and heavy V hipping Cream 





72 


HE DIGESTIVE SYSTEM has been 
called ‘‘nature’s most wonderful 
chemical laboratory.” Throughout 
life, the vitality and strength of every 
part of the body depend largely upon 
how wellthislaboratory doesits work. 





Intestine 








1 Small 
Intestine 


The digestion of a single food may 
require twenty-four hours or longer. 
During this time, digestive juices 
secreted by glands in the mouth, 
stomach, and small intestine and by 
the liver and pancreas make it pos- 
sible for the body to convert food 
into nutritional elements. These pro- 
duce heat and energy and supply 
materials necessary for growth and 
repair. 

Sometimes, however, the digestive 
procegses fail to function properly. 
This may ‘be due to faulty’ eating 
habits, infections, fatigue, food al- 
lergies, emotional disturbances and 
other causes and may lead to minor 
as well as serious digestive disorders. 
In fact, studies show that digestive 
troubles are more common than any 
other ailments except those of the 
respiratory system. 


7 HINTS FOR GOOD 
DIGESTION 
a 





1. Avoid eating when rushed or when 
emotionally upset. 

2. Keep the teeth in good condition so 
that food may be chewed thoroughly. 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


er 


ANNE CAGE 





3. Drink adequate amounts of water (six 
to eight glasses a day) and establish regu- 
lar habits of elimination. 

4. Do not eat too much or too often. 

5. Cultivate an appetite for a wide vari- 
ety of foods, especially those that are rich 
in the essential nutritional elements. 

6. Avoid strenuous exercise immediately 
after eating. 

7. Do not resort to self-treatment. If di- 
gestive complaints persist, consult the 
doctor. 


Modern medicine has developed 
many instruments and tests which 
help the doctor to diagnose digestive 
disorders with great accuracy. For 
instance, X-rays permit the doctor 
to follow “‘test meals’? throughout 
the digestive system and to observe 
the position, size, shape, and move- 
ments of the digestive tract. In ad- 
dition, chemical tests and analyses 
give him essential information about 
whether the digestive organs are 
functioning properly. 





Some digestive conditions are so 
trivial that they can often be 
corrected by surprisingly simple mea- 
sures, such as eliminating trouble- 
making foods from the diet. Others 
are serious and, if allowed to pro- 
gress, may affect general health, and 
require prolonged dietary restric- 
tions or surgery. 


So, it is always wise to seek medi- 
cal advice for persistent digestive 
complaints such as pain, nausea, 
“indigestion,’’ or even continued 
lack of appetite. The doctor, in most 
cases, can quickly discover the 
causes and suggest corrective treat- 
ment that may help to insure better 
digestion and better health. 


November, 1949 


GENTIAN HILL 


(Continued from Page 35) 


and his grandmother’s friends were men and 
women from whom it was possible to catch 
much loveliness of mind and manners. But 
nothing in his early training fitted him in the 
least for what befell him when Lady O’Con- 
nell died suddenly at the age of seventy, 
and the guardianship of Anthony devolved 
upon her nephew, Capt. Rupert O’Connell. 

To do Captain O’Connell justice, he didthe 
best he could for the almost penniless An- 
thony. He took him on board his own ship 
and made a midshipman of him, thereby put- 
ting him in a fair way to earn his livelihood 
with eventual promotion and honor. Having 
thus established Anthony, he took no further 
notice of him; though in that perhaps he was 
wise, for any show of favoritism would only 
have made the boy’s lot more wretched than 
ever. 

And his lot was so wretched that it could 
hardly have been worse. Persecution was the 
fate of any greenhorn of a newly joined mid- 
shipman, but the fact that Anthony was the 
cousin of a hated captain was a good excuse 
for giving him an extra dose: the brutalities 
of the captain could be revenged on Anthony. 
And then there was his seasickness, which he 
could not manage to surmount. And the 
ridiculous array of his Christian names, in- 
cluding the Mary that was borne by all the 
Catholic O’Connells in honor of Our Lady. 
And there was the rosary that he had been 
taught to wear always round his neck, and 
stubbornly refused to abandon. 

Had he been younger he would have been 
one of the ‘‘younkers,” little boys of eleven 
and upwards who slung 
their hammocks in the 
gun room, messed by 


circumstances, sailors were not allowed to go 
ashore when a ship dropped anchor in har- 
bor; the risk of desertion was too great. But 
he was a midshipman, an officer. 

A sharp pain shot through his right thigh. 
It was only a good-natured slap dealt him by 
the young lieutenant who had come to take 
him down, and who was unfastening the 
ropes, but it happened to light on one of the 
many bruises with which his body was cov- 
ered. 

“Come along down, Mary my girl, you’ve 
had your two hours.” 

“Sir!” gasped Anthony. “Will we go 
ashore—I mean the officers?” 

“Damn your eyes, and who may you mean 
by the officers? Not you, Mary. Not little 
girls who sleep on watch. And next time you 
start nodding you know what it will mean— 


laid on a gun and given a dozen with the - 


colt.” 


Tue lieutenant assisted Mr. Midshipman 
O’Connell from the rigging, dropped him, not 
unkindly, face downward on the deck and 
departed on his own affairs. Mr. Midshipman 
O’Connell stayed where he was for a while, 
sick and dizzy. He heard eight bells ringing 
and knew he had missed supper, but the state 
of his inside being what it was, and the ship’s 
food being what it was, he did not feel this to 
be a disaster. But he badly wanted a drink. 
There was drinking water in the after cock- 
pit—if he could get there. Eight bells. He 
had to turn in now, until midnight, when he 
had the middle watch. He pulled himself to 
his feet with the help of a 
handy stanchion, and at 
last got down to the orlop 


themselves, were taught » First relieve the needy; deck and along to the after 
by a schoolmaster or the then, if need be, question cockpit and the midship- 
chaplain and enjoyed a _ them. —Rule of the Benedictines | men’s mess. 

certain amount of shelter 5 The place was not more 
and protection. But he =x =6than five feet high and 


was just too old to be a 

“younker”’; he was the youngest of the 
“oldsters”’ and must mess and sleep with the 
senior midshipmen and the master’s mates 
in a pestilential den below the waterline, in 
the after cockpit. The things he saw, heard 
and endured were enough to turn the reason 
of a boy to whom vice and brutality had un- 
til now been nothing but words whose exact 
meaning he had not bothered about. It 
would have been easier if he could have got 
some sleep, something better than the fever- 
ish snatches that were all that the din and 
stench of the after cockpit allowed. He had 
slept on watch at last; so here he was lashed 
in the weather rigging. 

The punishment lasted two hours; but he 
could swear that he had been here for four. 
The pain in his back and head was such that 
he shut his eyes. He lost consciousness for a 
moment or two. 


Wits a struggle Mr. Midshipman O’Con- 
nell opened his eyes, gazed, blinked, caught 
his breath and gazed again. Drowned in his 
misery, he had not known that the ship had 
entered the bay. He had opened his eyes at 
that moment when men on shore had seen 
the ships caught up in that golden moment 
of perfection. 

He saw the hills sweeping around the bay 
and the wooded valleys brimming with gold. 
Just opposite he saw a village built ina green 
cup in the hills; a small place, peaceful and 
perfect. He supposed this was the village 
they called Torquay. Beyond a half-moon of 
sand was a green field, then a low stone wall. 
Behind the wall half a dozen white-walled 
cottages stood in gardens full of flowers, the 
smoke curling up from their chimneys. To 
the right a stream flowed beneath a low 
bridge. Anthony guessed that the house next 
to the bridge was an inn. Beyond, to the right, 
was the slipway of a shipbuilding yard, and 
then the harbor with a row of neat little 
houses. There were a few fishing boats and 
one larger ship anchored in the harbor, and 
around and over them the gulls were wheeling. 

Anthony stared. Would they be allowed to 
land? He knew that, except in exceptional 


twelve feet square, and into 
this space were crowded a table, used by the 
midshipmen for meals and by the surgeon 
as an operating table when the ship went into 
action, the midshipmen’s chests, their ham- 
mocks and themselves. The reek of the bilges 
below, mixed with the smell of rancid butter 
and putrid cheese from the purser’s store- 
room nearby, was horrible. But the noise was 
worse, for the elder men were getting round 
the table for their nightly rum drinking and 
the younger ones were tumbling into their 
hammocks. Anthony’s entry was the signal 
for the usual jeers, but, apart from that, he 
was not tormented tonight. No one helped 
him sling his hammock, or got him a drink, 
but when he had accomplished them he was 
let alone to sleep if he could. 

Astonishingly, after an hour or so of misery 
he dropped into a feverish sort of sleep; awak- 
ening suddenly to find himself in the most 
peculiar state of mind. 

A grownup would have recognized it as a 
subtle form of temptation, apt to attack one 
during a wakeful hour of the night, when vi- 
tality is at its lowest. Because it suddenly 
seems impossible to go on, values are abruptly 
turned upside down. To endure, which a mere 
half hour before was the right and obvious 
thing to do, is now presented as simply ridic- 
ulous; escape, which would have seemed des- 
picable a little while ago, now seemed the only 
sane course. The experienced man knows that 
it is not impossible to go on because one 
thinks it is, that you can always go on in 
some manner while the power of choice re- 
mains. But Anthony was not experienced. 
He had endured as long as he could and now 
he was going to get out. 

Five minutes later the middle watch was 
called and he fell out of his hammock, fully 
dressed as he had dropped into it, and stag- 
gered up on deck. It was a still night, and a 
slight sea mist had crept up after sunset, so 
that he could tell the whereabouts of Torquay 
only by the gleam of lights. No more perfect 
night for escape could have presented itself. 

Anthony, with another midshipman, kept 
watch upon the forecastle. He waited until 

(Continued on Page 75) 


ee 


¢ 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL es 


Deep wre vou 1s. A Very Serco Ser 
... that can crcate a New You 


Dow stay fenced in behind the worrying 
thought that you are not the way you'd like to 
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This young French-American has a piquant individuality of face that is Ny : *etlens= Cleans = Smee 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 75 


(Continued from Page 72) ing bread, and the sound of a man singing to 
the last hour of the watch, when vigilance was_ the music of a guitar. It was not an English 
relaxed to the minimum. He took off hisshort voice. He was not surprised to see a small 
dark blue coat with its brass buttons, his Portuguese privateer anchored among the 


waistcoat and black silk neck handkerchief, 
and stowed them in a corner with his three- 
cornered hat and his dirk. Then, wearing 
nothing but trousers and frilled white linen 
shirt, his shoes stuck in his pockets, he crept 
down the main hatchway to the deck below, 
and down again to the lower gun deck. The 
gun ports were open and he was so thin that 
it was not hard to slip through one of them, 
cling by his fingers for a moment, then let go. 

When he came up, choking with sea water 
and panic, he heard noshoutsand guessed that 
ifanyone had heard the splash he had thought 
it was the cook chucking out rubbish. Re- 
assured, he struck out for the shore. He was 
a good swimmer and he had not thought it 
would be difficult; yet his stiff, aching limbs 
were like lead. Then the panic passed : drown- 
ing or that village, it did not really matter 
which; either was escape. 

He got there and clung, more dead than 
alive, to an iron ring in the harbor wall, be- 
side a flight of steps. Somehow he got up the 
steps. Though it was still dark, he remem- 
bered the lie of the land and made his way 


English fishing boats. Sailors in a foreign 
port were notoriously openhanded; they’d 
share their breakfast with him. 

The cob-walled, whitewashed inn stood 
just beyond the bridge, and the swinging sign 
proclaimed it The Bird in Hand. 


Dizzy and sick, with such a singing in his 
ears that he could scarcely hear the music 
of the guitar, Anthony leaned in the doorway 
and looked in. Half a dozen bronzed seamen, 
gold rings in their ears, bright handkerchiefs 
bound round their heads, were sitting about 
the table munching bread and bacon, wash- 
ing it down with copious draughts of ale. The 
singer, a young man, had finished eating. 
The kitchen had a sanded floor and brightly 
burning fire, and a fresh-faced woman was 
busy about her morning’s work. There was an 
air of festivity about the scene, and, letting 
go of the doorjamb, Anthony fell plop into it. 

When he came to himself again he was 
lying on the settle by the fire, with the woman 
bending over him with a glass in her hand. 
“Drink it up,” she advised, and clinked the 


along the harbor to the shipbuilding yard. glass against his teeth. He gulped down the 
There in the lee of a half-built fishing smack fiery stuff and presently sat up and rubbed 
he wrung the water out of his trousers and his knuckles in his eyes, smiling sheepishly. 


shirt, put on his shoes and lay down to wait 
for dawn. 

It came soon. The crying of the awakening 
gulls, the soft slap of the sea against the 
harbor wall, the sound of an opening door and 
a voice singing, a church clock striking the 
hour, made a music that was a part of the 
growing pearly light. For a few moments he 
ceased to be aware of the shivering of his body 
and felt a glow all through him, the warmth 
of a fresh beginning and a new day. 


“Soaked through and hungry,” diagnosed 
the woman. “Sit there and dry off, boy, and 
eat a good breakfast.” 

She brought him bread and bacon and hot 
milk and he did as he was told. 

“One of you?” she inquired of the men. 
“Been off on the spree by himself? He’s got 
his heathen beads round his neck, poor 
lamb.”’ Anthony’s shirt had come undone 
and she could see his rosary. 

The Portuguese, scarcely understanding 
her, shook their heads but smiled companion- 


Ir passed and he was shivering again. He ably at Anthony, and he noticed that they 
came cautiously out into the open and _ were all wearing their rosaries. Apparently 
looked about. The whole world, now, was _ this festival into which he had fallen was a 





sparkling with clear light. His Majesty’s 
ships, resting in painted glory upon the 
sparkling water, looked unearthly in beauty. 
His reassurance was suddenly shattered, for 
they seemed to be all eyes, searching for him. 
He looked quickly away. This was a bigger 
place than he had thought. He would not 
dare go up among those formal houses. 
Somehow he must get food, but he would beg 
it from poor folk, who, if they recognized 
him, would be less likely to give him away. 
Smoke was curling from the chimney of 
the inn, and it was from its open doorway 
that there floated the delicious smell of bak- 


religious festival. 

“Tt’s a queer thing,” said the woman. 
“For hundreds of years not a Popish ship 
comes into Torbay but some of the seamen 
must be landed to go and do their heathen 
antics in St. Michael’s Chapel. They give 
thanks, they say, but I doubt if they know 
for what. Have a bite more, boy? What’s 
your name?” 

“Anthony.” He still spoke softly and 
timidly, and the name was unfamiliar to her. 

“Zachary,” she repeated. ‘‘Odd, to have a 
good English name fastened on a Popish for- 
eign lad.” 


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/, cup undiluted Pet evaporated milk 
1144 teaspoons plain gelatin 
2 tablespoons lemon juice 
2, cup syrup from peaches 
4 cup granulated sugar 
4 teaspoon salt 
16 quartered marshmallows 
1 teaspoon grated lemon rind 
14%, cups canned cling peach slices 
1 baked 9-inch pastry shell 
,hill milk until ice cold. Soften gelatin in 
emon juice. Combine peach syrup, sugar, 
alt and marshmallows, and cook and stir 
ver very low heat until marshmallows 
re melted. Stir in softened gelatin and 
emon rind. Chill until slightly thicker 
han unbeaten egg whites. Whip chilled 
nilk with cold rotary beater until fluffy. 
‘old into cold gelatin mixture. Fold in 
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astry shell, and chill until firm. Decorate 
vith additional peach slices. Serves 6 to 8. 
Note: To whip Pet evaporated milk, 
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76 


He did not correct her. Zachary, he 
thought, would be as good a name as another 
for him to be known by. The men got up, and 
he got up, too, for it seemed that he was 
one with them in this pilgrimage. 

The woman came to the door to show them 
the way. ‘“‘Cross the bridge and go along 
Cane’s Lane,” she said, ‘“‘and up over the 
cliff, and then you’ll see Torre Church and 
St. Michael’s Chapel. You can’t miss them.”’ 

The little party crossed the bridge and 
made its way along the lane beside the 
stone wall. The Portuguese sailors were sing- 
ing and chattering to one another. The food 
and kindness at the inn had put new strength 
into Zachary, but he still felt dizzy. Yet he 
continued to follow the others, for he had no 
idea except to go where they went. 

The path climbed steeply upward. Zachary 
was too occupied in dragging himself up to 
look about him, but when they reached the 
summit he stopped with the others and sat 
down on a rock to get his breath. He heard 
exclamations of delight, and presently stood 
up and looked about him. 

He could see the whole glorious stretch of 
the bay, and the green and wooded hills, and 
to the west high peaks of purple moorland, 
sharp and clear against the sky. Between the 


| bay and the distant moors he could see the 


rise and fall of hills and valleys patterned 
with green pastures, copses and orchards, 
and could guess at the peaceful villages, 
farms and churches folded among them. He 
thought with an aching heart of those quiet 
farms. He knew little of country life; but if 
he could only get to one of those farms he 
would be safe there. Some 
farmer would surely give 
him work. Then he looked 


down to the scene below > A woman never argues— 


them. He could see a beau- she merely 


November, 1949 


He let himself down to the gravel and 
rested for a little. It was warm here in the 
sun and strength came back. Presently he 
began to climb down the rock. 


When she was grown up Stella smiled when 
she heard people speculating as to what was 
their first memory. She was in no doubt about 
her first memory, or her second, and knew 
they had come into her possession on the 
same day—September 22, 1796, when she 
was two years old. The first, though merci- 
fully vague, visited her again and again 
through her childhood, in nightmare or 
fever—a memory of noise, fire, the grasp of 
arms round her that hurt with the agonizing 
tightness of their grip, then the blackness of 
water closing over her head. The second was 
merciful and beneficent: deep silence, star- 
light and then the arms of Mother Sprigg 
about her, not hard and tight like those other 
arms, but steady and comfortable like 
Mother Sprigg herself. 


“Am I your own girl, mother?” she asked 
suddenly when she was ten years old. They 
were sitting before the kitchen fire, alone ex- 
cept for the cat, Seraphine, asleep in her 
basket with her kittens. Stella was sewing 
her sampler while Mother Sprigg stitched 
at a patchwork quilt. 

Mother Sprigg gazed over the top of her 
spectacles. “What makes you ask, love?” 
Yet even while she asked, she knew. The child 
was old enough to notice contrasts; the 
graceful hand lying on her own clumsy one 
was only one of many of those contrasts. 

“TI remember that I 
came from somewhere else 
to here,”’ said Stella. 

“No, you are not my 
own girl. Though the Lord 


states plain 


tiful house, and about it facts. —ANON. knows you are as dear as 
what looked like the ruins though you were. Nearly 
of some great abbey, SU- _—________——,, cight years ago you were 


rounded by gardens. 

Between the abbey and the cliff top where 
they stood were two hills. The one nearer 
was low and green and tree-covered, and 
among the trees were a few small houses and 
an old gray church. The other hill was rocky 
and precipitous, and built upon its summit 
was the Chapel of St. Michael. It was so old 
and weatherworn that it looked a part of the 
rock upon which it towered. 

Silently the little company filed down the 
path to the valley, skirted the hill where the 
church stood and came to the foot of the 
limestone precipice up which they must climb 
to reach the chapel. It was a steep climb, but 
the feet of many pilgrims had made a path 
and there were rocks and bushes to give 
handhold. The thirteenth-century building 
at the top was a strange, bare little shrine. 
There was no door in the arched entrance, no 
glass in the narrow windows. The floor was 
of rough rock. The walls were three feet 
thick and the barrel-vaulted roof was com- 
posed of small stones. It had the compelling 
power of places that have been used for 
prayer for generations. 


‘THE seamen filed reverently in and knelt 
upon the rough rock. Zachary knelt just in- 
side the door and took off his rosary. His 
beads slipped through his fingers, but his 
weary mind was a blank. 

He did not go away when the other men 
did, but stayed where he was, his eyes shut. 
Suddenly the chapel was no longer a place 
of refuge, but the thing that he dreaded 
most, a prison. The walls were closing in on 
him, coming nearer and nearer. He opened 
his eyes, scrambled to his feet, and then re- 
alized that he was not, as he had thought, 
alone in the chapel. A white-haired, white- 
faced man in black was kneeling in prayer 
before the place where the altar must once 
have been. The man turned his head and 
looked at him. It was a look of kindness, but 
Zachary, in his panic, did not see the kind- 
ness, only the almost stonelike whiteness of 
the face. He stood shaking until the normal 
worldly outlook upon things, which he was 
accustomed to call sanity, slowly returned. 

Fool! he said to himself. Crazy fool! You 
gol away from that ship just in time. Get inland 
and find that farm. Inland it will be safe. 


brought here as a little 
thing, two years old. Sitting here before 
the fire, I was, like I am now, patching a 
shirt. There was an invasion scare that 
year, and every day we were expecting a 
landing of the French, and every day the 
troopships were going off from Plymoutt 
with men and guns for Ireland, for they 
didn’t know where that scoundrel, Bony, 
would strike. It was to see Bill, his soldier 
brother, set sail on the frigate Amphion that 
your father had ridden off before it was 
light. He feared he’d be too late, and too 
late he was—by the mercy of God.” 

“Why, what happened?” 

“The Amphion blew up, with the wives 
and little children of the men all on board,” 
Mother Sprigg told her. ‘‘A terrible thing it 
was. Three hundred men and women and 
children lost their lives, your father’s brother 
among ’em. Your father, riding through Plym- 
outh, heard the explosion, and when he 
reached the Hoe they were taking the bodies 
from the water. He did what he could. One 
poor young woman whom he helped to take 
from the water he never forgot. He said that 
she was very beautiful, even in death. Her 
arms were locked tight round the body of her 
child.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes. You see, love, we’d had a little girl 
who’d died at just about the age you were 
then. When your father saw you he snatched 
you up. There was an inn nearby, and he took 
you there and had the woman look after you, 
while he went back to help with the rescue 
work. And next day, you being as fit as a fiddle 
by that time, and no one seeming to know a 
thing about you, he wrapped you in his cloak 
and rode off home with you. ‘Here you are,’ 
says father, and he leans down and dumps 
you in my arms.” 

“And no one ever tried to take me away 
from you?” 

“No. No one seemed to know who your 
poor mother was. There was nothing in her 
pocket but a handkerchief and your little 
coral, and nothing in her locket but a curl of 
dark hair, and a scrap of paper with some- 
thing written on it in a foreign language. 
Your father saw her buried decently, and 
then he put the handkerchief and the coral 
and the locket in his pocket and rode off 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


home to tell me you were ours for keeps, our 
own girl—Stella.”’ 

“Was your little girl who died called 
Stella?” 

“No, love, she was called Eliza, after my 
own mother. But your father, being clean 
besotted about you, must needs choose some 
fanciful name for you. Star-bright eyes you 
had, he said, so Stella it had to be— born on 
the first of June with candles in her eyes.” 

“Why should I have candles in my eyes 
because I was born on the first of June? And 
how do you know that I was born on the first 
of June?” 

“There’s no knowing what day you were 
born, but you seemed just over two years 
when you came to us, and the first of June, 
1794, was the Glorious First, when the fleet 
sailed into Plymouth Sound with six captive 
French frigates, and in each house a 
lighted candle was set in every pane. All 
night they burned, pretty as a picture. Your 
father saw the sight, and never forgot it. 
Like all the stars fallen down from heaven, 
he said it was; till the dawn came and put 
them out.” 

““Night’s candles are burnt out, and 
jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty moun- 
tain tops,’”’ said Stella in a voice that sud- 
denly became curiously deep and mature. 

“Eh?” asked Mother Sprigg with sudden 
sharpness. ‘‘ Have you been reading some old 

ook again?” 

There were few things that made Mother 
Sprigg angry, but one was to have Stella 
browse among Doctor Crane’s books. The 
doctor was the best friend they had, and he 
had taken upon himself the business of 
Stella’s education, but he and Mother Sprigg 
differed a good deal as to what was, and was 
not, education. Reading, writing and elemen- 
tary arithmetic were all that the child needed 
to learn, Mother Sprigg maintained; this, 
combined with the arts of housewifery that 
she herself could teach her, was all the educa- 
tion required by a farmer’s daughter. Doctor 
Crane disagreed; the education required by 
any individual, he maintained, was just ex- 
actly all the knowledge the individual could 
assimilate. Stella agreed with him, and, let 
loose among his books, assimilated at a good 
pace, keeping her knowledge hidden from 
Mother Sprigg as much as she could. 

Stella did not answer. She laid her hand 
on Mother Sprigg’s knee and said gently, 
“You are my mother.”’ Then it seemed that 
she put from her the story she had asked for, 
for she began once more to sew her sampler. 
Mother Sprigg, too, picked up her quilt, ad- 
justed her spectacles with a sigh of relief. It 
was over, the question and the explanation 
she had been dreading for so long. 


Moruer spricc was in her fifties, but had 
worked so hard all her life that she looked 
older. She was short and stout, with a red, 
weather-beaten face, and plump, toilworn 
hands. Though she cared nothing for fashion, 
she had an eye for line and color,and the gown 
of homespun Dartmoor wool which she wore 
was well cut, of an exquisite shade of lichen- 
dyed beech brown. Her apron, fichu and 
mobcap were of lawn, and white as snow. 

And she knew exactly how to dress Stella. 
The child’s short-sleeved, high-waisted gown 
was made of green gingham, fresh and 
crisp, with a voluminous hanging pocket, but 
no frills except the small white one round the 
neck. She wore a diminutive white apron tied 
round her waist, but no mobcap or ribbon 
on the head of dark curls cut almost as short 
as a boy’s. Her smiall heart-shaped face was 
thin and brown. She had a straight, arrogant 
little nose, a short, determined upper lip, a 
cupid’s bow of a mouth and a dainty out pur- 
poseful pointed chin. Doctor Crane and her 
doting foster parents thought her a beautiful 
child, but the village folk called her down- 
right plain. 





A man’s heavy footsteps and a hearty hail 
warned them of the approach of Father 
Sprigg. They rolled up their work, and while 
Mother Sprigg bustled about setting the 
table Stella flew out into the hall and pre- 
cipitated herself into the arms of Father 
Sprigg. He was six feet tall, and broad to 

| match. Though he was sixty years old, he was 








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only slightly bent about the shoulders. He 
had a weather-beaten countenance, sur- 
rounded by a fringe of grizzled ginger whisk- 
ers, and blue eyes that were like two bright 
windows beneath eyebrows that came down 
over them like a thatched roof. : 

When he had stepped into his father’s 
shoes, Weekaborough Farm had been on the 
brink of disaster; in ten years he had made it 
one of the most prosperous farms in the 
countryside. 

“‘Hey, lass!”” said Father Sprigg, receiving 
the impact of the small creature upon his 
bulk as though she were of no more weight 
than a sparrow. “Steady, lass, you’ll have 
me over!” 

This was a joke with them. Laughing, 
Stella leaned over Father Sprigg’s arm and 
peered at the shadows beyond. “Hodge?” 
she whispered softly, stretching downa hand. 
A cold nose touched her palm and then a 
warm tongue. The dog, Hodge, was present 
and she sighed with relief. Hodge was a 
mighty warrior and she was always afraid 
that someday an enemy would prove too 
powerful an opponent. 

A sudden smell of onion came through the 
kitchen door and all three entered, to find 
Mother Sprigg ladling the broth into big 
brown bowls. Solomon Doddridge, the plow- 
man, had come in from the back and was 
sitting in the seat 
within the fireplace 
that was always his, 
his short clay pipe 
in his mouth. 

Old Sol did not 
know how old he was, 
knew nothing what- 
ever about himself 
except that, man and 
boy, he had worked 
at Weekaborough 
Farm, eaten there, 
slept there, and would 
die there. He remem- 
bered Father Sprigg 
being born. He was 
bent almost into the 
shape of a hoop with 
the rheumatics, and 
when he stood up, 
leaning on his stick, 
he reminded Stella of 
the old mulberry tree 
in the walled garden. 

Incredible though it seemed, he could still 
guide the plow, and still, with his plowboy 
as counter-tenor, provide the deep notes of 
the beautiful mysterious chant with which 
the Devon plowmen animated their teams. 

They talked little as they ate, for they 
were all tired after a day that for the adults 
had started at four o’clock in the morning. 
What little talk there was.concerned some 
vagabond who had come to Father Sprigg 
in the orchard, asking for work. 

“Never seen such a scarecrow,” said Fa- 
ther Sprigg. ‘“‘Looked as though he hadn’t 
the strength to dig a sack of potatoes. A good- 
for-nothing scoundrel, to my mind.” 

“Couldn’t you have given him work, fa- 
ther?” asked Stella. She hated to think of 
even a good-for-nothing scoundrel being 
turned away from Weekaborough Farm. 

“No,” said Father Sprigg shortly. “I’ve no 
mind to get into trouble with authority.” 


remembers 


Decembers; 


Wauen supper was finished Mother Sprigg 
and Stella removed the dishes while Father 
Sprigg walked to the dresser, took the Book 
from inside, carried it’ back to the table. 
There he seated himself, and slowly turned 
the pages until he found the pressed carna- 
tion that marked the place. Mother Sprigg 
and Stella reseated themselves about the 
table with hands reverently folded in their 
laps, and Sol in his chimney corner cupped 
his right ear in his hand. 

The only books at the farm were the Bible 
and the family prayer book, and Father 
Sprigg read one chapter of the Bible aloud to 
his household every evening. 

Father Sprigg closed the Book and they 
all bent their heads while he repeated the 
Lord’s Prayer. ‘‘Amen!” said Father Sprigg. 

Stella jumped to her feet. ‘‘Seraphine! 
Hodge! I’ll put them out,” she said. 


KOK 3 KK Kee 


ee Soup lhe Head 


By Eleanor 


Halbrook Zimmerman 


How soon the heart forgets... . 
Yet something in the soul 


Moments in June, music in lost 


A word, a turn of phrase, a song 

Can bring them back again 

To stand like ghosts, yet for a 
moment strong 

With unrelenting pain. 


KKK KK AEKSReeee 


November, 1949 


Though these animals slept in, they had to 
be put out for a few moments before bed, 
and this ritual always followed the ending of 
family prayers. Picking up Seraphine, and 
with Hodge at her heels, she darted down the 
passage to the open back door. Here she sent 
Seraphine spinning into the cobbled yard 
beyond, gave Hodge a push and dashed to 
the china closet and seized a bowl and plate. 

Then she flew to the dairy, half filled the 
bowl with milk, dipping a little out of each 
full jug. Then she went to the larder, ex- 
tracting a bit of something from every dish 
there and piling it all on her plate. She car- 
ried plate and bowl into the yard and hid 
them in the shadows behind the mounting 
block. 


Sue returned to the back door. “Hodge?” 
she called. ‘‘Seraphine?”” They reappeared 
and followed her in. 

She arrived in the kitchen having been 
absent so short a time that Father Sprigg 
was still winding the clock. Mother and 
Father Sprigg and Sol would sit for another 
hour before the fire. Stella kissed them good 
night, took her candle and went into the hall, 
Hodge at her heels. Since he had been a 
puppy he had slept on a rug in her bedroom. 

Stella’s room was a closet opening out of 
the big bedchamber where her foster parents 
slept, and she had to 
go through their room 
to reach it. Mother 
Sprigg had made 
white muslin curtains 


a patchwork quilt of 
softcolors. There were 
flowered curtains at 
the windows and the 
plastered walls were 
white. The only notes 
of bright color in the 
room were the gay rag 
rug and Stella’s scar- 
let cloak on a peg be- 
hind the door. 

She made no at- 
tempt to go to bed; 
instead, she put on 
her cloak and opened 
the window. It was a 
dormer window in the 
thatch that roofed 
the farm. The thatch 
was old, hillocky in places, and sloped away 
beneath the window at an incline that was 
no steeper than a hayrick, and just as easy 
to climb. Stella climbed it almost nightly, for 
she could climb as well as run with remark- 
able agility. And so could Hodge. 

They got out of the window, reached the 
yard and retrieved the plate of scraps, carry- 
ing it to the far end of the yard where Daniel, 
the yard dog, was in his kennel. He shot out 
and in a moment was wolfing up the con- 
tents of the plate. Like all the animals at 
Weekaborough Farm, he was adequately fed, 
though not pampered, but he always had an 
insatiable appetite. 

While he ate, his ragged tail rotating like a 
windmill, Stella and Hodge watched with a 
look of humble apology in their eyes. Why 
should Hodge and Seraphine sleep indoors, 
petted by the family, while Daniel and the 
stable cats were not allowed to set foot across 
the back doorstep? 

Stella fetched the bow] of.milk and carried 
it across the yard to the stable. The stable 
was never locked, and neither was the back 
door of the farmhouse. Both opened into the 
yard, which was fortified on the north and 
south by the stables and the house and to 
east and west by great walls, and had strong 
doors in the east wall that were secured at 
night by a tree trunk laid across iron bars. 

The stable by night was an enchanted 
place, dim and mysterious, its daylight russet 
and brown overlaid by moonlight shining 
through the small high unglazed windows. 
The scent of the hay in the mangers was a 
sleepy smell, and the smell of the clean and 
healthy beasts, which Stella could see dimly 
in their stalls, was good and wholesome. 

She set the bowl on the floor and the cats 
sank their chins into the milk. They were 

(Continued on Page 82) 


for the small bed, and . 





! 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





Hospitality in your hands 
It’s so easy to pick up a case of Coca-Cola at your neighborhood store. 


Your refrigerator makes it easy to keep Coke ice-cold always. 


Your guests make it plain that you’ve pleased them and 





Ask for it either way... both 


trade-marks mean the same thing. 


refreshed them...and that’s what Coca-Cola is for. ah, : 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL November, 1949 


To the man who gave the bride away, one sunny day in June — 


fa 


That set of TowLe Sterling you helped her start then 
— it needs a lot of helping still! Serving pieces, cock- 
tail forks, more teaspoons ... Remember the light in 


her eyes when she unwrapped her first place setting? 





To the man who said “| do”, many Christmases ago — 





For her, on your anniversary or Christmas, the finest 
gift you can give —the TowLe Sterling she’s always 
wanted, will cherish forever. Her pride in her table 


will get a new lift. 


a 


_— Lr 


awso SD a | | 





sf “te 


oa Ty 
ie 





To the young man to whom the bride was given, not so long ago — 


Your first Christmas together — your first real gift since her wedding 
ring. Sterling, gleaming TowLe place settings, TOWLE serving pieces to 


make her table lovely. Your home still has second place in her heart. 


To the man whose favorite person just — at last — said “yes Zz 
Vv <a 


Next to selecting you (oh yes she did!) her choice 
of Sterling patterns is most important to her. For 
Christmas, give her TowLE Sterling — your first in- 
vestment in your home-to-be. A gift she will use all 


her life, to grow lovelier with use. 





To all men everywhere: Towze Sterling is the perfect gift. It’s solid silver —the real thing. It flatters— delights 


— has substance and meaning and true lasting beauty. Want to be a successful Santa Claus? Give TOWLE Sterling. 


The gift boxes in which TOWLE STERLING is put carry the names of the finest stores in the country 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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82 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Even "cake-fussy"men 


go all out for 


READ WHAT THEIR WIVES SAY: 


Gentlemen: 


At last I have found a cake mix that is 
“husband-proof”! I have tried any num- 


ber of cake mixes. My husband’s verdict - 


always was, ““Why don’t you stick to your 
own recipes?” But when I tried the Swans 
Down Mix he said, “You could certainly 
have fooled me—I thought it was one of 
your specials.” It’s Swans Down for me 


from now on. 
Mrs. DEAN G. BOYLE 


Richmond, Calif. 


Eyerybody’s old ideas about cake mixes 
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Mrs. WILLIAM ORAVITS 
Boonton, N. J. 


You call it “better than an expensive party 
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recipes inside the box.) 


Gentlemen: 


_ My husband has an aversion for anything 
in a package. But the first time I presented 
a Swans Down Instant cake he remarked 
how good this cake was—how very light. 
He thought he was giving mea compliment. 

Mrs. PAUL N. REYNOLDS 
Madison, Wis. 


Here’s why your husband can’t tell a 
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A product of Generali Foods 


(Continued from Page 78) 
called Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, 
and they were a sorry crew, scarred by many 
battles. 

Hodge gave a growl, deep in his throat. 
His eyes were fixed on the small window 
above the manger. A man’s head had come 
between them and the moonlight. Stella had 
an impression of a thin face, wild and dark, 
and then was so frightened that everything 
was suddenly blurred. 

“Bony,” she whispered. 

It had come at last. The French had landed. 
She had grown up with the fear of invasion a 
permanent dark background to the happy 
life of the farm. The English Channel, the 
only barrier between England and her ene- 
mies, was only a few miles away. Now it had 
happened. That dark face up there was a 
Frenchman’s. 

As suddenly as it had arisen, her fear died. 
Hodge’s growls subsided, his tail was wag- 
ging. 

“Dammee!” croaked an indignant voice 
above. ‘All that milk fed to a lot of mangy 
cats! And me so empty that my stomach is 
sticking to my backbone.’’ He paused. She 
was quite a little girl, he suddenly perceived. 
“Why aren’t you in bed?”’ he finished, his 
hoarse voice ending in a sudden squeak. 

The squeak betrayed him. He wasn’t a 
man at all, he was only a boy, an English boy 
whose voice had not yet finished breaking. 

“Why aren’t you?” retorted Stella. 

Helaughed, his white teeth flashing. ‘‘ Well, 
you see, my bed is the lee side of a haystack 
and Idon’t have to go to itif Idon’t want to.” 

“How did you get up to that window?” 

“Climbed the wall,” 
the visitor told her. 
“Plenty of crannies in it. 


Thought I might get ie All progress is based upon 


a universal innate desire 
on the part of every organism 
to live beyond its income. 

—SAMUEL BUTLER. 


through and find some- 
thing to eat. But the win- 
dow is too small.” 

“Drop down into the 
lane again and I’ll bring 
you out something to eat.” 

“Will you? Or will you bring the farmer 
out on me? He’s sent me packing once al- 
ready.” 

She did not answer, but she looked down 
at Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, pur- 
suing the last drops of milk round and round 
the empty bowl. Bending, she gently caressed 
their heads. The face of the boy at the win- 
dow crumpled like the face of a child who is 
going to cry. Then abruptly he disappeared. 
The little girl had been loving the cats just as 
she always loved them every night, but all 
the words in the world could not have told 
him more clearly how passionate was her 
concern for all vagabond creatures. She’d not 
betray him. From that moment he loved 
her. 


For the second time that night Stella and 
Hodge raided the larder. This time Stella was 
afraid their thefts were noticeable. She did 
not see that Mother Sprigg could fail to no- 
tice a huge wedge of pigeon pie gone, a hunk 
of bread and cheese and a couple of apples. 
But she would abide the consequences. 

She went into the yard again, carrying the 
loaded plate and a jug of milk to the barred 
door. Here she set the food down on the cob- 
bles and considered the problem. How was 
she to get the trunk of the tree lifted? It 
must be done somehow, and Stella went to it 
with a will, getting her back and head be- 
neath the tree trunk. Hodge did the same 
and together they heaved and strained. The 
tree trunk lifted off the iron bars at last and 
Stella eased it to the ground without too 
much noise. She felt sick and dizzy, and it 
was all she could do to pull the great door 
open. But she did this, too, and, picking up 
the jug and plate, made her way out into the 
meadow, through which a cart track led to 
the gate opening upon the lane. 

Stella hurried along the cart track to the 
high padlocked gate and the thick thorn 
hedge. Standing on tiptoe to put the plate 
and jug on top of one of the strong old stone 
pillars, she climbed up and fell off the other 
side into the grass. 

Strong hands set her on her feet again. 
“Why didn’t you call?’’ demanded the boy. 


November, 1949 


“You could have handed me the grub through 
the bars.” 

“Someone might have heard,’’ panted 
Stella. “And hereabouts—since the mutiny 
and everything—they’re scared of stran- 
gers.” 

The boy was still holding her, his hard 
hands gripping her arms above the elbows. 
“And aren’t you scared of strangers?” 

“Sometimes. But not of you, after the first 
minute when I thought you were Bony.” 

“You're all in a lather.” 

“Tt was lifting the tree trunk and opening 
the gate.”’ 

“And you such a little ’un.’’ He sat her 
down where the knotted roots made a com- 
fortable armchair for a small person. Then he 
fetched the plate and jug. He turned to Stella, 
said, “Thank you,” and then fell upon the 
pigeon pie like a wolf. 


Yer a well-mannered wolf. Had Stella been 
older she would have gazed at this most un- 
usual vagabond with bewildered speculation. 
But the world to Stella was still so full of 
surprise that all ordinary happenings seemed 
as wonderful as fairy tales. Besides, though 
she had never seen anyone in the least like 
this boy, she was completely at ease with 
him. 

He was tall and his tattered shirt and torn 
trousers fluttered on a body so thin that, set 
up in a field, he would have done very well as 
a bird scarer. But here the likeness to a scare- 
crow ended. The untidy dark hair fell over a 
broad forehead. The dark eyes were somber 
beneath heavy dark eyebrows. Though the 
lips could set obstinately, laughter transfig- 
ured them to gentleness. 
He finished eating and 
wiped his fingers delicately 
on the grass. 

“Have you a handker- 
chief?’ he asked. 

She fished a delicate lit- 
tle square of cambric out 
of her pocket. 

“Would you mind— 
please—may I keep your’ handkerchief?” 

She nodded and, laughing, he stuck the 
handkerchief in his pocket. 

““My name is Stella Sprigg,”’ said Stella. 
“What is your name?” 

“Zachary.” 

“Just a Christian name?” 

“That’s all.” 

Stella looked at him with concern. “‘Do 
you know where you come from?” 

“From the moon,” replied Zachary 
promptly. “‘Haven’t you seen me up there?” 

Stella dimpled delightedly. “‘Zachary 
Moon.” 

Zachary put his hand on hers as though 
it were a small bird. “I come from the 
moon and you're a star,” he said. “‘Quite 
right, isn’t it, that we should see each 
other first at night?” Then he lifted her 
hand with a light gesture, as though he 
tossed back the captive bird to freedom. “‘ But 
not right that you should be out of your bed 
so late.”” He got up, picked up the bowl and 
plate. Then he held out his free hand. ‘‘Come 
on, Stella. I’ll help you over the gate.” 

He was very grown up suddenly, and 
Stella felt chilled. But she got up obediently. 
When they reached the gate Zachary helped 
the child to scramble over and then passed 
over the bowl and plate. : 

“Thank you,” he said. “‘I haven’t tasted a 
meal like that since I left the moon. Good-by, 
Star.” 

Her chin just reached the top of the gate. 
She propped it there, her hands laid upon the 
bar one on each side. “‘No, Zachary!” 

“No what, Stella?” 

“No good-by.” 

His face grew somber. He caught his breath 
sharply, as though he were going to say some- 
thing, but seemed to change his mind, turned 
away and was hidden by the thick hedge. 

Stella walked slowly homeward, Hodge 
beside her. She and Hodge were both tired, 
and could not lift the tree trunk and get it 
back into position. 

“It’s no good,” Stella gasped, after ten 
minutes of fruitless struggle. ‘We can’t do 
Mires 

(Continued on Page 84) 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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(Continued from Page &2) 

They left the tree trunk on the cobbles and 
tackled the climb back up the thatch to Stel- 
la’s window. It was harder than usual, but 
they managed it, and fell in an exhausted 
heap upon the floor. 

“Hush, Hodge!” whispered Stella, for a 
line of light showed beneath the door and 
there was a murmur of sleepy voices from the 
big bedroom. 

She slipped into bed. Hodge lay down close 
beside her, so that she could put her hand 
over the edge of the bed and touch his head. 
It comforted her to do this. Touching Hodge, 
she could imagine herself a small ship safely 
tied up to a bigger one; feeling, like harsh 
black water, might swirl about her, but she 
would not be torn away. 

Her mother, her real mother. Against the 
flood of dark water she saw her face as clearly 
as though she looked on a picture; and it was 
white and shadowed, like Zachary’s when he 
had said good-by. Mother Sprigg had thought 
her too young to feel grief at the story, but 
she had been wrong. At this moment Stella 
longed for the arms of her real mother as she 
had never longed for anything. 

Hodge jumped up on her bed, wedging 
himself in between her and the wall, his cold 
nose against her ear. Hodge was warm and 
comforting. She turned over and flung an arm 
across. his back. Her eyelids fluttered and 
closed, and soon she was asleep. 


Sretta woke abruptly, awakened by some 
sound beneath her window. It was still very 
early. Then the noise that had disturbed her 
came again. The noise was Father Sprigg in 
one of his mighty rages, bellowing at Old Sol. 

“‘Maundering old dotard!”’ shouted Fa- 
ther Sprigg. ““Leaving the yard door abroad, 
and the countryside alive with mutineers and 
vagabonds. That’s the best part of a pigeon 
pie gone, and the mistress all of a galdiment 
to think of a thief in her larder. ’ 

“No call to be so tilty, master, said Old 
Sol. ‘‘ Whoever left the door abroad, ’tweren’t 
I. I closed un an’ barred un same as always.” 

Stella was leaning out her window. ‘I did 
it, father! I did it!” 

“Eh?” ejaculated Father Sprigg. “You left 
the door abroad, poppet?” 

“Yes,” said Stella. ‘‘I took the bar down 
and then I couldn’t get it up again. I took 
the pigeon pie and milk from the dairy, and 
gave them to that ragged boy.” 

Both men gaped up at her. Father Sprigg 
blew out his cheeks. 

“A little maid like her!” he ejaculated 
with admiration as Stella withdrew from the 
window to get dressed. 

But his admiration had evaporated by the 
time they met at breakfast. If Stella ever 
did such a thing again he’d spank her, big 
girl though she was, he declared. 

Mother Sprigg carried on where he left off. 
““She shan’t be spanked this time, father,” 
said Mother Sprigg, “but punished she must 
be. It’s her morning for going to the doctor 
for her lessons. She must bide at home; both 
to punish her and to keep her safe from that 
scoundrel, if he’s still about.” 

Stella looked up quickly. The little girl 
got up, went to the cupboard and came back 
with the ruler Doctor Crane had given her. 

“Father,” she said, standing in front of 
him, “‘please, I do not want to give up my 
lessons. If mother does not wish me to be 
out in the lanes by myself, Sol will come 
with me to the village; you said yesterday 
he must take Bess to the blacksmith. And 
Doctor Crane will bring me back in his gig. 
Instead of keeping me in, will you whip me 
instead?” She laid the ruler beside his plate 
and held out her hands. 

Though it was an age when corporal 
punishment for the young was highly es- 
teemed, he had never whipped her. But now, 
meeting her unflinching look, he picked up 
the ruler, and gave it to her good and hard 
until her little palm was scarlet, and the 
ruler broke in his hand. Then he flung it into 
a corner, swore, and, rising, left the room. 


Old Sol lifted Stella onto Bess’s back. 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


lane that led steeply up the hill toward the 
village. They could see little of the surround- 
ing country until they had nearly reached 
the summit of the hill. There they stopped 
so that Sol might get his breath. 

Weekaborough Farm lay in the valley 
below, backed by low hills, with Beacon 
Hill shouldering up into the sky behind. To 
their right they looked across a wide land- 
scape of woods.and fields, while to the east, 
seen through a break in the hills, was the sea. 

Besides the meadow, several fields and 
two round green hills where sheep and cattle 
were grazing belonged to Father Sprigg. 
Father Sprigg’s fence was a grand one, eight 
feet wide at the base, and nearly as high, 
narrowed at the top to four feet and covered 
with coppice wood. These fences gave shelter 
from the winds and kept the cattle from 
straying; and nowadays they were saying 
that they might soon be put to their ancient 
purpose of giving protection against an in- 
vading army. Men, hidden with their mus- 
kets behind these fences, would be in a strong 
position. 

“But they won’t come!”’ Stella cried sud- 
denly. ‘‘Sol, say they won’t come!” 

“Let ’em come!” growled Sol savagely. 
“Us'll show ’em. Us an’ Them.” 

At the mention of Them, Stella began to 
tremble. She was dreadfully afraid of three 
things: thunderstorms, rats, and Them. 

Sol had taken from his pocket a curious- 
looking wooden object, about the shape and 
size of a large bay leaf, with a long string 
fastened to one end which he twisted about 
his finger. Now he began to whirl the thing 
round and round. Stella, Knowing what was 
going to happen, set her teeth, shut her eyes 


Men are like old corks—most 
pop the question, but a few have 
to be drawn out. —ANNE OF AUSTRIA. 


and put her hands over her ears. For this 
was Sol’s bull-roarer, a possession that had 
come to him from his father, and to him 
from his father, When another man would 
have played a fiddle or written a poem, Sol 
swung his bull-roarer. 

The noise, starting as a low whirring, with 
a strange sharp tone thrilling through it, 
became louder and louder. The terrifying 
noise died away, and Stella, shuddering with 
relief, took her hands from her ears and 
opened her eyes. 

The lane led downhill to the village of 
Gentian Hill. It was a beautiful village, its 
thatched cob cottages set in gardens. The 
old church with its tall tower crowned the 
knoll that gave the village its name, and 
gentians grew in the churchyard. Grouped 
about the church were the Church House 
Inn, the parsonage, Doctor Crane’s house, 
the forge and the village shop. There was a 
secondary village, separated from Gentian 
Hill proper by a hill crowned by a small 
dense wood, Hangman’s Wood, that was 
not so highly esteemed. There a group of old 


| cottages lurched drunkenly, surrounding an 


old inn called Smokyhouse. The whole dis- 


| reputable group of cottages was known as 


Smoky. 

Doctor Crane lived alone in his creeper- 
covered little house, waited on by his old 
sailor-servant, Tom Pearse. He had been a 
naval surgeon most of his life. 

Stella parted with Sol at the doctor’s gate 
and ran up the path to the open front door. 

“Come in,” shouted the doctor from the 
shadows within. 

Stella crossed the dark little hall to the 
open door of Doctor Crane’s study. 

He glanced up from the tome he was read- 
ing when Stella entered, pointed to the chair 
opposite and was at once engrossed again. 
She sat down to wait patiently till he got to 
the end of the paragraph. The window threw 
his rugged old head and the breadth of his 
shoulders into relief. Though he was nearly 
seventy, his iron-gray hair was still thick and 
he wore it neatly brushed back and tied in a 
queue. He had a huge forehead, a large, ugly, 
broken nose and penetrating eyes beneath 








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85 













86 














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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


bushy white eyebrows. His shabby clothes 
were well brushed and the voluminous stock 
that he wore twisted round his throat 
snowily white. He was bowlegged to the 
point of deformity, and slightly hunchbacked. 
As a young man he must have been painfully 
grotesque, but as an old man his very in- 
firmities seemed to add to his impressiveness. 

He shut the book and looked up. The old 
man’s face twisted suddenly. How he loved 
the child! But she was not happy. Though 
she was smiling, there were no candles burn- 
ing in her eyes. There was a wistfulness 
about the mouth. 

It was not his way to win confidence by 
questioning. He looked at her comically. 
“Like a history lesson in the gig, Stella?” 

Ten minutes later they were trotting 
through the village, bound for the sea. 
Stella’s face was pink with pleasure. Though 
she lived only a few miles from it, she seldom 
saw the sea except in the distance. They 
passed through the village, the doctor ac- 
knowledging friendly greetings with his whip 
raised, and slowed as they came to the steep 
lane that led up 
through Hangman’s 
Wood. 

They breasted the 
hill and were out in 
the open again, 
bowling along be- 
tween green mead- 
owstoSmoky. Here, 
too, the doctor had 
friends. A little old 
woman, hanging out 
washing, smiled at 
him, and a red- 
bearded giant loll- 
ing in the doorway 
of the inn waved his 
clay pipe. The doc- 
tor took his hat off 
to both. 

“They say that 
Granny Bogan is a 
witch, but she’s a 
brave woman,” he 
explained. “And of 
all the scoundrels of 
my acquaintance, 
and I know a good 
many, George 
Spratt is the one I’d 
choose to have with 
me in aeereint 


They were driving 
down a lane with 
high banks crowned with gorse bushes. Then 
the lane took a turn to the left and flattened 
out a little, taking the curve of the hill, the 
bank changing into a low stone wall, and the 
whole stretch of Torbay was spread out 
below them. 

Sandstone cliffs and pasture land edged 
the sea with a ribbon of red and green, and 
in the fields between Torre Abbey and the 
sea deer were feeding behind the sea wall 
that George Carey of the abbey had built to 
protect his land. Stella could just see the 
abbey among its trees, with Torre Church 
and the Chapel of Saint Michael looking 
down upon it from their hills. 

“Where are we going?” asked Stella. 

“T’ve a patient to see at Torre Abbey.” 


"Torre ABBEY was the greatest house in the 
neighborhood. It was to Stella as though he 
had said that they were going to Windsor 
Castle. ‘Is Sir George or his lady ill?” 

“They would not call in this country saw- 
bones if they were,’’ laughed the doctor. 
“They’ve a footman who once was shipmates 
with me. He’s ill and suffers from the delu- 
sion that I’m the only man who can put him 
on his feet again. I was useful to him once 
when he was blown sky-high at the siege of 
Bastia.” 

““Tsit very dreadful to be blownsky-high?”’ 

So his guess was right, and she had been 
told about her mother. He said nothing until 
they were jogging along the lane that led 
through meadows and woods to the abbey. 
Then he said, ““So you know about your 
mother?” 

Stella nodded. “‘I asked Mother Sprigg.”’ 


THE MEMORY 
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HOME JOURNAL gift 
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November, 1949 


“And when you heard about your real 
mother you felt unhappy?” 

“Not at first. But afterward, when I’d 
seen Zachary Moon, and he’d gone away 
again .. . it all seemed real.” 

“Who is Zachary Moon?” 

Stella told him about Zachary. “‘He was 
ragged, but you could see that he wasn’t 
used to being that way. And he only asked 
for food because his stomach was sticking to 
his backbone. He didn’t ask for money; 
scroungers always ask for money.” She 
surveyed him thoughtfully. “Yes, he was 
like you.” 


s Waar, with a broken nose and an eye- 
glass?” 

“No, not like you to look at.”” She puzzled 
over it, then pounced upon the resemblance. 
“You could trust him. Hodge knew it almost 
at once.” 

The doctor took off his hat in acknowledg- 
ment of the prettiest compliment he had ever 
been paid by a lady; and he considered that 
he now knew enough about Zachary to keep 
his eye open for that 
unfortunate young 
gentleman. 

Abruptly he 
changed the conver- 
sation. ‘‘There’s the 
abbey. Have you 
ever heard the story 


jolly of its building?” 
good Stella looked up, 
way to shaking her head. 
remember Ahead of them was 
your friends the abbey, em- 
and’ relatives bowered in trees, the 
more modern manor 


house surrounded 
by the old monastic 
buildings: the gate- 
house, the barn, 
tower and ruins of 
the church, with or- 
chards beyond and 
then the Chapel of 
Saint Michael. 

“Once upon a 
time,’’ began the 
doctor, ‘‘in the days 
of Richard of the 
Lion Heart, a man 
and a girl lived in 
these parts and 
loved each other. 
He was Hugh de 
Bruiére, descendant 
of a Norman knight, 
and she was Lady Hester of the House 
of Ilsham, who lived in a castle beyond 
Torquay. They promised to be faithful to 
each other and then he went away to the 
Crusades and she sat in her bower, look- 
ing out to sea and telling her beads for 
his safe return. But De Bruiére was not 
the only man who loved her; there was 
another fellow, De Pomeroy. He had gone to 
the Crusades, too, and a year later he turned 
up, having been entrusted by De Bruiére 
with a message for Lady Hester. But he did 
not give the message. Instead he told a long 
story of De Bruiére’s death at the hands of 
the Saracens, and the Lady Hester believed 
him. Then he made love to her, and a year 
later they were married.” 

‘Well!’ exclaimed Stella indignantly. 
“You’d have thought she’d have had the 
sense to know he was lying, wouldn’t you?” 

“Telling her beads so often, and looking 
at the sea so long, must have addled her 
brains,’’ said the doctor. “‘She married De 
Pomeroy, but on the wedding night a ship 
sailed into Torbay anda knight came ashore.” 

“Hugh de Bruiére!”’ 

‘The very same. He saw the blaze of lights 
at Ilsham and asked its meaning. De Bruiére 
was a hot-tempered man, and next day the 
body of De Pomeroy was found in the River 
Dart with a dagger sticking in it.” 

“And then Lady Hester married him?” 
Stella asked eagerly. 

The doctor chuckled. ‘‘You’d have done 
that, would you? So would any girl of spirit. 
But Lady Hester seems to have been poor- 
spirited as well as feather-pated. She fell into 

(Continued on Page 90) 


e 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 87 


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Bava te che TEIN — essential in building i 


HIGH. 
H-ENERGY FOOD — needed for keen vitality. 


l fs . 
RON necessary to maintain good red blood 
VITAMIN B,;—re 


Or is your child frail and underweight ? viTamin 
Read this way to better nutrition CTTAMIB, 6 icsatey Sls 


nective tissue throughout the body 


VITAMIN D, CAL 





quired for good appetite, digestion 





Y gums and all con- 


When a child is frail and nervous or under par, for a supplementary food like Ovaltine—to give neetiod ance ans CIUM & PHOSPHORUS _ g|| 

it may be due to a number of things. But one of the under par child extra amounts of the pro- VITAMIN gn", strong bones, good teeth. 

the commonest causes is faulty nutrition. And tecting things needed in extra amounts. —affects eee eficiency prevents normal growth 

this cause is one which you, the mother, can do It is also important to know that Ovaltine is | Niacin—; ee ee nates 

something about. specially processed to make it very easy to digest. and digeuive: nce functioning of nervous system 
Tn situations like this, many mothers arenow _ A child with a “delicate” stomach will usually viaas ae | 

turning to Ovaltine. For Ovaltine, mixed with digest and absorb Ovaltine very readily. Ovaltine —and health of eee carat ieicoumal’ growth 


milk, is a rich supplementary food—a protecting even makes milk more easy to digest. 

food that fills in the gaps, the chinks, and the Sonmnemieonieive 2 telcielacccs of Ovaltinean nt 

loopholes of = otherwise ‘good diet. It ee addition to everyday meals, you can be certain 

tains, in addition to essential high-quality pro- that you have done just about everything you FOR ADULTS—Ovaltine is also widely used by 

teins and quick-energy foods, the important vita- can do to improve your child’s nutrition. adults, as a protective supplementary food to 

mins A, B,, C, D, G, Niacin, and the valuable guard against deficiencies in the diet. 

minerals Iron, Calcium and Phosphorus. 
You must also bear in mind that, for robust | Ovaltine is available in plain and in an improved, ® 

health, a child needs proportionately 2 to 3 times sweet, chocolate flavor which children really like. VU Gi + 4 rn eG 

as much protein, calcium, iron, vitamins B,, C So, why not give your child Ovaltine every day 

and Niacin as an adult. That’s another reason for 30 to 60 days and carefully note the results. THE PROTECTING FOOD DRINK 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 86) 
a decline, and not having me at hand to get 
her out of it, presently died.” 

“What did De Bruiére do?” 

“Like most of these hot-tempered gentle- 
men, who act first and think afterward, he 
began to suffer from that uncomfortable 
condition of mind known as remorse. But, 
being a sensible man, he did not, like his 
lady, fall into a decline, but set to work to 
do something practical in expiation of his sin. 
He decided to build and endow a monastery. 

“Tt was all finished at last and in the 
spring of 1196 the first abbot, with six White 
Canons of the Norbertine Order, took pos- 
session. The body of Lady Hester was buried 
in the abbey precincts, and De Bruiére him- 
self took the vows and became a monk. 

“For three hundred and forty-three years 
the White Canons taught the children, 
nursed the sick, converted sinners, and 
praised God night and day in the abbey 
church, until that scoundrel Henry VIII 
sent them packing, and the abbey, as well as 
Berry Pomeroy Castle, came into the hands 
of his favorite of the moment, Thomas Sey- 
mour. Seymour sold it to Thomas Ridgeway, 
who made a manor house of it. Then he sold 
it to the Careys, and the Careys have it still. 
But it has never ceased to be a stronghold of 
the Catholic faith. 

The guest hall of the 


November, 1949 


my little coral, and the locket and the hand- 
kerchief that belonged to—to ———”’ She 
stopped, looking up pleadingly. 

Mother Sprigg replied steadily, “‘To your 
real mother. Yes, they’re yours by rights. 
Come to my room and I’ll give ’em to you.” 

They went upstairs and Mother Sprigg 
took a small box out of one of her drawers. 
Stella took the box, went away to her own 
room and closed the door. 


Sue sat on her bed, the box on her lap, and 
opened it. Inside was the handkerchief, 
quite plain except for a monogram embroi- 
dered in one corner. Folded inside it was the 
coral, and the gold locket on a gold chain. 
The locket opened and inside was a curl of 
dark hair protected beneath glass, and a 
scrap of yellow paper with something 
written on it in the language which Mother 
Sprigg said no one could make head or tail 
of. But she could not have shown it to 
Doctor Crane, for he would have known. It 
was Greek. Stella knew the look of the words 
from the doctor’s books. Her heart beat fast. 
Doctor Crane would know what was written 
here. He would tell her. She fastened the 
locket round her neck, under her dress, and 
put the handkerchief and coral back in the 
box and the box in her chest. Then she ran 

downstairs to help 

make the bread. 


abbey is now the Kwik KKK wwe KK 


Catholic church for 
all the neighborhood. 
One day, perhaps, 
you'll see it. .. . Here 
we are. Will you stay 
in the gig or come 


inside?” the doctor There’s a gay and lovely lady, 
asked. She’s the neighbor I adore, 
She borrows three potatoes 
And she brings back four. 
Then I return the sugar 
Plus a tablespoonful more, 
And she says, ‘Well, here’s a dough- 


“Wil istayine the 
gig,’’ said Stella. 

They had driven 
behind the great 
house, and halted out- 
side the gateway that 
led to the servants’ 
quarters. He gave 
her the reins and 
told her to let them 


nut 


By Ruth Stewart Schenuley 


To even up the score.” 


After he had said 


d-b Stella, 
Ye Newt Doo Fatt had cual 


bed for himself be- 
hind a haystack. The 
two weeks since he 
had deserted had 
been weeks without 
kindness and without 
a home, and the 
friendliness of the 
little girl had seemed 
wonderful. He had 
spent the whole time 
tramping from farm 
to farm, asking for 
work but never get- 
ting it. Most of the 


go loose that Aescu- KKK KEKE RK farms had their full 


lapius might crop 
the grass. Then he took up his bag and 
left. 

The doctor was back before she had time 
to feel lonely, bringing for her a little apple 
pasty the cook had given him, hot out of the 
oven. They moved off at a brisk pace. 

“T hope the poor man was feeling better 
when you left him?” Stella asked. 

“Much eased by a good grumble, a good 
yarn and the promise of a bottle of physic,” 
the doctor assured her. 

They climbed the hill and stopped to look 
once more at the view. The sun was just 
touching St. Michael’s Chapel. 

“Did De Bruiére build the chapel?” 

“A sailor who had been saved from ship- 
wreck by the monks built it as a thank of- 
fering. But it belonged to the abbey.”’ 

“Has it a story too?” 

“A good story. But we'll keep it for 
another day. You and I must get home in 
double-quick time if we’re not to get into 
hot water with Mother Sprigg.” 


Doctor crane drove Stella to the farm, 
helped her down, and took off his hat. 
“Good-by, honey. My compliments to your 
foster parents.” 

He replaced his hat and drove off. Stella 
went to the gate in the garden wall. She 
guessed that everyone would be busy with 
the cider pressing and ran along the path 
that led to the orchard. 

They were all grouped about the cider 
press: Father and Mother Sprigg, Old Sol, 
and Jack Crocker, the plowboy. 

“Had your nummet, love?” asked Mother 
Sprigg. 

“T had an apple pasty at Torre Abbey.” 

“Only a pasty? Come in, and I'll give you 
a drink of milk and some bread and honey.” 

They sat at the kitchen table, and Stella 
ate and drank, telling Mother Sprigg about 
the adventures of the day. At the end of the 
meal Stella said gently, ‘‘ Mother, may I have 


complement of labor, 
and he was obviously without the strength 
for hard work. 

The same dawn that woke Stella woke 
him. Within five minutes he was occupied 
with the problems of the day. The first 
thing to do was to climb this hill, at whose 
foot he had been sleeping, and find out where 
he was. eos. 

Bowerly Hill was the Weekaborough sheep- 
fold. Zachary felt his sore feet soothed by 
the softness of the dew-drenched grass, and 
his loneliness was eased by the companion- 
ship of the sheep. He passed a young one, 
stopped and held out his hand. To his de- 
light, it came quite near to him, jerking an 
agitated tail, before it suddenly took fright 
and swerved away. He went on, and found 
a path to the summit. He took one look at 
Weekaborough Farm down below, and knew 
it to be the home he longed for, and one last 
look at the friendly sheep, and then went 
eastward down the hill. 

It was nearly midday before he reached 
the hamlet of Barton, and paused to drink 
from the stream that led between the cot- 
tages to the wooded valley below. 

“Is this the Fleete?”” he asked an aged 
man propped against the doorjamb of a 
cottage. 

“Aye,” said the old man. 

Zachary went on, following the path down- 
hill between slopes, thickly wooded with 
birch and oak, the Fleete leaping and singing 
beside him. The trees thinned and the Fleete 
swerved to the right, and then round again 
to the other side of the hill, into a small and 
lovely amphitheater. The roar of water 
sounded in Zachary’s ears, but it was not a 
waterfall he found, but a water mill. 

The old mill was built of stone below, wood 
above, had a thatched roof and was over- 
grown with moss and ivy. To the right was 
the miller’s thatched cottage, to the left was 
the turning wooden wheel with the water 

(Continued on Page 94) 





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94. 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 90) 
pouring over it and the pond below set 
among green ferns. The lower of the two mill 
doors was open, and from inside came the 
clicking of the hopper and a man’s deep bass 
voice singing. 

Zachary went to the open door and looked 
inside. It was like a dim, warm cave, with a 
succession of wooden galleries linked by a 
flight of wooden stairs. Peering through the 
gloom, Zachary could see the turning stones 
and the corn running down through the 
hopper in a shower of gold. The huge man 
and the boy moving about in the shadows 
looked less like a miller and his grinder than 
Vulcan and his satellite fashioning a sword 
for Siegfried out of flowing gold. 

But the music being roared forth was the 
old song, Drops of Brandy, that Zachary 
knew from hearing the sailors sing it. In a 
moment or two he was singing himself. 

The hopper clicked to a standstill, and 
the miller strode to the door. “‘Hey, there, 
lad! An’ who may ’ee be, chirping like a 
cricket on my doorstep? What do ’ee want?”’ 

Zachary found that he knew how to behave 
with this man. He did not ask humbly for 
work as he had done at the farms; he stepped 
forward, hands in pockets, head thrown back. 
“Well, sir, it’s plain you need another lad 
about the place,” he said gaily, grinning first 
at the miller and then at the dirty windows 
of the mill and the doors with the paint peel- 
ing off. 

“Worked at a mill afore?” 

“Not me! But I can paint your doors, sing 
tenor to your bass, and learn the work of the 
mill in a jiffy. And I can make out your bills 
and reckon up the price of 
wheat at whatever it is a 
bushel, and see you’re not 
cheated.” 

The miller roared, ““Who 
says I’m cheated?” 

“An unlettered man is 
always cheated,’’ replied 
Zachary equably. ‘‘A shil- 
ling a week and my keep.” His smile flashing 
out over his thin face, he began to sing softly: 


““ Greensleeves was all my joy, 
Greensleeves was my delight; 
Greensleeves was my heart of gold, 
And who but Lady Greensleeves.” 


“Come on in,’’ said the miller, ‘“an’ have 
a bite of dinner.” 


Dusk of an evening a couple of days later 
found Zachary lying on a damp and dirty 
pallet in an attic room of the miller’s cottage. 
The miller’s wife had died years ago and he 
and his son lived alone. The whole house was 
dirty, and this room in particular was a hor- 
rible little cobwebbed hole. Lying on the 
pallet, Zachary had to face the fact that life 
in the mill was not going to be much more 
agreeable than life in the cockpit of the ship. 

The miller, Jacob Bronescombe, was his 
friend, but the miller’s son Sam was not; and 
Sam’s physical strength was to Zachary’s as 
that of an ox to a rabbit’s. Zachary had al- 
ready had a couple of fights with Sam behind 
the mill and had received such punishment 
that he ached all over. Sam was jealous. He 
was not exactly half-witted, but he was not 
very bright at anything except inflicting pain, 
and he knew it. There was not room in his 
mind for many ideas; up till now there had 
been only one, his doglike adoration of his 
father; now there was added to it hatred of 
Zachary and determination so to ill-treat 
him that he would withdraw from the mill. 


Suoutp he go? Zachary pondered this ques- 
tion. He knew that though the easygoing 
miller liked him, he was not going to inter- 
fere between him and his son. Jacob had a 
poor opinion of any lad who could not give a 
good account of himself in a fight. He was 
himself a famous wrestler, known all over 
the county. A man who could not use his 
fists was no man at all, in his opinion. Zach- 
ary must learn, or get out. 

Those were the two alternatives that faced 
Zachary. When dawn came he had decided 
what to do, He got up, stumbled down the 
stairs, and washed at the pump. Then he 


You’ve got to do your own 
growing, no matter how 
tall your grandfather was. 


November, 1949 


went indoors, got the fire going, laid the ta- 
ble for breakfast, and by the time the miller 
and Sam came down had bacon sizzling in 
the pan. Jacob smacked his lips apprecia- 
tively, but Sam glowered, and got in a kick 
on the shin that made Zachary gasp and all 
but drop the frying pan. 


“Give ’im back as good as he gives ’ee, 
lad!” said Jacob irritably. 

“T’ve a better plan than that,” said Zach- 
ary. 

“Eh?” said the miller, drawing in his 
chair. 

Over the meal Zachary expounded his plan. 
Let the miller teach him how to wrestle. 
Meanwhile let Sam leave him alone. Then at 
the next public wrestling match—it was in 
another month—let Sam and himself fight it 
out man to man, If Sam got the better of him 
in the fight, then he’d leave the mill. Mean- 
while, let Sam leave him alone to get on with 
his work in peace. 

Sam’s eyes brightened, but the miller 
looked dubious. ‘‘He’ll likely kill ’ee, lad.” 

“At the end of a month, if I can’t defend 
myself, then let him kill me. Meanwhile, 
let him leave me alone. Is that a bargain?” 

The miller and Sam both said, ‘Aye, it’s a 
bargain.” : 


Doctor Crane and Aesculapius were jog- 
ging homeward on a Saturday afternoon in 
October. The doctor had been summoned to 
a village far out of his beat to help with a 
difficult confinement. He had been there all 
night. Bemused with fatigue, he had taken a 
wrong turning; or rather Aesculapius, un- 
checked, had taken a 
wrong turning. Instead of 
heading for home, they 
were heading for a small 
hamlet close to Torre 
Abbey. The doctor found 
himself part of what was 
for this country neighbor- 
hood quite a stream of traf- 
fic: a couple of gigs, a wagon piled full of 
country folk, a dozen yokels on, foot. 

““What’s toward?”’ he demanded of one of 
the gigs. j 

*““Wrestlin’ match, sir.’ 

“Wrestling?’’ said the doctor, and, his 
weariness suddenly forgotten, he permitted 
Aesculapius to carry him forward. 

When he reached the village green, the 
match had been in progress for some time 
and the crowd of men and boys, women and 
girls, too, was compact about the four sides 
of the roped-off square of grass that was the 
ring. But the gig, pulled up behind the thin- 
nest part of the crowd, made an excellent 
grandstand. 

The roped-off square was about twenty 
yards each way, and within it, watching the 
wrestling, were the three triers, or conductors 
of the lists. One of them, the doctor knew, 
would be in possession of the purse of per- 
haps six or eight pounds, subscribed by per- 
sons of property in the neighborhood, which 
would be presented to the winner at the close 
of the match. 

The rules were simple. Every man who 
twice threw his opponent upon his back, 
belly or side became a contestant for the 
purse. When the number of these men had 
been reduced to eight, each received a crown. 
Then these eight fought it out until only 
one remained. 

The doctor settled himself comfortably. 
By gad, he thought, running his eye over the 
wrestlers, here was a fine bunch of young 
men. Where else would you see such broad 
shoulders, such strength and muscle? And 
where a fellow lacked physical strength, he 
made up for it by agility and skill, like that 
dark-haired boy, slim as a hazel wand and yet 
wiry, using his feet so cleverly. He was 
one of the honored eight, and he’d won the 
honor with as fine a display of skill and cour- 
age as the doctor could recollect. He found 
himself cheering. 

There was a pause. The eight received 
their crowns, put on their coats and rested, 
surrounded by admiring friends. But the dark 
boy appeared to have no friends. He waited 
alone. Suddenly the doctor remembered 

(Continued on Page 96) 


—ANON. 

















4 
| 
) 
{ 
| 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 94) 
Stella’s young vagabond, Zachary. Was this 
the fellow? 

His scrutiny was so intense that Zachary 
felt it and looked his way. Their eyes met and 
the doctor smiled. Zachary’s face, that had 
been white with exhaustion, flushed scarlet. 
Then abruptly he looked away. 

The doctor waited until the wrestling 
started again. He saw Zachary confronting 
that great lout of a fellow, Sam Bronescombe. 
Zachary kept going longer than the doctor 
would have thought possible. He lost his foot- 
ing at last and, with a savage twist, Sam 
flung him brutally upon his back. His still- 
ness had become ominous when the doctor 
jumped from his gig. 

“Get back!” he said angrily to the crowd 
as he made his brief examination. ‘‘ No more 
than stunned, as far as I can see.’”’ Then his 
eyes, falling upon Sam, blazed with fury. 
“But no thanks to you, you young brute! 
You fought fair, but you flung to kill.’ 

He lifted Zachary in his arms. A tall, thin 
man, severely dressed in black, stepped for- 
ward. 

‘“‘The cottage where I lodge is behind you, 
sir,”’ he said. 

The doctor followed him. 


Zachary, coming back to consciousness, 
was aware of being in the presence of two of 
the most singular-looking gentlemen he had 
ever set eyes on. Then, the doctor’s ministra- 
tions being extraordinarily painful, he shut 
his eyes again and gritted his teeth. Through 
the buzzing in his head, he heard a question 
and answer. 

“Your son, sir?” 

‘Never set eyes on him till today,”’ growled 
the doctor. 

Then Zachary was gulping hot coffee and 
in partial possession of his wits again. ‘‘I’m 
Zachary,” he said. 

The doctor nodded. ‘I know. Zachary 
Moon. My name is Crane. I’m a crusty bach- 
elor doctor, living alone. Is there any reason 
why you should not come home with me and 
pay me a visit?” 

“T don’t think so, sir,’’ said Zachary. “I 
was at the mill, working for Jacob Brones- 
combe. I told Sam that if he threw me today 
Id clear out.” 

“Then you've cleared out,”’ said the doc- 
tor. ‘“‘ Now keep still and sort out your addled 
wits while I take a stroll round his book- 
shelves with our host. Then we'll drive home.”’ 

Zachary couldn’t take it in and did not try. 
He lay for a little with his eyes shut. Then 
he opened them and gazed at the two men 
at the other side of the room, deep in talk. 

The tall man, at first sight, lacked the doc- 
tor’s compassion. His thin, tight-lipped, fine- 
featured face was stamped with reserve. 
Zachary had the feeling that he had seen him 
before, but could not remember where. 

At the moment of departure, while the 
doctor carried his bag out to his gig, this 
stranger came to Zachary, helped him to his 
feet and steadied him with an arm about 
him. 

They were halfway down the garden path 
when he said, ‘‘Zachary, you and I have seen 
each other before, I think. In the Chapel of 
St. Michael. I hope that we shall meet again.”’ 

Zachary nodded, speechless. 


Tue doctor put Zachary to bed and kept 
him there for a few days. He lay still, rousing 
only when Tom Pearse woke him, thrusting a 
tray with something to eat or drink beneath 
his nose. 

Tom Pearse had round, bright blue eyes 
set in a crumpled clean-shaven face with a 
purplish, pock-marked nose and a large 
mouth, permanently half-moon shape with 
good humor. He still dressed as a seaman. 
He wore his gray hair in a pigtail and walked 
with a rolling gait. Seaman though he was, 
Zachary accepted him as being not of the 
past but of the present, for the good humor 
in which he was steeped like a cherry in sugar 
was Of this life, not of that. So he liked Tom 
Pearse and his liking was reciprocated. 

Zachary woke one evening at twilight, with 
no pain in his head and a clear mind. The 
doctor was out, he knew, and Tom was work- 
ing in the garden just below his window. 


November, 1949 


“Tom!” he shouted. ‘“‘What did you do 
with my clothes?” 

“Clothes?” yelled Tom contemptuously. 
“Did ye call them rags ye come in clothes? 
They’re burnt.” 

“Well, I want to get up. What shall I put 
on?” 

There was a pause in the rhythmical thud 
of Tom’s spade. Then he came stumping in- 
doors and up the stairs. Presently he re- 
appeared with his painted black canvas kit 
bag slung over his shoulders. 

“Tt ain’t no manner of use riggin’ ye up in 
the doctor’s clothes, with him so short in the 
leg and broad in the shoulder. But here’s me 
best shore-going slops wot I ’ad in the navy 
afore I put on weight. Ye’re a good lad an’ 
I’ll be proud to lend ’em to ye.” 


He opened his kit bag, and a most aston- 
ishing assortment of brilliant garments tum- 
bled out. White duck trousers, striped blue- 
and-white trousers, a red shirt, a white shirt, 
a spotted shirt, a spotted waistcoat, a striped 
waistcoat. Jackets of blue and yellow. Stock- 
ings of good white silk, and black shoes with 
big silver buckles. A painted straw hat with 
ribbons falling rakishly over the left eye. 

“Admiral Nelson liked us smart,” said 
Tom, laying them upon the bed. ‘‘ There, lad. 
Take your pick.” 

Zachary in his weakened state felt incapa- 
ble of making a selection and Tom arrayed 
him in a white shirt, with collar open at the 
neck, a black silk handkerchief knotted round 
the throat, white duck trousers, scarlet waist- 
coat, blue coat, white silk stockings and 
buckled shoes. 

“Ye look a gennelman,’’ Tom conceded. 

Zachary went rather shakily downstairs to 
the doctor’s study. He heard the gig drive 
up, and then the doctor’s firm footfall in the 
hall. He stood up. 

The doctor’s hand came down on his shoul- 
der. “‘Hey, lad! What made you get up?” 
he asked. 

“I was able, sir.” 

“Good. I’ll go and have a wash and then 
we'll eat.” 

Tom had cooked an unusually appetizing 
meal. The doctor kept the talk flowing easily 
upon politics and the arts, and Zachary did 
his best to keep his end up. 

They went back to the study, where Tom 
had kindled a fire of apple wood and pine 
cones, and pulled up chairs to the fragrant 
blaze. The doctor lit his pipe and puffed at it, 
watching the boy. Zachary sat stiffly, nerving 
himself to say something. Then he said it: 

“Thank you, sir, for your goodness. I am 
quite well now. I must not encroach any 
longer upon your hospitality.” 

“Where were you thinking of going, boy?”’ 
asked the doctor. ‘‘Have you a home?” 

“No, sir. But I am perfectly capable of 
finding employment. I found it before.” 

There was a touch of defiance in the tone 
that made the doctor smile, though he liked 
it. “Yes, you did. At the mill. But I doubt if 
that was exactly suitable employment for a 
fellow of your type. I have a suggestion, 
Zachary. I like the company of boys. So does 


’ Tom. Stay here until we find some employ- 


ment more suited to you than working a hop- 
per. Then, if you have no home of your own, 
you might like to look upon this house as not 
such a bad imitation. Got any parents liy- 
ing?” 

Zachary shook his head. 

‘Well then, you might look on me as a fa- 
ther for as long as you have any use for the 
commodity. I’ve no doubt we’ll shake down 
together very comfortably. You can tell me 
about yourself when you like, or not at all, 
just as it pleases you.” 

“T’d like to tell you everything now, sir,” 
said Zachary. 

“Very well.”” The doctor leaned back in 
his chair, stuck his feet on the fender. 

Stumblingly at first, Zachary told his story; 
exaggerating neither the cruelty of others 
nor his own suffering, making no excuses for 
himself. “I . . . deserted,” he said. 

The old man’s silence told Zachary exactly 
what the doctor thought of desertion. What 
would he do if told he must go back to the 
navy ? His mind balked. He gripped his hands 
together and the sweat ran down his temples. 











“Ts there anything that you would espe- 
cially like to do, Zachary ?”’ asked the doctor 
gently. 

Zachary relaxed a little. ‘‘ Yes, sir. I’d like 
to be a shepherd at Weekaborough Farm.” 

The doctor was startled. This intelligent 
boy a farm laborer? Well, perhaps he knew 
best what was good for him at this juncture. 
Out there on the hill with the sheep he’d 
find quiet and healing. 

“But I understand, Zachary, that your 
services have already been somewhat vio- 
lently rejected by Farmer Sprigg?”’ 

Zachary grinned. “Yes, sir. But I was 
dressed like a scarecrow then.” 

“And now, in Tom Pearse’s shore slops, 
you look like a molting macaw.” 

“Perhaps, sir ———’’ suggested Zachary 
tentatively. 

“Very well. Tomorrow we’ll drive to town 
and fit you out in a manner likely to impress 
Farmer Sprigg, and then you can try your 
luck again. Now as your medical adviser, I 
suggest bed.” 


There had been a bit of disagreeableness 
zoing on at Weekaborough Farm, and a few 
days later it came to a climax. It concerned 
the obstinacy of Jack Crocker, the plowboy, 
one of whose duties it was to sing counter- 
tenor to Sol’s bass in the beautiful chant 
which animated the Weekaborough oxen 
when they pulled the plow. Jack could not 
sing the chant correctly, and what was worse, 
he would not try. 

The half-acre field on the slope of Taffety 
Hill was in exactly the right condition to 
be harrowed for the sowing of the autumn 
crop of winter oats. The beautiful oxen, 
Moses and Abraham, were harnessed to the 
plow, and the old man and boy set out for 
Taffety Hill. 

Zachary, meanwhile, was coming up the 
hill from the village, attired in breeches, 
leather gaiters and rough frieze coat, with 
his hair cut short and one of Tom’s less 
spectacular shirts open at the neck. He 
reached the top of the hill, and the great 
Danmonian fence that was the boundary 
of Father Sprigg’s land. He went through 
the gate and stood looking down upon the 
Weekaborough valley. 


Tuere was a flock of gulls wheeling down 
the hill to his left, wings flashing in the sun. 
Their crying soared above the chanting that 
mingled with the faint bell-like jingling of 
harness. This music was so attuned to the 
spirit of the hour that Zachary was conscious 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


of it at first only as part of the natural music 
of earth itself; of the music of the wind, the 
stirring grasses and rustling leaves. Then it 
swelled and drew nearer. 

He listened until a false note, followed by 
a howl on the other side of the hedge, brought 
him suddenly to earth. He ran down the lane 
to a gate, leaped upon it and found himself 
looking down upon such a scene that he 
swung his legs over the top of the gate and 
sat there laughing. 

A field was being harrowed, but the team 
of oxen had come to a standstill while the 
plowman, an ancient with a bent old body, 
belabored the hindquarters of a small boy 
held wedged between his legs. 


Wirn a twist the boy wrenched himself 
free, and raced down the hill. The old man 
staggered, recovered himself, then laid his 
hands once more upon the plow. The oxen 
moved forward, and the old man’s voice rose 
lonely and serene in the immemorial chant 
his fathers had sung century after century 
over these same green hills. 

Zachary listened; it was still lovely, but it 
lacked the tenor notes. He tried them softly 
under his breath, remembering the rhythm 
of the chanting of the mass. The plow reached 
the bottom of the hill, turned and came up 
again. Zachary was sure of himself and the 
music. Singing, he pulled off his coat, swung 
in beside Sol and bent his weight to the plow. 
Sol, after one glance, accepted him as he ac- 
cepted everything. 

Sol fitted no words to his music; if there 
had ever been words he had never known 
them, and neither had his father; his chant- 
ing was a succession of vowel sounds flowing 
so smoothly and effortlessly that, though 
there were no words, they nevertheless gave 
the impression of ordered language. But 
Zachary quite unconsciously found himself 
singing actual words: 

“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritua Sancto. 
Sicul erat in principio, el nunc, et semper, et 
in saecula saeculorum. Amen.” 

The plow had stopped. The oxen stood 
with heads drooped wearily. Old Sol was 
chuckling, enjoying the astonishment of a 
tall, stout man leaning over the gate. 
Zachary rubbed his hand across his eyes, 
then blinked confusedly at a picture he had 
seen before, a little figure in a red cloak 
standing behind a gate. He gave a cry of 
delight and, like a flash, Stella had scrambled 
to the top of the gate, fallen down upon the 
other side, and flung herself into his out- 
stretched arms. 


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“What the devil!’ demanded Father 
Sprigg. “Who may you be, you young 
scoundrel! You dare touch my girl!” 

Zachary pushed aside Stella and came up 
to Father Sprigg. “I ask your pardon, sir,” 
said Zachary. ‘‘I am staying in the village 
with Doctor Crane. I passed this way and 
your plowman was having trouble with 
his boy, who ran away. I stayed and helped 
him.” 

“Sings counter-tenor like he’d been born 
to the plow, sir,” exulted Sol. “Let un bide, 
an’ ’im an’ me, we'll ’ave the ’ole field 
plowed by nummet time.” 

“‘An’ for why are you so set on plowing my 
field?’’ demanded Father Sprigg of Zachary. 

“‘T want to work at Weekaborough Farm, 
sir. Doctor Crane thought you might give 
me employment. I think you could teach me 
to be a good shepherd as well as a good plow- 
man.” 

“T’ve never had no foreigner working on 
my farm,” growled Father Sprigg. By “‘for- 
eigner’’ he meant a man who was not a West 
Country man; and by his speech he knew 
Zachary hailed from some place he’d never 
set eyes on. 

Zachary took a deep breath. ““When a 
homeless man sees a bit of earth that seems 
lovelier than any he ever saw, do you blame 
him if he tries to stay there? You can become 
a native by love as well as by birth. Give me 
a trial, sir.” 

Stella, who all this time had stood scarcely 
daring to breathe, saw the obstinacy of 
Father Sprigg’s mouth relax a little. ‘“I’ll 
speak to the doctor about ye,” he said 
gruffly. 


ZacHary went to work with a will, and 
after a short time Father Sprigg and Sol 
found him uncommonly useful. He was good 
with animals, especially sheep. He had pa- 
tience and reverent love for all small 
creatures. 

It was this that set the minds of Father 
and Mother Sprigg at rest about Zachary 
and Stella. That he loved the little girl it was 
plain to see, and she followed him about like 
his shadow. 

Doctor Crane still taught Stella two morn- 
ings a week, and Zachary’s education was 
carried on in the evenings. But on Fridays, 
when Father and Mother Sprigg drove to 
market, Zachary and Stella both had dinner 
with the doctor, and for an hour before the 
meal he would read aloud to them. 

Friday, November 23, 1804, was the last 
of these Fridays, but the doctor did not read 
that day. When Zachary and Stella arrived 
they found the gig at the door, the doctor 
struggling into his greatcoat, and Tom 
Pearse holding the head of Aesculapius. 

“Fleet’s in!”’ cried Tom. ‘‘The Brest fleet. 
Admiral Cornwallis.” 

The doctor slapped his beaver hat on the 
side of his head. ‘Up with you, Zachary and 
Stella. You come, too, Tom. You can hold on 
behind.” 

He lifted the excited Stella and swung her 
up, climbing up after her. Zachary stood 
where he was. The very mention of the Brest 
fleet had made him turn suddenly cold. His 
old ship was part of it. 

“Coming, Zachary?” 

He looked up and smiled. “Could I stay 
at home, sir?” 

“By all means, boy. Stay if you like.” 

He spoke kindly, but Zachary saw some- 
thing almost like contempt in his eyes. And 
on Stella’s face was a look of dismay. With- 
out a word he swung up beside her. 

“T wish it was Admiral Nelson, not Ad- 
miral Cornwallis,”’ said Stella. “*I wish Ad- 
miral Nelson would come to Torquay.” 

“He’s been, honey,” said the doctor. 
“But you were too little to take much 
interest.” 

What was the matter with him, Zachary 
wondered, that he could not thrill to the 
music of great names and the splendor of 
great deeds? Why was it that for him the 
horror of war completely overlay the 
glory? 

They had reached the stone wall where 
the doctor and Stella had paused before to 
look at Torbay. The ships of the Brest fleet 
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November, 1949 








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work gleaming in the sun, their sails hanging 
loose to dry. 
They drove slowly down the hill, the 
doctor and Tom trying to pick out the dif- 
| ferent ships. 
“They'll be off when the wind shifts,” 
said Tom. He regarded the sky and sniffed 
_ knowingly. ‘““Maybe tomorrow. There’s a 
_ change comin’. Saint Michael, see how clear 
| he stands? He’s whistlin’ up a wind for ’em.” 
_ They followed the direction of his glance. 
_ The Chapel of St. Michael upon its rock was 
. extraordinarily clear against the sky. Stella, 
half shutting her eyes, could almost imagine 
a great angelic figure standing there, wings 
spread, sword in hand. 
“Let’s climb up to the chapel!”’ she cried 
impulsively. 
The doctor looked at Zachary’s set face. 
He was not going to force the boy a second 
time. ‘‘We’ll keep the chapel for another 
day,” he said. “But I'll tell you the story of 
the chapel as we drive home.” 


It was not a quiet sea, but a storm, with 
which the doctor began his story, and it had 
raged five centuries ago. The monks within 
the abbey church could scarcely make their 
voices audible above the roar of the wind 
and the crashing of the waves on the shore. 
The west door opened suddenly, letting in a 
gust of wind that made the candles gutter in 
their sconces, and the abbot saw the wild 

_ figure of one of their goatherds in the door- 
way. 

“A ship in distress, father!’”’ he cried. 
“Driving toward the rocks.”’ 

The monks were used to doing what they 
could for sailors in trouble. They lit storm 
lanterns, seized a coil of 
rope and fought their way 
to the shore. They could 


driving in upon the rocks, 
| but the storm was so fear- 
\) ful that there waslittlethey 
could do. With all their he- 
roic efforts they saved the 
life of only one man. They nursed him back to 
| life in the abbey infirmary and he told them 
| that in the hour of his danger he had vowed, 
| should his life be spared, to devote it to God. 
When he recovered he kept his vow. Helped 
by the monks, he built a chapel upon the 
rocky summit of the hill close to the abbey, 
and here lived the life of a hermit until he 
died. 

Three hundred years later a young boy of 
the neighborhood was in trouble. One day 
he climbed to the chapel and knelt and 
prayed there. He had been told the story of 
the hermit, and when his prayer was finished 
he stayed in the chapel, thinking about the 
story and wondering if it was true. He must 
have slept and dreamed, for it seemed to him 
that he saw a rough stone altar and an old 
white-haired man kneéling before it. Then 
the old man raised his head and looked at 
the boy, and it seemed that they talked.... 
Then it was once more daylight in the chapel, 
and there was no one there but the boy. 

He spoke to no one of this dream or vision, 
excepting to a young girl called Rosalind, 
whom he loved. He was saying good-by to 
her, for he was setting out upon a journey 
across the sea. But he promised he would 
| return, and she promised to visit the chapel 
on every anniversary of his departure. 


| 











| Three years passed and he had not re- 
turned. Rosalind kept her promise. On the 
third anniversary, climbing up to the chapel, 
| she was surprised to see a light inside. When 

she came to the door she saw an old white- 
. haired man kneeling at prayer. He got up 
|_ when he saw her, and came to her. He told 
ye that her lover was on board a ship out in 





the bay, driven by the rising storm, and that 
his safety depended upon her courage. To- 
gether they went down to the shore and, in 
the fury of the storm that followed, Rosalind 
stood steadfast, refusing to be driven away 
by wind or rain. It was she who first saw the 
ship driving toward the rocks, and she who 
dragged from the water the body of her 
lover. She and the old man carried him to the 
Nearest house, where he was cared for. By 
Morning the storm had ceased and Rosalind, 


MESSE er 
dimly see the great ship $ There are forty kinds of 


lunacy, but only one kind 
of common sense. 


99 


looking at the door, saw the old man linger- 
ing there. She went to him, and he told her 
that as long as the chapel stood it would 
always hold help and comfort for those who 
prayed there. Then he blessed her and left 
and neither she nor her lover ever saw him 
again. 


Next day the wind changed and freshened 
as Tom Pearse had foretold. The doctor and 
Zachary sat down rather late to their eve- 
ning meal. The admiral had signaled an im- 
mediate departure just before five o’clock, 
Tom Pearse told them. 

“It'll be a job to work out of the bay in 
this darkness,”’ he said. “Dirty weather on 
the way too. Better to have waited till 
morning.” 


Tue doctor looked at the opaque blackness 
outside the window. “Admiral Cornwallis 
knows his job,” he said slowly. 

Tom Pearse sniffed dubiously and poured 
out the claret. 

The doctor and Zachary were reading in 
front of the study fire when they heard the 
low boom of a gun. The doctor lifted his 
head and waited. Ship in distress. 

Tom Pearse’s head came round the door. 
‘Puttin’ in Aesculapius, sir,’”’ he said. 

The doctor grunted, closed his book and 
reached for his doctor’s bag. ‘Coming, 
Zachary ?”’ 

Zachary nodded and got up. 

Bundled in thick coats, the three of them 
packed into the gig and drove off into the 
windy darkness. Scuds of rain came now and 
then, lashing their faces. As they neared 
Smokyhouse, a door stood open, showing the 
glow of firelight, and a 
man’s bulky figure blocked 
against it. 

He hailed them, “‘Take 
me along, doctor?”’ 

‘““Make haste then, 
George,”’ the doctor called. 

George Spratt swung 
up behind. “‘The Vener- 
able, on the rocks on Paignton Ledge,” 
growled George. 

“Know any details, George?”’ asked the 
doctor. 

George knew all about it. While the 
Venerable’s anchor was being secured one of 
the seamen had fallen overboard. A boat was 
ordered away but, one of the falls being let 
go too soon, it was swamped, a midshipman 
and two sailors being drowned. A second 
boat was lowered and the first sailor saved. 
Meanwhile all the ships were tacking, but 
the Venerable, having lost way, was unable 
to gain her position and, to avoid collision, 


was forced close to the shore. The heavy |’ 


swell had caught her and now she was on the 
rocks. 

Paignton village was deserted, for every- 
one had gone down to the shore. They put up 
Aesculapius and the gig at the inn, and 
fought their way to the beach. Flares and 
hurricane lamps lit up the scene. 

They could dimly make out the doomed 
ship. The sea had made a complete breach 
in her and the waves were pouring through. 
At sight of her, and at thought.of the men 
aboard, all his old hatred of the sea swept 
over Zachary. Then the nausea passed and 
rage took its place. He saw that there were 
some boats tossing about the Venerable, and 
a handful of fishermen were trying to get 
more off from the beach. 

Then began one of the most splendid 
efforts to save life that Torbay had ever 
witnessed. The fight continued through that 
stormy pitch-black night. One after another, 
the small pitching boats passed under the 
Venerable’s stern, and her officers, keeping 
the saving of their own lives till the last, 
helped their men in. Lines were flung and 
made fast on the shore, and other men tried 
to haul themselves along to safety, but the 
surf was so tremendous that most of those 
making the attempt were either drowned or 
dashed to pieces upon the rocks. At five in 
the morning Captain Hunter at last con- 
sented to leave his ship. The officers and ten 
seamen who had declared they would die 
with their officers scrambled into boats, and 
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PARCHMENT, 
LL | 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Throughout that night Zachary worked as 
courageously as any man. He was in one of 
the boats, taking an oar behind George 
Spratt. Later he was in the sea, up to the 
waist in ice-cold water, Tom Pearse beside 
him, struggling to save the exhausted men 
clinging to the lines. Later still he was inside 
the inn, laboring with the doctor to bring 
back life to half-drowned bodies. 

It was still dark when at last there was no 
more for them to do; and the rescuers carried 
the rescued to their homes for hot drinks, hot 
baths and bed. The doctor captured two 
young officers and drove them home in the 
gig. Zachary, George Spratt and Tom Pearse 
followed on foot. 

The officers whom the doctor had brought 
back from the wreck slept until the aroma 
of Sunday dinner penetrated their slumbers, 
when they arose, donned the uniforms Tom 
Pearse had dried and 
pressed for them, and 
descended to the dining 
parlor. 

Tom had made a rabbit 
pie and roasted a round 
of beef. He had cooked 
vegetables, made a superb 
sillabub and polished the 
dishful of rosy apples from the Weeka- 
borough orchard. He had also brought up 
port and claret from the cellar. 

Conversation was not fluent at first, but 
over the apples and wine it flourished. The 
young men were both keen seamen, one the 
son of a post captain and the grandson of an 
admiral, and were delighted to find the 
doctor and Tom of their fraternity. 

Only Zachary was silent, but the doctor 
noticed that there was no strain about his 
silence; he sat listening to the talk as though 
he liked it. There was something about him 
that caught the attention of the two young 
men; especially the post captain’s son, Rupert 
Hounslow. At last Rupert, not more than 
five years his senior, spoke directly to 
Zachary. 

“You did a good job of work last night. 
You handled your oar as we do in the navy.” 

“Yes, sir,’ said Zachary quietly. 

“Are you in the service?” 


PORTIA Ss rad, 
* The cobra will bite you 


whether you call it cobra 
or Mr. Cobra. —INDIAN PROVERB. 


November, 1949 


Zachary replied steadily, ‘“I used to be in 
the navy.” 

“Invalided out?” 

“No, sir. I deserted.” 

In the pause that followed the two young 
men flushed with embarrassment, but the 
doctor drained his glass as though he drank 
a toast. 

Zachary squared his shoulders. *‘I would 
like to go back, sir. I can take whatever 
punishment is just and right. But I do not 
know what I should do to get back. What 
should I do, sir?” 

Rupert leaned forward, his arms on the 
table, intent upon the boy. “Was it a bad 
ship?” 

“No, sir,” lied Zachary. 

“Then why did you desert?” 

A pulse twitched in Zachary’s cheek. “I 
hated the sea,” he told Rupert. 

“What’s your name? 
Doctor Crane told me, 
but I’ve forgotten. Was it 
Moon?” 

“No, sir. Anthony Louis 
Mary O’Connell.”’ 

“I know a Captain 
O’Connell by reputation,” 
Rupert said. “He bears 
the name of Mary too. Any relation?” 

“Yes, sir. He is my cousin.” 

“Were you on his ship?” 

Yiesmsivwe 

“Then you lied when you said it was not a 
bad ship.” 

“Could you help me to get back to it, sir?”’ 

“No, I couldn’t. But I'll help you get 
another ship. I’ve got to get another ship 
myself. I must catch the next coach to 
London. Will you come with me?” 

Zachary looked at the doctor. His face 
was set like a mask and his eyes that had 
been bright were suddenly opaque and dull. 

“Yes, Anthony,” said the doctor. ‘‘The 
mail coach, Mr. Hounslow, leaves the Crown 
and Anchor at Torquay at ten o’clock 
Tuesday morning. That’s the day . after 
tomorrow. You should be in London in 
twenty-four hours. If you have finished your 


‘wine, gentlemen, we will adjourn to the 


study.” (To Be Continued) 


DIARY OF DOMESTICITY 


(Continued from Page 31) 


“Wholly imagined experience,” says Mr. 
Hackett, “has a kind of salience,” I read. 

Now there is a fine new word. “Salient” I 
am well used to, but “salience”’ is new. I add 
another wing to the pan, lower the heat and 
go back to Mr. Hackett. I agree with him 
that no book is great for recording the trag- 
edy of events, but the people to whom the 
events happen must be important. In other 
words, we have to care about the characters. 
A good many modern-day books fail because 
the characters are so trivial, so degenerate or 
so futile that it just can’t matter to us 
whether they live or die in those slick book 
jackets. 

But we can still be moved by the ex- 
periences of Lord Jim or Heathcliffe or 
Kristin Lavransdatter. For we feel them as 
human beings with whom we have some 
common traits. They live for us, and we care 
about the events of their lives. 

By the time I finish my reflections the 
gravy is done and one Irish setter, named 
Maeve, is standing by and silently begging 
for her portion. 

We were dreadfully shocked to hear from 
a friend in Canada that she had lost some of 
her best dogs because an antifreeze prepara- 
tion had been tipped from the table and they 
had lapped it up. There was no antidote 
published on the label and the company 
could not be reached before most of the dogs 
were dead. If they had known the correct 
antidote, all the dogs might have been saved, 
most of them certainly. 

At the end of November comes our almost 
favorite holiday. Thanksgiving is so pe- 
culiarly our own and is the nearest to a folk 
festival that we have. It is a gathering of 
families, which is a fine thing too. And it 
leads us for a day to lift our thouthts to 


God, and remember the many blessings 
which we have received in the year that is 
now ebbing. 

We take too much for granted most of the 
time. Simple things like plenty of soap and 
hot water and clean sheets and fresh air and 
other things like public libraries where we 
may take out any book we wish and schools 
where all children may go and little churches 
in every country town where the doors are 
open and nobody is going to arrest us for 
singing our own hymns. 

Here at Stillmeadow, we have the Thanks- 
giving turkey and the traditional fixin’s. Just 
the way our families have had it for genera- 
tions. Creamy mashed potatoes and giblet 
gravy ladled generously, and whipped tur- 
nips and pie—nice solid food that recks not 
of the calories. Cranberry sauce and celery 
hearts and big fat olives and a huge silver 
bowl of nuts to crack afterward with the last 
of the coffee. 

I am thankful; how can I ever reach the 
end of thankfulness? For all the good things 
there are, and for the intangibles too—the 
special smile of a dear friend, the clear sound 
of the church bell over a peaceful valley, the 
touch of a loved hand. For the pure beauty of 
a star in the November sky, the excitement 
of a red setter racing the wind, the laughter 
of the children as they clatter around the 
house, home again, even though briefly, from 
their busy lives. 

I am thankful for all the happy memories 
I have and for the hopeful tomorrows, and 
for the present hour, the now, which we can 
deeply realize. For now the little house is full 
of peace, Little Sister is in my lap, and the 
deep and dreaming gaze of Honey reflects 
only ‘the brightest glow in the embers. 

Happy Thanksgiving! THE END 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


WHOIS MISS FAMOUS? 





\ 








You can always use light bulbs. And you _Prizes for best jingles will be awarded on 
can be sure that the sbuls bearing the _ basis of sincerity, originality, and apt- 
_ Westinghouse name will give long and _ ness. Judges’ decisions are final. 


efficient service . . . will give Greater 3. Name Miss Famous. Clues are given 
See-ability. So buy three W estinghouse —_helow her picture. For additional clues, 
bulbs today and start‘ on your way tune in Ted Malone, ABC network, every 
toward winning a big cash prize! weekday, Monday through Friday. But 
} 1, How to Enter: Buy three Westing- don’t send us the name af Miss: Famous 
house light bulbs and get an entry blank _ yet! Here’s why: The writers of the best 
from your dealer. Send as many entries —_502 jingles will automatically receive the 
as you wish but for each entry you must _ prizes listed in Prize Column A. Then, 
certify that you bought three Westing- _ each winner will be notified and asked to 
house bulbs and give dealer’s name and _ identify Miss Famous, in order to receive 
address. Mail to Westinghouse Miss _ the Bonus Prize. If any jingle winner 
Famous Contest, Box 90, New York 46, fails to identify Miss Famous, that Bonus 
N. Y. Contest closes midnight, Decem- _ Prize will be given to the next best jingle 
ber 4, 1949. writer who does identify Miss Famous. 


2. Complete the Jingle: Write a last line —_— Note: If your dealer has no entry blank, copy 


for this jingle, which is printed on entry jingle on plain paper, then buy the required I'ma happy bird” ona tropic isle 


blank: bulbs and have your dealer sign or stamp My‘ “plumage” has started a brand new style 
Bic J PL tohbos } the paper on which you write your entry. Be To sing and dance is my lucky fate 
A ig ter iouse 1s a Irie iter house sure to print your name and address and I originally came from the Lone Star State 


And a happier place to be dealer's name and address. Contest limited 
So light your house with Westinghouse to continental United States and Hawaii. 


(last line must rhyme with “be”) 












WIN $5,000—1,004 PRIZES IN ALL 
502 Prizes for BEST JINGLES 502 Big BONUS PRIZES EASY TO 


Column A | Column B ENTER 





lst Prize $2,500 lst Prize $2,500 Buy 6 Westinghouse 
Ond Pri 500 2nd Prize $500 Household Light Bulbs 

nd Frize $ 30 Next 5 Prizes Westinghouse Combination a 
Next 5 Prizes $ 100 Television-Radio- 3 0 

Phono Sets Installed Yr” ¢ 

y . ~ 
Next 5 Prizes $ 50 Next 5 Prizes Westinghouse Television Sets plus ‘ e 
Next 10 Prizes Ss 50 (table model) Installed |} tax s 

Next 10 Prizes Westinghouse Laundromats 25. 40, or 60 
‘ Ox , 40, or watt 

Next 10 Prizes $ 25 Next 10 Prizes W estinghouse ElectricRanges ae ie ae 
Next 70 Prizes 2, 10 Next 70 Prizes W estinghouse Electric Mixers Site oie hoa cater . ¢ 
Next 100 Pri é Next 100 Prizes W estinghouse Electric Sheets 86¢ or more, such as an : Gg 

. — ° | Next 300 Prizes Westinghouse RS Sun Lamp RS sun lamp bulb, heat 7 
Next 300 Prizes $ 5 Bulbs lamp, nite lite, or silvered i ang 

. bowl bulb 


you CAN BE SURE...IF ITS ©1949 Westinghouse Electric Corp. 


Westinghouse — 





By RICHARD PRATT 


HITE irises grow up here through a rosy carpet of granulated brick 

that covers the whole garden, to a thickness of a little more than an 
inch where you walk, to perhaps a little less than that where you plant: The 
treatment is a natural for the uneven, off-level site that is hard to fit with a 
formal pattern of flower beds and footpaths. And equally as fine as crushed 
brick for an over-all coating are any kinds of coarse sand or fine gravel, saw- 
dust, pine needles or tanbark chips—whichever comes easiest. Likewise, in 
addition to various irises, you will find that tulips, narcissuses, lilies, day lilies, 
azaleas—almost any of the heavy-rooted perennials, endless bulbs and gar- 
den shrubs—do well in this culture of mulch, which acts as weed controller 
and moisture conserver all in one. The stepping blocks are foot-long lengths 
of old railroad ties, sunk for solidity, which also serve as off-the-ground sup- 
ports for our pan reflecting pools. For further information, simply write. And 
for directions for making the trellis arbor, send 15 cents to the Reference 
Library, Lapres’ Home Journat, Philadelphia 5, Pennsylvania, for work 
sheet No. 2577; work sheets for the pan pools, No. 2576, are also 15 cents. 

You enter the bedless garden past the trellis arbor (seen side-on 


above) to find it flanked with two-color fencing of separated 
boards that give seclusion to the garden’s easy informality. 


DESIGNED BY JAMES C. ROSE; PHOTOGRAPHED BY EZRA STOLLER 


oe 
Wo? 


«f 


ee 


~ 


ee 


eS 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


| 3 piece Tea or Coffee Service $125. 
with Footed Waiter $147.50. Inspired 
design perfectly executed for the 
ultimate in silverplate. Here is at- 
tention to small details (note the 
covered spout on the cream pitcher) 
and massive richness of ornamen- 
tation found usually on only the 
most expensive solid silver. “It looks 
b like hand-chasing” experts say of 
the glorious Spring Garden decora- 
tion. Truly, a unique value! 





Covered Vegetable Dish $17.50. Something 
new in fine silverware design: instead of the 
conventional straight line, the lines of this 
lovely dish sweep up ina graceful curve. Oval 
serving dish (not illustrated) $10.00. 





Bread Tray $10.00. A remarkably lovely, truly 
versatile piece... can be used as fruit dish, 
sandwich tray, for flowers, many other ways. 





Well and Tree Dish $22.50? Rich Spring Garden 
ornamentation, unusually graceful outline, 
make this essential piece a royal setting for 
all meats, poultry and fish. 





Gravy Boat & Tray $15.00. A masterpiece of 


design. Distinctive, low silhouette sweeps up 
at the lip for perfect balance, perfect pouring. 
Tray has many uses. 
7 4 oo N 
e 2 = 
es on , 


has its own magnificent tea set and service pieces. 








Spring Garden! This season’s gayest, loveliest silverplate design, 
first captured for you in exquisite flatware, is now 











yours in the loveliest holloware imaginable. a6 Meat Platter eee of ths nee gee 
: Ee , 5 ful service pieces of all... and the hand- 
There is a breathtakingly beautiful tea set...its wealth of detail, somest. Important: all prices for service pieces 
weight, richness of ornamentation, rivaling in appearance the include Federal Tax. 
finest examples of hand-worked silver. There are service 
° inl j e@ooseece 
pieces for your every dining need... each a triumph peaysare-e)° Si siemus Le 
ry =a ~ tate > P. e o. 
of designers’ art and silversmiths’ craft. uss ., 
: e 
> . . . s 
And here is the most delightful news of all. You will find these ° . 
. 7 ° ° : 7 4 e e 
Spring Garden pieces priced within the reach of even 5 DS s 
< e e 
the most modest budget. : HOLMES & EDWAR : 
) : : 
q s. . 
- . 
. e . 
Have you seen Spring Garden flatware? This latest and a 3 
loveliest pattern in famous Sterling Inlaid silverplate, comes : . 
} 7 ot 1 z HERE 
in a 52 piece service for 8 at only $68.50 with chest. There - WE : 
are three other enchanting Holmes & Edwards patterns, Youth, ok S ‘ 
1 All le in the U.S.A e Its Sterling Inlaid ° 
Danish Princess, Lovely Lady. are made in the U.S.A. a As 
— e e e 


° e 
Sle e 
° e 
COPYRIGHT 1949, THE INTERNATIONAL SILVER CO., HOLMES & EDWARDS DIVISION, MERIDEN, CONN. OREG. U.S. PAT. OFF. SC eceeeeeeees & *& 


MoHAWK CompBep PERCALI 
SHEETS differ only very slichtly a 
in price Lrom ordinary muslin. yet their 
< 

1 ™~. 
finer spun. thoroughly combed threads weave a 
pe reale that i trong, smooth and lustrous—a softer, 
whiter sheet. 


Each night proves their luxury...Each year their economy. 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


November, 1949 


Utica BEAUTICALE* SHEETS are ex- 
quisitely textured percales made only 
of choicest long staple cotton, extra 
refined by thorough combing. They 
become softer, lovelier with each year 


of service. 


of price..you can buy nothing finer. 


*Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. 








Mowawk MuSsLIN SHEETS are 
favorites of busy housewives, for 


they’ re easier to wash, quicker 





to iron. How wonderful to find such soft, Lilia See ea 


: ky. oHAWK Corto 
snowy-white sheets at such small cost! ; Unica no! Uncaw  lES ie 


|MOHAWK| | 


SHEETS~» PILLOW CASES 


Ss QUALITY GUARANTEED 


The thrift sheet of the nation. 




















LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


a 


Pe 


rt 
Hite 





LASTING 


Utica Mustin SueEets take long, 






SAVING 


Hope Mus.in SHEETS are priced for 


Pit 


hard wear yet keep their soft 
smoothness because they are firml 
y y true economy. Their ]ong-wearing good 


woven of carefully selected cotton. F 
y n looks, neat finish and firm hems make 





Favored by fine h 
y fine hotels and careful them especially popular with mothers 


housewives. i i 
of romping children, 


Woven extra strong...to wear extra long. Neat and nice . . . low in price. 


hen shopping for sheets, keep this symbol in 
mind. Let it be your guide for quality whether you 
choose luxury percale or thrifty muslin. It is the 
symbol of the Utica and Mohawk Cotton Mills, Inc., 
familiar to generation after generation of 
American families as makers of quality textile 
products for the home. Ask for sheets and pillow 
cases with this symbol, and you know you'll 


get the best your money can buy. 


Write for your copy of the free booklet, 
“Beauty Secrets From Your Linen Closet.” 


Utica & Mohawk Cotton Mills, Inc., Dept. LH-16, 





55 Worth Street, New York 13, New York 





106 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL November, 1949 


Its easier than you think 


to have floors that glow St 
with heirloom beauty / | QA ' 





All over America are floors that shimmer 
with a beauty that’s rich, mellow, enviable! 


You'll see these glowing floors in luxurious 
penthouse apartments, in modest cottages. 
And invariably they share a simple beauty 
secret! 


They’re polished with a special kind of wax 
called Johnson’s Paste Wax. 


Three generations of women who take real 
pride in the appearance of their homes have 
been convinced that only Johnson’s Paste 
Wax can keep floors at their gleaming best. 


Years ago it required tedious hand rubbing 
to polish the wax to a distinctive, glamorizing 
glow. But now the same unsurpassed sheen 
can be had in one-tenth the time. An electric 
polisher will do all the work! 


Yes, now you can rent a Johnson’s Wax 
Beautiflor Electric Polisher from a wax 
dealer in your neighborhood for as little as 
a dollar a day ...or buy one for only $44.50. 
Its whirling motor-driven brush will quickly 
give all your floors a perfect wax shine. 


A single waxing with Johnson’s Paste Wax 
will keep floors lustrous for many months. 
Scuffing feet can’t mar the finish. Dirt and 
water won’t readily penetrate the hard pro- 
tective wax film. Floors never need costly 
refinishing. 


Don’t be satisfied with a makeshift shine. 
Do your wood and linoleum floors up bright 
with Johnson’s Paste Wax . . . and save 
hours of work by using a Johnson’s Wax 
> Beautiflor Electric Polisher. 

Some floors need cleaning too 


If floors are unusually dirty or show scuff marks, Johnson’s Liquid Cleaning 

and Polishing Wax is recommended. A magic dry-cleaning ingredient in 

Johnson’s Liquid Wax prepares any floor for a lustrous polish. As you apply the wax, 
it removes all dirt. Then all you do is 

polish it up to a clean, clear, long-wearing shine. 


Laugh with Fibber McGee and Molly 
every Tuesday evening—NBC 








caine ails a Ae a 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


TEEN-AGE CRUELTY 


(Continued from Page 66) 


The teen-age years are the “crowd” years. 
Ganging up with his (or her) contemporaries 
is a normal part of the adolescent’s reaching 
out toward independence and a world of 
his own. As a child, he relied on adult judg- 
ment, on adult ideas of fun, of dress and 
behavior. One day he will rely on his 
own. But temporarily, during adolescence, 
boys and girls alike are in the process of dis- 
covery, caught between two worlds, unsure 
and frightened. They are in revolt against 
their elders, in cahoots with their own genera- 
tion, and although terribly absorbed in them- 
selves, very uncertain. From this revolt will 
later flower selectivity, responsibility, under- 
standing and decision, but this will take 
time and trial. Meanwhile, the psychological 
and physical changes taking place keep them 
in continual conflict. To reassure themselves, 
they seek friends they can count on, a “gang” 
they can relax with, a niche where they 
“belong’’—and a pattern that will give them 
security. And in the process, they are often 
cruel. 

To study the extent of this cruelty, and 
the ways in which it works in our high schools 
today, the LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL inter- 
viewed teachers and students throughout the 
country. The findings revealed that while our 
teen-agers are fun-loving, friendly, demo- 
cratic and kind, they are also capable of con- 
siderable spite, snobbery and just plain mean- 
ness. To understand this, it is necessary to 
take a long look at teen-age social life. 

Teen-age social life is defensively organ- 
ized, with taboos and tests for friendships 
that are damning and demanding and come 
from the group as a group, 
rather than the individuals 
involved. Its fraternities 


and sororities have cruel Fifty per cent of the world 
are women, but they al- 


ways seem a novelty. 
—CHRISTOPHER MORLEY. 


systems of selection, test- 
ing and swearing in. Its 
crowds, cliques, gangs or 
clubs, as they are variously 
called, swing a strong 
whip. In interviews with both teen-agers 
and teachers in school after school, the 
JOURNAL found that no matter how nice, 
smart or attractive a teen-ager might be, 
sooner or later he or she had to bow before 
the dictates of one crowd or another—or 
tread a solitary path. 

When Esther M——, for instance, went 
from junior high school to high school, her 
best friend got a bid to join one of the 
school’s several sororities, but Esther didn’t. 
Nobody knew quite why. Esther was attrac- 
tive, with good manners and nice clothes. 
Her best friend swore it would never make 
any difference between them. But all she 
wanted to talk about was the sorority and 
what it was doing. She also had Wednesday 
evenings taken up»with meetings, Fridays 
“the crowd” went to a movie, Saturdays 
there was usually a date, and Sundays “the 
crowd” usually just rode around. Esther got 
mad just once about it: she charged her 
friend with thinking about nothing “‘but that 
silly old sorority.” Her friend said it wasn’t 
her fault Esther hadn’t got in, and that she 
never would if she was going to be so bad- 
tempered. Esther burst into tears and said 
she’d never speak to her again. They made 
up that night by telephone but were never 
good friends again. Esther avoided her, began 
to go out with a group of boys with “bad 
reputations,” and unpleasant stories were 
circulated about her. She couldn’t concentrate 
on her schoolwork, and her grades suffered. 
Her family didn’t know what was wrong, 
and quarreled with her. She was regarded by 
her teachers, classmates and family alike asa 
social malcontent by the time she was a 
senior, and her future looked unhappy. 


Aputts can change jobs, move to a new 
neighborhood or take other steps to find a 
society they fit into. The teen-ager’s society 
is circumscribed by the school he must at- 
tend; there he must either adjust, retire de- 
feated, or withdraw. It is almost a battle for 
survival. Some of the battle lines are laid 
down by the economic and social divisions of 


his community, but the aggressiveness comes 
from the teen-agers themselves. 

“Teen-agers are a ruthless gang because 
they aren’t sure of anything—their social 
standing, their academic standing, or the 
world they were born into,” one teacher said. 
“IT don’t think they mean to be cruel—they’re 
just scared and trying to get along and they 
aren’t aware yet what cruelty is, or what it 
can do to others their age. A girl wants to be 
popular, but she isn’t sure the crowd who 
likes her today will like her tomorrow. As an 
individual maybe she is kind and thought- 
ful—but when she’s with the crowd she clings 
to the mob rule in fear she’ll find herself on 
the outside. A boy wants to be somebody, to 
be a leader, but being nice all the time gets 
kind of dull and doesn’t start any mass move- 
ments—so he leads his gang by the oldest 
ruse in the world: he finds a whipping boy 
they can all gang up against.” 


Here are some scattered instances: 

1. Two unattractive youngsters were told 
they had been elected as king and queen of 
their class dance. It was arranged that they 
would be picked up at a certain time and 
taken to the party. When they got to the 
party, however, the kids surrounded them in 
a circle and yelled, ‘“‘April Fool, April Fool— 
whatever made you think you’d be chosen?” 

2. A girl who had never had many dates 
was told by a group of boys that a friend was 
coming from out of town and they wanted 
her to go with him. He was a “‘real swell guy” 
but he was a little deaf, they said. She went 
out with him and yelled at him most of the 
evening while he only sort 
of grunted at her. Finally 
he got mad and the other 
boys took her home. The 
next day she found out 
that he wasn’t deaf. The 
boys said they had played 
the trick on her “‘to see if 
she could take a joke.” 

3. A boy won a short-story contest and 
was very proud of it. His classmates thought 
he was “taking it too big” and decided to 
“fix”? him. They sat on him and cut his hair 
into a shaggy mess. “‘He had it coming,” one 
boy said. 

4. A girl was always saying she was too 
cold, or too hot, and complaining in general. 
A group of her friends decided to “show her.” 
They pretended to work up some interest in 
the local swimming hole—it was February— 
and went down to the riverbank. They 
pushed her in, clothes and all, yelling, “‘Is it 
too cold now?” Afterward, they wrapped her 
up in their coats and helped her get dry. “It 
was for her own good,” one girl said. 

Because they are so concerned with them- 
selves, however, few teen-agers are aware of 
the harm they do others. 

“You can’t have a girl nobody likes to one 
of your parties even if you like her,” a girl in 
a small school said. “If you do, you'll ruin 
the party and yourself too. That’s not mean, 
that’s self-protection.” 

Another youngster, a boy, said, “You 
have to stick with a crowd because then you 
know where you stand. Sure, we cut some 
people out. Why not? Who wants a bunch of 
drips around?” 

“My father has to move around a lot,” 
one girl said, ‘‘and I’ve learned just what you 
do when you get to a new school—if you’re 
smart. You go around mouselike for about 
two weeks, seeing who is who and what’s 
what. You catch on to who’s the big crowd 
pretty quick. Then you try to look like they 
do, and wait for them to speak to you. It’s 
best to hold out on any dates or stuff until 
you're sure the person you’re going out with 
is in the crowd you want—otherwise you 
might get tagged as a goon girl, and never 
get anywhere.” 

The kids not “in,” however, often feel 
their rejection keenly. ‘‘I know the girls see 
me when I go in the drugstore but they never 
speak to me—so I never go there unless my 
mother makes me.’’. . . “I never go to the 
teen-age center—you’d think I had leprosy 





107 





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108 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


the way the kids act to me there.” .. . 
“There’s a bunch of kids here who think 
they’re big stuff and anybody who tries to 
talk to them gets a big freeze.’’ They also 
cover up with defiance. “‘These kids here are 
a bunch of jerks—I wouldn’t go out with one 
of them if you paid me.”’.. . “Aw, this school 
is run by snobs and swelled heads.” . . . 
“Cruelty? Say, Hitler couldn’t do it better 
when it comes to running things their own 
way like the kids do here.” 

Although there may be anywhere from 
thirty to forty different crowds or cliques ina 
school, the school’s social structure usually 
breaks down into three groups. At the top 
are the leaders—the ‘‘smoothies,” the “‘elite,” 
the “big wheels,” or whatever the local name 
is. They “run things.” They are on the school 
committees, work with the teachers, hold 
class offices, and are sought after for parties 
and dances. In the middle are the ‘‘nice 
kids,”’ the “good kids,” or ‘‘a neat bunch.” 
They are attractive, have ‘‘personality,”’ and 
while now and again one of them wins a prize 
of some sort, by and large they do not distin- 
guish themselves. They probably include a 
little over half the student body. At the bot- 
tom of the list are the girls and boys who are 
“dumb,” “queer,” “‘fast,” “don’t wash,” or 
have a “‘bad rep,” or come from the wrong 
side of the tracks. 

The misfits are shunned as if their traits 
might be catching. A girl or boy who mixes 
with one of the ‘‘queers,’”’ or the “wildies,”’ 
may lose standing with a ‘‘better”’ crowd. A 
crowd is usually made up of both sexes, is 
ruled as much by the boys as by the girls. 
The boys, for instance, can bring in a girl 
they like—but a girl who dates “outside” 
usually switches to her new boy friend’s 
crowd. An all-boys’ gang is more likely to 
form around common activities than a crowd 
of mixed boys and girls is, for at this age the 
question of marriage enters and frequently 
parents will not permit their daughters (and 
sometimes their sons) to go out with young- 
sters of a different religion or family back- 
ground, even if they are good friends at 
school. A “‘clique”’ is a small (three to eight 
members) group, usually composed of girls. 
They stick together at lunch and after school 
and share common secrets and attitudes; 
they may belong to different crowds, or go 
different ways in their boy-girl life, but any- 
one trying to join their group is considered a 
positive menace. 

Once “‘in”’ doesn’t mean always in, how- 
ever. A leader may get “‘stuck up,”’ and be 
dropped. A “‘smooth” girl may date someone 
outside the crowd and be made to suffer for 
it. 

“We always go to the movies Fridays,” 


,| one boy said. ‘‘So we figured there’d be the 


place we could teach this guy a lesson. He 
started being a real wise guy when we 
elected him class president. So this night we 
were all sitting there, and he was sitting on 
the far side of the row. Real quietly, we just 
got up and moved over to another part of 
the theater, and left him sitting there. He 
caught on, all right.” 

Another crowd spoke of how they always 
loaded up a couple of cars and drove a few 
miles for lunch. One day when they’d de- 
cided they’d had enough of a girl who was 
giving one of the boys ‘‘a hard time,” they 
all shot out of the diner and left the girl to 
get back to school as best she could. In Con- 
necticut, a group of girls became annoyed 
when an older sister of one of the girls in 
their crowd gave a large party and invited 
none of the crowd. They retaliated with a 
large party which pointedly left their former 
“friend” out. 


[he effects of cruelty vary from victim to 
victim. Some will change their ways after a 
snub, but others will run away from home. 
Some will turn into scholars, and others will 
go wild, dating “anybody’’ and necking 
furiously in an attempt to get some atten- 
tion. A few “‘rejects’’ are spurred into real 
ambition in order to ‘‘show them”—but 
more get the idea they are inferior and are 
defeated before they get a real start in life. 
A minority are literally crushed by rejection. 

Out of every 100 school children, about 
15 are rated as socially unacceptable by 


their schoolmates, and about 4 eventually 
have breakdowns. Many youngsters are 
ostracized because of shyness and fear of 
failure; others because they appear tousled 
and unclean; others because they use bad 
language or talk about sex too much; and 
some are snubbed because of their racial, 
economic or religious family background. 
Freakish local taboos may also upset the 
applecart of even the most average of chil- 
dren. The JOURNAL found that these vary 
from school to school. 

In one Philadelphia school, the boys and 
girls with the highest school marks snoot the 
kids who get lower than B’s, call them dum- 
mies or “‘spoofs,” and drawl out the phrase 
“Isn’t that smart?” inamanner calculated to 
put even the most insensitive in their place. 
But in another school not far away, the worst 
thing socially that can happen to a girl is to 
be dubbed ‘‘a brain,” and scorned. In the 


KKK KKK 


Way Back When 


By Phyllis I. Rosenteur 


“Neurosis” was an unknown word, 

And Gram would sniff and call 
absurd 

The theory that naughty deeds 

Might stem from hidden fears and 
needs. 


She cuddled mom when mother 
cried; 
She threatened hell when mamma 
lied; 
She offered bribes to make her eat, 
And often spanked her little seat. 


But, woe is me, psychology 
Evolved in time to set me free 
From mother love and adult rules 
And gave me to progressive schools. 


In them I suffered no restraint; 

I fibbed and swore and thought it 
quaint 

To take a nap or eat or play 

Except in my own time and way. 


I never learned to spell at all; 

I’m still inclined to sulk or brawl; 
And now that I’m a social blight, 
The experts say that Gram was right! 


KKK KK Kr Kr 


state of Washington, a girl who stays home 
more nights than she goes out is called a 
“suck” and left to her own pleasures, but in 
a Middle Western school a girl who is on the 
go all the time may get tabbed as “‘hot,’’ and 
to be seen with her would mean your 
reputation would take a downbeat. In one 
New York City school, to come to classes in 
a T shirt and dungarees qualifies a boy for 
the title of ‘“‘mechanic” or ‘“‘greasespot”’; 
but in a Missouri town, any boy who shows 
up at school too often in a white shirt and 
tie is said to be ‘‘taking things seriously,” or 
“acting the dude.” 

Similarly, in one school, to be Polish- 
American is to be “in,” to be Italian- 
American is to be ‘“‘out’’; while in another, 
the Italian-American crowd runs the school. 
In schools where there are many Jewish stu- 
dents, there may be a Jewish crowd that 
jockeys in a friendly fashion with a Gentile 
crowd to run things; but in schools where 
Jewish children are few in number they may 
be given a hard time or taken in without 
prejudice. 

In some schools to be rich is to be “‘a 
smoothie,” but in others any show of money 
is frowned on—and a girl who wears an An- 
gora sweater or a fur coat to school is 
“strutting,” or playing ‘‘glamour puss.” In 
a California town, a teen-ager who works 
after school is a ‘‘grind”’ or a “‘hustler,”’ but 
in a downtown Chicago school any young- 


November, 1949 


ster who doesn’t even try to work his own 
way is given a chilly shoulder and told to 
“hit the road.” In a big-city school in the 
East, kids who talk a lot are shut out be- 
cause they are “wise guys” and ‘“‘agita- 
tors’’—although in a Kansas school a quiet 
boy who keeps to himself is spurned as 
“somebody’s sister.” 

Most teen-age cruelty is social, but some 
of it is physical. High-school initiations are 
often rough. After fraternities and sororities 
have held ‘“‘rushing parties” to select their 
members, and then given the favored ones 
their “bids” to join, the new members, or 
pledges, are first put through from a week to 
six months of hazing, then through a series 
of physical endurance tests, and then sworn 
in at a formal ceremony. 


Many high-school fraternities paddle their 
pledges once a week routinely during the 
hazing period, with extra swats or “hacks” 
for infractions, and on the night of the initia- 
tion subject them to a series of paddlings. 
Some fraternities are halfhearted about their 
paddling, but some boast of using bats an 
inch thick. Several said they applied winter- 
green, which burns, before paddling. One 
told of a ‘‘good game”: a pillow fight in 
which it was announced that the boy who 
managed to take the pillow away from the 
other pledges would not be paddled. The 
catch in this was that the first time the game 
was played, the victor received paddling 
enough for the entire group. Then the game 
was played again—with the pledges scarcely 
fighting for the pillow. This time, however, 
the victor went off scot free. ““ You should see 
’em,”’ one boy said, “‘they get really frantic 
fighting for that pillow—sometimes they 
even get sick.” 

Another ‘“‘game”’ reported took place on a 
hill well removed from the community. 
While a senior member held one of the 
pledges by his arms, the rest of the group— 
about 35—ran down the hill one by one and 
delivered him a series of swift, forceful swats. 
“We hold a pillow over the spine so there 
won’t be any real injury,’’ a member said. 

The frequent finale to a boys’ initiation is 
The Long March. The pledges are taken 
some ten to twenty miles from home, prefer- 
ably on a cold winter night, and left stranded, 
penniless, paddled and half-clothed, in a de- 
serted area. They must be at school the next 
morning a half hour early or go through the 
whole initiation all over again. 

Girls’ initiations are largely devoted to 
unsavory eating. There is little paddling, 
although one sorority said that on initiation 
nights they always tipped the boys off so 
they could bring their paddles over and “‘put 
the girls through the mill.” More customary 
is the habit of making the girls up with nail 
polish, shoe polish, lipstick and molasses, 
blindfolding them and then demanding that 
they choke down such dishes as “‘fish eyes” 
(tapioca) in pea soup, soapsuds or mustard 
broth. They are also often made to walk 
barefoot through chicken entrails, worms or 
cold spaghetti. 

The initiations end the hazing period, dur- 
ing which time the new member has been at 
the beck and call of his seniors. Most fra- 
ternities and sororities outlaw anything 
which will be “‘injurious to the emotions, the 
parents or the finances,’’ but beyond that 
anything goes. ‘‘One girl wouldn’t crawl into 
a classroom when we told her to so we threw 
her out.” . . . “I carried home the school- 
books of three girls every night for three and 
a half months, then I took a black mark 
instead. They made me go without lipstick, 
wear my hair in pigtails, and curtsy to each 
sorority member for a week to work it off.” 

Few severe injuries are suffered during 
initiations, but crying, vomiting and fatigue 
are routine. Because most schools have out- 
lawed fraternities and sororities, teachers 
have no jurisdiction over their practices. 
Once in a while an irate parent starts a 
small scandal, but since this may result in 
social isolation of the child involved, most 
parents refrain from calling either the doctor 
or the police when their 15- and 16-year-olds 
arrive home bruised, battered and filthy. 
Also, in order to steer clear of trouble, the 

(Continued on Page 111) 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Sg cee ON Cana sggtn cag 
Rie oto agence ora oa ese rere, 





. . for only at 





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Pour into chilled glasses. Mount glass rims with half 
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Specify LIBBY’S at your grocer’s . . . the Tomato 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL November, 1949 


IS KITCHEN-PROVED FOR BETTER ROASTING 














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es 
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ay 


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THE ALUMINUM COOKING UTENSIL COMPANY, NEW KENSINGTON, PENNSYLVANIA 





2 SSE Rk 


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 ™ Ss Se ow ae Ss eae Sew os SPS Sa 


=S— SS = 


(Continued from Page 108) 
kids often gang up and spend initiation night 
at the home of a child with tolerant parents. 

Considerable pride is taken by the teen- 
agers in the roughness of their initiations, 
and any questions as to whether they might 
be too tough are usually shrugged off with 
the reply, ““Everybody does it.” One boy 
said that rugged tests were necessary for 
loyalty. “Any guy who goes through our 
initiation will stick,” he said. ‘““‘We know 
when we finish with them that they wouldn’t 
stand for it if they were going to chicken out 
later.” 

While the power and the glory most de- 
sired by teen-agers is sought from their con- 
temporaries, some take their frustrations out 
on their families. One boy who acted the 
good sport at school, for instance, was 
known at home as a bully. He taunted and 
teased and even hit his younger sister so fre- 
quently that his mother was in despair. 

Another (and a rather typical case) system- 
atically lied to his family about his activi- 
ties on the grounds it was none of their busi- 
ness what he did. ‘What they don’t know 
won’t hurt ’em—or me,” he said. A girl who 
was, like most teen-agers, very self-centered 
burst into a fit of rage when she was asked 
to invite her parents to be chaperons at her 
class prom. She told her parents she was 
ashamed of them and didn’t want her friends 
to meet them. “‘Nobody would ever like me 
again,’’ she sobbed. 

Few teen-agers will invite their brothers 
and sisters to any party they give, or en- 
dure their parents’ presence for more than a 
moment of introduction. “If you and daddy 
don’t stay upstairs all eve- 


ning, you'll just have to —__ 


go out,” one girl told her 
parents before an ‘‘at 
home.” “‘ Nobody will ever 
come here again if you 
hang around.” Another 
teen-ager, a boy, got into 


a fist fight with his father [asses 


because his father denied 
him the use of the family car. Some boys also 
hold threats of physical violence over their 
mothers: ‘‘What’ll you do to me if I do it 
anyhow?” one boy said when his mother re- 
proved him. “ You couldn’t spank me—you’d 
get hurt trying.” ; 
Teachers who do not command the teen- 
agers’ respect also feel the sting of adolescent 
cruelty. One teacher who tried to be ‘‘a pal”’ 
to her students found that they were calling 
her “‘girlie-girlie’”’ behind her back. Another, 
who always brought his lunch to school and 
ate it at his desk, found frequently that it 
was missing or hidden, and that he himself 
was called “Mr. Tightwad.”’ Any small 
oddity about a teacher is likely to be seized 
upon for ridicule: a teacher who dyes her 
hair may be referred to as “‘ Miss Peroxide’; 
one who blows his nose frequently may be 
“Old Sniffle’; and any teacher who acts 
sleepy, confused or stuttery runs the risk of 
being called a drunk. There is less of the 
snake-in-teacher’s-desk sort of cruelty in 
high school, but disrespect, humiliation and 
quiet insolence are practiced against the 
teacher who is not accepted fully as “‘just 
swell.” 


In a few cases, this may work real hard- 
ships. In one school, for instance, a teacher 
grew so annoyed with the repeated tardiness 
of a football player that she decided to keep 
him after school. There was football practice 
that day and the boy missed it. The school 
lost its next game. The kids worked them- 
selves up a case of spite against the teacher 
and started a whispering campaign. The 
rumors got so widespread and her classes 
became so disorderly that the principal in- 
vestigated. The teacher became hysterical 
in her own defense and although she con- 
vinced him she was innocent and well mean- 
ing, her position at the school became un- 
tenable and she asked for a transfer to an- 
other school. 

This is not to say there is no kindness and 
consideration among teen-agers. There is 
considerable, as every parent and teacher 
will testify. And when this basic strain of 
good will is approached from the needs of the 


The sound of a kiss is not 
so loud as that of a cannon, 
butits echo lasts a deal longer. 


—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES: 
The Professor at the Breakfast Table. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 11i 


youngster himself, much can be done to 
modify and tame the ruthlessness of the 
social world which he has unwittingly cre- 
ated. 

For instance, in an Eastern mill town, as in 
many places, the youngsters ganged up by 
neighborhoods. On “‘the hill’”’ lived the fami- 
lies who owned or helped operate the town’s 
businesses. In another area lived the junior 
executives and foremen. In town, near the 
river, lived the workers. Many kids from 
“the hill”’ spoke only to those in their own 
crowd. They wangled seats together in 
classes, finagled so they had their own home 
room, and staked out claims to a group of 
lockers together. They had their own sorority 
and their own fraternity. 


One year they invited all the girls in the 
sophomore class but one to a “rushing” 
party of their sorority. The move was de- 
signed to show the girl—who was Jewish— 
that she didn’t belong at their school. The 
girl was so hurt she was almost hysterical. 
Her father went to the superintendent of 
schools. 

While discussions were going on about 
what to do, the sorority, egged on by the 
controversy it had aroused, held a ferocious 
initiation of its new members and four were 
paddled so badly they were ill. 

The school decided to step in. After a 
meeting with the leaders of the sororities 
and fraternities, school officials invited them 
to become a part of the school. This meant 
they could use the bulletin boards for an- 
nouncements, the athletic field for sports, 
the gymnasium for dances. It also meant 
that the teachers would 
have some guidance over 
their activities. An in- 
terfraternity council was 
formed and, after some 
wrangling, rules were 
passed forbidding the 
blackballing of any boy or 
girl on the basis of race, 
religion or family back- 
ground. Hazing was cut down to a week, 
and paddling outlawed. 

The school took alphabetical steps to 
break up the home-room cliques, the locker 
monopoly and the classroom seating ar- 
rangements the hill crowd had organized. 
School committee memberships (hitherto 
grabbed off by the kids from the hill) were 
made more representative. 

The result, while no Utopia, was a more 
easygoing school. Several kids from the hill 
joined groups outside their own neighbor- 
hoods. Several girls from the other areas 
were invited up to the hill. The “royal pro- 
cession” of the ruling clique through the 
school corridors scattered in several direc- 
tions. New sororities and fraternities were 
created so that every boy and girl could find 
a niche. A Negro was elected a class officer. 
In civics. classes, the philosophy of demo- 
cratic society was discussed in terms of teen- 
age society, and some light was shed on the 
causes and effects of youthful snobbery and 
the cruelty of mob rule. 

Another school reported that it had found 
that high school was too late to work out the 
problems of social kindness, and that it had 
achieved its democratic high school by pre- 
paring for it in the seventh- and eighth- 
grade courses in community living. This 
school also changes its home-room officers 
four times a year and its class officers twice 
“in order to give as many children as pos- 
sible a chance at leadership.’”’ New boys and 
girls—some of the worst victims of crowd 
cruelty—are introduced the first day to five 
or six youngsters who are asked to see that 
they meet everybody. 

State legislatures in more than twenty- 
eight states have passed laws against high- 
school fraternities and sororities; many 
threaten dismissal of any student who joins 
a “secret society”; but all are agreed that 
bans against ganging up indiscriminately do 
no good, unless constructive groups are 
formed as alternatives. 

“Most of us don’t really mean to be 
cruel,” one boy said. “‘But you can’t stand up 
to a crowd—you’ve got to go along, or get 
left.” THE END 












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112 





* 





MUM 


MNOS 





Modern twenty years ago, 


this kitchen has a second honeymoon. 


New arrangement groups cabinets, range and refrigerator near 

sink on window end of room. Radiator has been moved under open counter 
to left of sink. Lower cabinet beside refrigerator extends into corner— 

good for “occasional” utensils like turkey roasters. 

Original ventilating fan is used with grille moved forward. 





By GLADYS TABER 


WENTY YEARS ago, we were singing Tiptoe Through the Tulips and More 
Than You Know. You’re the Cream in My Coffee was still popular. Books 
by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Willa Cather, Sinclair Lewis were on the parlor table, 
and people were still talking about Eugene O’Neill’s Desire Under the Elms. 
The houses people built then were comfortable and large and invariably had 
sun porches and sleeping porches. Usually a big square dining room opened from 
the front hall on one side, the big living room on the other. The kitchen was 
large, too, and there was a long narrow pantry plus a back entry and a smallish 
back porch. A breakfast aleove was tucked in, looking like a booth in a soda em- 
porium and about as comfortable. i Arges Le 
Now, after twenty years, these well-built, sturdy houses still stand in their 
green lawns on hundreds of shady streets in American towns. The shrubbery has 
grown, and been pruned back; some of the children have married and come home 
with grandchildren. But the house is unchanged. 








No storage or work space near 

range and sink. Refrigerator in remote * 
corner and tight little breakfast 

alcove with benches difficult to slide 
into dated this kitchen. 


‘diese gg = 


mncagf’ Surss reas e = 


‘L 





And in such a house, the typical kitchen, now middle-aged and dated, 


presents a problem for the busy modern homemaker. The JourNaL chose one of 


these for an experiment in rejuvenation. 
Looking at this kitchen, I felt a momentary nostalgia, and then I wondered 


how in the world a woman could work in it. There was, first, that double-bowl, 


cream-colored sink suspended in mid-air under the small, high windows. Aside 


from the radiator under it, the rest of the space was simply a place for dust to 


gather. 
In its day this was the last word, but designers have gone right on talking. 
The sink was flanked by high wooden cabinets, the base cabinets narrow and 


the wall cabinets hanging down so close that there was no good work surface 


below them. The refrigerator was new and so was the gas range, but the refrig- 
r by the back door just as if the iceman 


erator was installed in the corne 
arrow pantry had one window 


still had to clump in and fill the box every day. Then 





Low wall and open shelves divide kitchen proper from break- 


113 


fast room, yet give feeling of space. In new, larger eating area there 


is room for a table, comfortable chairs and a linoleum-topped 
desk with a cabinet above. Treating two windows like 
one disguises fact they are different widths. 


Hee Ze 
at 


RS. te 
ree 


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ances: 





* 


oF. 


BEFORE 


Twenty-year-old kitchen 
needed center table as mid-point 
for collecting supplies from 
pantry and cabinet and as 
place to prepare food. 


KITCHEN 
BSx9is, iy 


A : 
REFR_-\M CLOSET 


TO HALL B 


AFTER 


New kitchen provided storage 
for supplies where they are 
used. Removing wall between 
pantry and dinette gave 
space for gracious eating. 


KITCHEN 
I33x98 






TABLE & 
CHAIRS 


TO HALL 


Oui 2 SaaS FenO 


SCALE IN FEET ee ee se — 





| 







PHOTOS BY STUART-STEPHENSON 


‘eee 





ae 


JZlowing comments like these come from thou- 
sands of enthusiastic Caloric owners. And no 
wonder! Never did a range offer so much con- 
yenience—such dependable cooking results. 

@ CALORIC IS EASIER TO CLEAN—thanks to its 
/ porcelainenamel finish, inside and out, com- 
pletely removable broiler and other quick- 
clean features. 
EASIER TO COOK WITH—F lavor-Saver Dual 
3urners speed cooking. Hold-Heat Oven 
—Veri-Clean Broiler with Hi-Lo Rack and 
Pan—insure finer baking, roasting, broiling. 
Removable griddle fits over 2 top burners, 
for breakfasts, snacks or “‘sizzling 


” 


steaks. 

) EASIER ON YOUR BUDGET. Compare Caloric 
> with any other range. You’ll agree it gives 
“ much more for your money. 


There’s a Caloric model to suit your needs 
and pocketbook. For list of dealers see ‘‘Caloric’’ 
n classified phone book. Or write Caloric Stove 
Corporation, 1232 Widener Bldg., Phila. 7, Pa. 














% ” 
4 
% 
4, » 
¢ tae © 


You may have any Caloric model 
especially engineered for use with 
““Pyrofax’’ Gas and other LP- 
Gases (often called ‘“‘bottled” or 
“tank” Gas). “CP” features 
(optional on all models) give 
automatic cooking. 










Tap 

edby % 

Good Housekeeping 
ow - 


. 
LAS aovenristo HS 


114 


and one side lined with shelves. The break- 
fast alcove was so ‘small and narrow that 
getting in was a problem, and clearing the 
table difficult without bending double. Mrs. 
J. had done the best she could by putting a 
square table in the middle of the kitchen, 
and this was her work surface. But, of course, 
it had to be walked around, no matter 
whether you were going to the sink or the 
stove or the refrigerator. 

There was a shallow drawer in this table, 
and two heavy drawers in the only base 
cabinet; pot holders, kitchen utensils and 
pan covers had to be stored in the bottom of 
the range. Several trips to the pantry were 
necessary for supplies and dishes, and a few 
baking dishes were stored on the top shelf of 
a cleaning closet that opened from the 
kitchen. 

I kept thinking that the woman these 
early kitchens were designed for should be 
seven feet tall, have five arms and be 
equipped with roller skates besides! 

Mrs. J. had cared for 
her kitchen so lovingly 
through the years that the 


equipment shone like heart 


The 
which 


November, 1949 


This made a good eating space possible with 
a wider entrance, and there was space for a 
good-sized table with gay plastic top and 
four comfortable chairs, as well as a small 
work desk and cabinet. 

Mrs. J. wanted a color scheme that would 
blend with the adjacent dining room. So the 
blue Chinese Oriental rug set the key. The 
kitchen floor was laid with mottled blue 
plastic floor tile banded with stripes of yel- 
low and white. Horizon-blue plastic wall tile 
was chosen for the kitchen area and one wall 
of the breakfast nook. The rest of the walls 
were painted lemon yellow. . 

The curtains are washable fabric in a gay, 
hilltop design in blue, yellow and red, dra- 
matic and modern in tone. 

Yellow aluminum blinds with a durable 
baked-on finish were hung at the kitchen and 
breakfast-room windows. In the breakfast 
room, the two windows did not match—one 
of them being the old pantry window, which 
was smaller. Hanging one blind across both 
windows gave the effect 
of one big window above 
the eating table, and the 


has reasons curtains were hung partly 


new—there was nota fleck 7 re “Fea: on the wall, beside the 
of dust or a mar on any ‘ ay " narrow window, to add 
surface—and this gave Me  yEEEEEEeeneeeememens even more width—an idea 


even more the feeling that 

the clock had turned back twenty years. For 
though it looked spick-and-span, how could 
you make a cake or fry chickens, let alone 
get three meals a day, without a prodigious 
amount of unnecessary effort? 

The JOURNAL began the rejuvenation by a 
plan designed to bring the major appliances 
into good working relationship. The range 
was moved across the room to the left of the 
sink, the refrigerator moved to the right wall 
by the sink, and counters and work cabinets 
installed so an even flow of work could go on. 

The new sink, I thought, made the great- 
est difference, for these new-day sinks with 
their planned storage space below are a real 
joy to any dishwasher or cook. The sink 
drawers alone are better than jewels. The 
radiator was moved to the left of the sink, 
and drying racks for towels are right at hand. 

The old refrigerator space was used for new 
cabinets for canned goods and staples, and a 
counter that is just right for unloading the 
groceries when Mrs. J. comes home from 
shopping. 

Now that the storage space comes into the 
kitchen, the old pantry can be retired. In 
Mrs. J.’s kitchen, the wall between the pan- 
try and dining alcove could be taken out 
easily, as there were no wires or pipes in it. 


for others to remember. 

In place of the old-style bulb-and-chain 
lighting, new fluorescent lighting was used, 
following the line of the cabinets and giving 
a clear, shadowless light all over the kitchen. 
A decorative light was installed behind the 
window valance in the eating area to give a 
cheerful glow on autumn evenings. Extra 
fixtures over the counters and desk unit make 
this really a kitchen of light. And one that 
is keyed to today’s living in both conven- 
ience and attractiveness. 

As I went out into the frosty air after say- 
ing good-by to the kitchen and to Mrs. J., I 
hoped that a good many women who have 
dated kitchens might benefit from this one. 
It is often possible to knock down a wall and 


‘enlarge the room by adding the old back 


entry or the pantry or even part of that little 
porch. Cabinets are available in a range of 
prices. Some of the modern floor coverings 
are modest in price, and there are good elec- 
tric fixtures available in any hardware store 
to replace those old ceiling bulbs. Lovely 
ginghams and cotton prints for curtains and 
chair covers can be bought cheaply. 

After all, with a better arrangement of 
equipment and a little imagination exercised, 
any out-of-date kitchen will take a new 
lease on life! 


MY BROTHER’S KEEPER 


(Continued from Page 36) 


Dr. Brandon V. Coles, and she had been mar- 
ried and resumed her maiden name. Of the 
husband, Chris learned only that he was an 
exceptionally rich member of Harriet’s own 
privileged bracket. He had done no work be- 
yond operating a modern plantation. Of 
that Harriet had said simply, “‘I’ll never live 
in the country again—with anybody, for any 
reason.” 

Any reference to the husband had the 
same sort of dispassionate finality. The only 
time she had ever spoken of him with any 
feeling was when she said, “‘ You’ve heard of 
‘infamous offenses,’ haven’t you?” 

Chris recognized a quality in Harriet’s 
full-scale body, a weakness of passion below 
her almost arrogant assurance, which would 
arouse in man the urge to dominate, to re- 
duce her to ultimate submission. If the man 
were brutalized under his surface refine- 
ments, his domination would turn to cruelty. 
Whatever the “infamous offenses,” they 
formed more of Harriet’s reaction to life 
than only an aversion to her former husband. 

Yet at least one other man had held power 
over her. The first time Chris played Mexican 
records, Harriet went suddenly still. When 
Chris asked if she disliked Mexican music, 
Harriet answered, ‘‘I’ve got to learn to like 
it again.’”’ So they played Barcelata and 
Elvira Rios, -and Harriet said, ‘You have 
some association with Mexico yourself.” 


“The lady to whom I was married,” he 
answered, ‘‘if you want to personalize it.” 

“You never talk about the lady to whom 
you were married. . . . Jacqueline?” 

“ Jacqueline. Of New York City, Madison 
Avenue.” 

Then Harriet sang, in low-voiced and 
agreeable imitation of Marlene Dietrich, 
“T’ve been in love before .. . haven't you?” 

Their former lives, until now, had been 
implied, deepening the limited pleasures 
open to them. The shared memories were 
implicitly there, as when both would feel 
suddenly trapped in some group, talking 
local gossip. 

But in the slow-falling twilight in Chris’ 
patio, unexplainably the mood between 
them had changed. No longer returned ex- 
patriates, accepting the home conditions 
with an added fillip, they became the com- 
posite of all their living before, and the little 
cool, walled sanctuary could have been any- 
where. Feeling the restraint of the change, 
and perceiving the reason, Chris was none- 
theless unprepared for Harriet’s words. 

First she spoke his name, ina hard and bit- 
ter voice, and waited for him to turn. He saw 
a self-hating desperation in her eyes, and in 
her mouth, the upper lip tense and the lower 
lip unfolding, drawing back slowly over very 
white teeth. 

(Continued on Page 117) 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 











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he 

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116 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL November, 1949 


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(Continued from Page 114) 

“We might as well get it over with,’’ she 
said. ‘That’s the way it’s got to be with us.” 

His fingers tightened on the thin stem of 
the glass, and across his vision smoke curled 
up from the half-burned cigarette. Simplest 
of all was to stand and say, “Then let’s go 
inside.” But now that the long siege had 
reached its climax, it was not so simple. 

From the first—from the bright April 
afternoon when he met her at the race 
meet—he had wanted this woman. And from 
the first he had evaded the initiative of 
assuming the decision. 

Because he felt failure was inherent in any 
serious relationship for him, he avoided the 
responsibility with a woman who could be 
hurt. 

While he was thinking of what to say, the 
phone rang. Chris had the ring toned down, 
but the buzz sounded as insistent as a rattle- 
snake in the patio. 

“Let it ring,’’ he said. 

But Harriet had already relaxed in the 
deck chair. “No. I never can stand not to 
know who’s calling.” 

He pulled up out of the chair and hurried 
into the damp dimness of the house. He made 
his “Hello” hurried 
and businesslike, to 
discourage the caller. 

«“e Son a ee, 

At the strained 
voice, his spirits sank. 
“Yes, mother.” 

“T hate to bother 
you, but it’s about 
Lacy. He’s been in 
Richmond five days 
since he escaped from 
the hospital Sunday. 
He was trying to get 
a job and he’d asked 
the hospital for a pa- 
role so he could work 
here. Instead they 
sent the police after 
him and he went off.” 

“Went off—how?” 

“The usual thing. 
He left home yester- 
day morning and 
that’s the last I’ve 
heard of him. I just 
phoned the hospital 
and he hasn’t come 
back. . . . Oh, son, I 
just can’t stand it any 
more.” 

“All right, mother, 
I'll try to find him,” Chris told her. 

“T hate to bother you like this, but I can’t 
sleep with him out wandering around, and I 
don’t know where else to turn now.” 

She meant since her husband had died, but 
it had been no different for Chris when his 
father was alive. “‘That’s all right, mother. 
Have you any clue as to where he might have 
headed?”’ 

““He’s been talking wildly about that Sher- 
rell girl.” 

“Tl check with her right away. I’ll phone 
you as soon as I learn anything.” 


He eased the phone back and picked up his 
cigarette. When he turned to Harriet, she 
was the tensely contained girl he had known 
for the past months. 

“It’s my brother,” he said. 

“Sounds bad.”’ 

“Let’s finish what’s in the mixer,” he said. 
“T’'ll tell you about him, if you’re interested.” 

“More than you might imagine.” 

She was watching him with a new appraisal. 
Chris knew that Harriet would never repeat 
the words she had spoken just before the 
phone call. 

“My brother,” he said, “‘is the reason I’m 
in Richmond.” 

“T often wondered. But then, I’m not one 
to pry.” 

“Your father could tell you more than I 
can. He was the psychiatrist on the case 
once.” 

“What'd he tell you?” 

“The same as all the others—‘pathological 
with schizoid features’ or ‘showing evidences 
of schizophrenia.’ One bright lad thought he 


Rees. Keok - tka tke, tee 


Fe pdt 


By Ina Singleton Stovall 


When Cathy was a baby 
And I walked down the street, 
I stared at every little girl 
That I might chance to meet: 
The two-year-olds, the fives, the tens, 
The adolescent stage; 
Will Cathy look like that, I thought, 
When she is at that age? 


And now that Catherine’s married, 
Still as I walk, I gaze 

At little girls with interest keen 
As that of bygone days; 

And still my heart asks questions 
As faces I survey: 

Which one did Cathy look like most 
When she was young as they? 


Rae a x OK OE Rima 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


sounded ‘definitely schizophrenic with a 
paranoid element.’ I sound like a quack to 
myself, but I’m beginning to think this way.” 

“You're not referring to my father’s hon- 
orable profession as quackery ?”’ 

“T mean I’m a fake to use its terminology 
when I don’t know a thing about it.” 

“But you know about your brother. You 
have to give things names... . Well, I know 
when I’m not wanted.’ 


You’re wrong, Harriet. I’ve got to look 
for him and I’ll probably have to go places I 
can’t take you. But I hate to leave you now.” 

“By ‘now,’ do you mean the moment 
might never come again?” 

“T mean by now that I want you with me, 
when it really counts.” 

She didn’t brush it off by any of the usual 
flippancies. She looked at him steadily. ‘I 
hope you tell me that again—when you’re 
quieter.”’ 

Suddenly he wanted to tell her then, be- 
cause it was right then he discovered that 
Harriet Coles was the only woman—the only 
person—he did want with him. Knowing the 
embarrassment with which he usually talked 
of his brother, he understood the significance 
of wanting to share 
with her now. 

“You'd better run 
now,” she said, and 
began to move up out 
of the chair. ‘By the 
way, I would like to 
know what he’s run- 
ning from.” 

“From the State 
Hospital at Kingsbor- 
ough.” 

“Is he really in- 
sane?” 

“That would be 
simpler. To quote 
from one of his case 
histories: ‘The pa- 
tient’s periodic break- 
downs are manifested 
by a use of alcohol for 
the purpose of de- 
stroying his conscious- 
ness.’ So they put him 
with the alcoholics.” 

“But that’s the 
Middle Ages.” 

He shrugged. “You 
read a lot about how 
our civilization has 
not grown evenly? 
Well, my brother is 
one of those caught in the lag. Now I’ve got 
to get him before he hurts somebody.” 


Peg Sherrell lived in that downtown sec- 
tion of Westmoreland Street still residential, 
though the houses for the most part were no 
longer occupied by their original owners. 

As Chris walked in the shadows of the 
old trees, the familiar warm fragrance of the 
hour aroused a nostalgia associated with his 
brother. Though barely three years separated 
them, the span had been at its greatest in the 
summer before Chris’ last year at high school 
while Lacy was still in junior high. This was 
the period when Lacy was awakening, with 
his gentle responsiveness, into adolescence. 

Lacy used to question Chris about the girls 
he dated, and girls in general. His mind was 
clean and his speculations curiously innocent, 
even for his age. Looking back, as Chris 
had countless times, he could find in those 
days no germ of destruction. 

Chris had actually envied his younger 
brother for his seeming indifference to groups, 
and to group values. It was not until later 
Chris learned that Lacy’s indifference was a 
disguise for his feelings, probably the first 
defense he erected. 

Now, fifteen years later, as always before 
the final plunge, Lacy’s path led to the home 
of eminently “‘nice’’ people, and as usual 
not quite conventional. For a mother and 
daughter, little stodgy streets in the city’s 
big residential belt were more acceptable than 
a converted house on downtown West- 
moreland Street, and a mother should not 
look so young and receptive as Peg Sher- 
rell’s. Even the socialite connotations of 



























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Peg’s work made their position more inter- 
esting than respectable. 

She was one of the young hostesses at the 
Charrington Historical Museum. Chris had 
met Peg at the museum and was impressed 
with her ability and graciousness, as well as 
her highly decorative looks. 

A year ago, in Lacy’s last period on the 
outside, Chris had unguardedly mentioned 
Peg Sherrell at his mother’s house. His 
brother pounced on the subject. 

‘““That’s the kind of girl I never meet,” he 
said. “I can only know these empty-headed 
fools, who think only of dancing and movies. 
If I knew girls like—what was her name?” 

““Peg Sherrell.”’ 

“Peg Sherrell. Even her name is evocative. 
She could appreciate what’s inside of a man.” 

“Will you have some more cream on your 
figs, Lacy?’’ his mother said. 

He whirled on her. ‘There you go, trying 
your asinine interruptions, like what I’m 
saying is unnatural.” 

With his tired anger at Lacy’s attacks on 
his mother, reacting almost like a reflex, 
Chris said, ‘“ Your manner is unnatural.” 

“That’s easy for you to say. You can get 
any woman you want, but me—but me ——’”’ 

Mrs. Mathers said, ‘‘ We'll change the sub- 
ject. What else happened today, Chris?” 

Always Lacy crowded her into a position 
where she was forced to appear tactless and 
unintelligent. And it was inevitable that 
Lacy should push back from the table and 
go storming out of the room. 

But he did not forget Peg Sherrell. 

Chris knew nothing of that until Lacy had 
been returned to the in- 
stitution. One day Peg 
asked what had become of 
his brother. When he hesi- 
tated, she said, “I got a 
letter from him with return 
address to General De- 
livery at Kingsborough.” 

_ Chris said bluntly, the 
only way he knew, “‘He’s 
in the institution there.” 

“Oh, the poor boy. I felt something was 
wrong with him.” 

Peg waited for Chris to explain, and he 
said nothing. Always immediately after 
Lacy’s episodes, the pain was like a surface 
bruise and he could not talk of it. 

Peg said, “I wonder if I should answer 
him. His letter was sort of wild. You know, 
Byronic.”’ 

“Yes, I know. My opinion is that it would 
upset him more than anything else, but I’m 
not giving advice.” 

“T don’t love him, Chris. He interested me 
at first, and then I felt sorry for him. Mother 
really made him more welcome than I would 
have.” 


of ourselves. 


Later Peg told Chris that her pity had 
gotten the better of her judgment and she 
had written a couple of times. ““Of course,” 
she added, ‘‘I tried to discourage him from 
anything, but ——” 

But hers was the place Lacy had headed 
for. There was always such a woman for Lacy, 
and her final rejection of him was always 
the reason he gave for going off. 

Chris mounted the white marble steps of 
the converted mansion where the Sherrells 
lived. When the front door clicked, he moved 
into the huge, old-fashioned hallway. 

“Who is it?”’ That was not Peg. 

He called toward the broad, ornate stair- 
case, “‘It’s Chris Mathers.” 

“Oh!” There was a great deal of feeling 
in the exclamation. After a pause, Mrs. Sher- 
rell said, ‘Do come up, Mr. Mathers.’ 

As Chris began to climb past the brown 
wall paneling, he heard Peg’s voice: “‘I’m so 
glad you came, Chris. I didn’t know whether 
to phone you or not.” 

So Lacy had been there. Chris turned at 
the landing, and looked into the capable 
young face of Peg Sherrell. 

This is just the way Lacy must have found 
her at first, leaning over the balustrade, and 
in her clean, bright youth looking like a 
charming anachronism in the gloomy vast= 
ness of the hall. 

The way she said, “Oh, I’m so happy to 
see you, Chris,” held the breathlessness and 


We know more bad things 
about ourselves than does 
anybody else; 
thinks so highly of us as we do 


—FRANZ V. SCHOENTHAN. 
ERT 8 SS 


November, 1949 


the emphasis that would almost persuade 
even him—if he hadn’t married a girl just 
like her. Lacy never had a chance. Peg went 
on, “I just had to talk to somebody, and 
you’re the best one. Oh . . . you remember 
mother?” 

“Tt sounds like the title of a movie, the 
way you say it.” Linda Sherrell smiled. 
“Hello, Chris. This is no time for ‘Mr. 
Mathers.’”’ 

Though about five years older than he, 
Linda Sherrell seemed to be at once his age 
and of another generation. She was a very 
lovely woman. 


They entered the living room. Chris walked 
toward the front of the room, past flowers 
and portraits on a wall of bookshelves. He 
saw the cocktail mixings on the coffee table. 
The arrangements seemed rather festive for a 
mother and daughter. 

He said, “I’m sorry to pop in on you 
around dinnertime, but I had forgotten what 
time it was.” 

Linda said, ‘‘But we’ve just set out the 
cocktails. You can make them for us. We’re 
having only one guest—an old friend. Do 
you know Wade Moncrief?” 

It sounded like one of the names you 
heard around Richmond, but Chris shook his 
head. Busying with the bottles and ice, he 
tried to make his voice casual: ‘‘I gather 
Lacy has been here.” 

In the silence, he could feel that neither of 
them wanted to answer. Then Peg said, ‘‘He 
came Monday night. He sat around a couple 
of hours, and seemed all right as long as 
mother was in the room 
with us.” 

Chris stirred the drink. 
“Then what?” 

Obviously embarrassed, 
Peg said, ‘““He wanted a 
date the next night and I 
couldn’t see him. I had a 
date with a boy named 
Floyd Henry—and Lacy 
insisted on coming by. I’m 
sorry to tell you this Chris, but we virtu- 
ally had to put him out.” 

“Was he drunk?” 

“Floyd thought maybe a few, but not 
enough to account for his behavior.” 

Linda said, ‘‘Oh, I felt so sorry for him.” 

“Was that time—Tuesday night—the last 
you’ve heard of him?”’ 

“No. Last night he phoned from a beer 
joint.” 

“Do you know which beer joint?” 

“It’s a place called Teddy’s on Commerce 
Street.” 

“That’s only a couple of blocks from me. 
I’ve seen it. As far as we know now, they 
would be the last people to have seen him. 
He hasn’t been home.” 

Peg said, “‘I should have followed your 
advice and never written him. At first—that 
is, last summer—I thought he was one of the 
most interesting men I had met. And I don’t 
think I’ve ever seen gentler manners. The 
first thing that made me uneasy was when 
he began turning his poetic ideas to me. He 
brought me a record of Tristan and Isolde, 
and I got a little queasy from the way he 
looked at me as he talked of the beautiful 
love music. It wasn’t natural talk... you 
know, Chris?” 

He nodded. He knew it all. 

“Then he said to me, “That’s what I want, 
and you’re the woman who can live it.’ I 
tried to laugh it off—you know how you 
would—but then he said that it was fated. 
I told him I didn’t love him, and he asked 
if I was in love with somebody else. I told 
Lacy I’d just gotten work I wanted at the 
museum, and I had no time for such 
thoughts. That was just before he went off 
last summer.” 

Linda said, ‘‘It’s very unfortunate, what 
Peg is telling you.” 

“Well,” Peg said, 
should?” 

“T think you should tell him what might 
help him find -his brother.” 

“Tt all helps,’ Chris said. ““You see, it’s 
embarrassing to have your brother in a pub- 
lic institution. We’ve spent all we could af- 
ford, and more, and nobody really knows 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


what to do for him. Well’’—he glanced at 
Peg—‘‘ what happened this time?”’ 

“He took my letters for encouragement 
and told me Monday that he’d worked the 
whole year to get out because of me. It was 
all fantastic, Chris—just crazy.’’ Then she 
broke off, embarrassed for him. 

Linda said, “‘Something could be done for 
that boy.” 

“Tf you think so, there’s a long line already 
formed which you can go to the end of.” 

“T don’t think so,’’ Peg said in a vehe- 
mence more at her mother than over Lacy 
Mathers. “‘Not the way he talked over the 
phone last night. That was when he admitted 
he had escaped: to get to me; and called me 
every foul name you’ve ever heard of and 
told me the paroled convict he was with had 
more heart than I did.” 


Curis stood up. “I’d better get on to 
Teddy’s Grill.” 

Both started to protest, when the buzzer 
sounded. 

“Don’t go,”’ Peg said, and meant it, though 
he couldn’t understand why. Her mother had 
crossed to the doorway and was pressing the 
release. 

Chris said, “‘I don’t want to meet anybody 
now. You’ve both been wonderful. Good 
night.” 

On the landing he and Linda Sherrell’s 
visitor bowed with equally wary glances. He 
was a good-looking forty-odd, and had the 
casual arrogance of a familiar type of upper- 
bracket Richmonder. 

The dusk sky was gone and it was night. 
Chris, turning out of Westmoreland into the 
side street, saw the stars over the roofs of the 
small houses. In the sweet, hot darkness, 
memories of Lacy returned, but there was 
no nostalgia now. These memories went to a 
later time, when Lacy was entering his last 
year of high school 


x we 


On Lacy’s sixteenth birthday, Chris had 
given him a copy of the poems of Ernest 
Dowson. From that book Chris dated the 
time when Lacy began to talk about the life 
of romantic debauchery which, he said, drew 
him irresistibly. 

Chris, halfway through college, felt mainly 
embarrassment at Lacy’s difference from his 
fellows. This difference had been growing for 
two years, since Lacy entered high school. 
He seemed driven by a compulsion to argue. 
Though he argued about anything, his con- 
tinuous grievance was against the mecha- 
nized materialism of his time. He immersed 
himself in books, drove from him the few 
boys who could have been his friends. Toward 
the end of his first year, at fifteen, he com- 
plained of feeling too sick to go. 

His mother sent him for a complete exam- 
ination to Doctor Holley. He was as fit as 
a fiddle, said the doctor. ‘‘It’s all in his 
mind. My advice is that you send him toa 
boys’ camp.” 

Lacy said he would commit suicide if they 
sent him to camp. 

He did stop complaining of feeling sick, 
though he looked no better, but he began to 
seek arguments with his parents. During his 
junior year at high school, curiously, his 
mother became the victim. 

All during his gentle years, Lacy had been 
sweetest with her. Without really resembling 
his mother, Lacy had similar features and 
bone structure, and he was pleased to be told 
he looked like her. Edith Mathers was still 
pretty then, with the kind of frailty thought 
of as romantic, and she was gay and eager. 
During his childhood, Lacy brought to her 
his problems, shared with her his response to 
beauty, and took great interest in her efforts 
to brighten the home with her handicrafts. 

When Lacy first changed toward his 
mother, he began by belittling her efforts on 
the house. Then everything became middle- 
class, and he mocked his mother’s values as 
“those designed by the bourgeoisie to justify 
the herdlike timidities of their respecta- 
bility.” Though she tried not to show it, his 
mother was hurt by these attacks. 

In a familiar Richmond story of her gen- 
eration, Edith Mathers’ family had formed a 
loose center thread in the pattern of emi- 


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JOURNAL 


grants to the city from the country. “‘The 
value of a good name” was their guide and 
strength. Her particular family had emerged 
slowly and, measured by the power and glory, 
not very far. Caught in their pinched strug- 
gle, she must have found Mike Mathers a 
colorful figure to her romantic eyes. 

He had come in from the country too. He 
was big and powerful, and vitality radiated 
through him and from him. Pretty Edith 
Lacy danced, was courted and wed, in beau- 
tiful pale-colored silk dresses, to Strauss 
waltzes. 

Mike was conscientious in his job and 
about his obligations—as he found them. But 
he never looked for any new ones. It was his 
wife who made the small economies to assure 
the children of education, and it was his wife 
who tried to teach the boys what they were to 
be educated for. When Lacy turned against 
her little wisdoms, his mother had no defense. 

That was the summer before Lacy’s last 
year at high school, when he was sixteen. He 
entered school that year with, as he soon 
showed, a subtler plan than open rebellion. 
He loafed. From a brilliant student, he fell 
below passing grades in half his subjects. His 
mother talked to his teachers and they all 
said, ‘‘He just won’t work, and he has a well- 
mannered insolence that is hard topindown.”’ 

This was the point, in Chris’ old way of 
thinking, when fate ‘moved in. His father, 
who had worked forty-five years for the cor- 
poration, was retired by a company rule at 
sixty. He was fitter than most men at forty. 
When the corporation turned him out—at a 
third of his modest salary—he was literally 
like aman who didn’t know what had hit him. 
His comfort became Lacy. 


Lacy showed then his first guile. He 
soothed the bleeding vanity of the tough old 
boy by implying that he and his father were 
the only ones in the family who were two of a 
kind. His father, hungry for approbation, 
ate it up. In turn, he sympathized with Lacy’s 
ordeals over high school. 

One afternoon Chris came home to find his 
mother weeping. When he put his arm 
around her, she clung to him and the quiet 
weeping broke into long sobs. 

Edith Mathers slowly brought herself un- 
der control. ‘“‘It’s both of them,” she said. 
“‘Lacy came home in a regular tantrum and 
when I tried to reason with him, he told me 
that—that he would hate me as long as life 
lasts for making him go to school. Then Mike 
said why didn’t I let Lacy stop if he wanted. 
That was all Lacy needed and he said—he 
said with a bitterness I didn’t know he felt— 
that one college man in the family was 
enough. I don’t know what to do with the 
two of them. You’ll have to help me.” 

“T’ll help you,” Chris said. 

That night, after supper, he wandered into 
Lacy’s room. Chris went right to the point. 
““What’s the idea of talking to mother the 
way you did today?” 

“‘T don’t see that it’s any affair of yours.” 

“T’m making it mine. You know your fa- 
ther’s not himself now, and he was never a 
tender man. Now he’s taking out his defeat 
on mother. When you come in with him, it’s 
more than she can stand.” 

Lacy’s expression grew uncertain, and he 
began to seem like a lonely boy in a strange 
playroom. ‘‘It looks like I can’t help it. If 
I could just quit schoo] ——”’ 

““What’s so wrong about high school? I 
went there.” 

“You don’t know. I’m just not like the 
others, that’s all. And I don’t want to be!”’ 
His voice rose, thinning out. ‘“They’re coarse 
and stupid and I don’t care if they don’t like 
me. All they do is laugh—laugh—laugh! I 
don’t want to be any clown.”’ 

“What do you want to be, Lacy?” 

He looked down. “‘I won’t learn anything 
at high school. I’ve read more than the 
teachers. They don’t even understand what a 
poetic thought is.”’ 

“Do you write poetry?” 

He looked up defiantly, and his mouth 
quivered like a child’s: ‘‘Maybe I will,” he 
said, sounding like a child. 

Chris couldn’t answer. He was noticing 
with shock the childlikeness of his brother’s 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 121 


That was when he began to wonder if 
something was wrong with Lacy’s sexual 
growth. A few weeks later, by summertime 
and vacation from college, the uneasy ques- 
tion was diverted by his own plans. 

But Chris was never truly freed of a sense 
of pathos about his brother. Even then Chris 
knew, as he denied the knowledge, that the 
trouble with Lacy was more than girls, as the 
family said, and more than “‘an adolescent 
phase.” Because Lacy’s adolescence was 
wrong. 

But what could Chris have done to change 
the course of the tortured dreams that led 
Lacy to Teddy’s Grill with an ex-convict? 


kk * 


Music from a hot piano poured from the 
neon-lit beer shop. Chris moved into the hot, 
smoky noise where the juke-box piano 
clamored against the voices, and beer thick- 
ened the smell of sweat and smoke. Booths 
along one wall were all occupied and there 
were no vacant seats at the bar. Chris had not 
counted on the attention he would attract. 
Self-consciously he stepped toward the only 
open space, a small cigar counter. 

He took off his hat and dropped it on the 
counter. The biggest of the men strode slowly 
toward him and looked him over with tight 
eyes. “Something for you, friend?” 

“Yes, I’m looking for my brother. His 
name is Lacy Mathers and he was in here last 
night.” 

The eyes grew more inimical. 

“You’d remember him. He’s taller than I 
am, close to six feet, but much lighter. He 


e Better to remain silent and be 

thought a fool, than to speak 

out and remove all doubt. 
—ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 


wears light tan tortoise-shell glasses, and he’s 
prematurely gray. His face is pale and ——” 

The man shook his head. “I don’t know 
anything about him.” 

With desperate control, Chris said, ‘Are 
you the manager?” 

“This is my place.”’ 

“I’m not trying to make trouble for you. I 
simply want to find my brother. He’s an es- 
capee from the institution at Kingsborough. 
If I don’t find him myself, I’ll have to call in 
the police. They’re looking for him, too, but 
they don’t know where to look—yet. I’m 
simply asking for your help ——’’ Suddenly 
despising himself for pleading, he broke off. 

The emotionless eyes appraised him. “I 
don’t want any trouble. I don’t ask questions 
of people who come in here.” 

“Sure. You didn’t know. I just want to 
know where he went from here.”’ 

“How would I know?” 

“Do you know the name of the parolee he 
was with?”’ 

“T don’t know any parolees.” 

“All right. I’ve tried to do it the nice way. 
Now I’m going to phone the police com- 
missioner and wait here for him. By chance, 
I’ve known him all my life.” 

“Look, friend ——” 

“Don’t kid yourself that I’m fooling. ’m 
going to find my brother and ——” 

“Take it easy. Don’t tell everybody in 
here. The ex-con’s name is Clyde Candless. 
He lives somewhere around here—down on 
Princess Anne Street, I think.” 

“Tf you can find the exact address, it’ll save 
me the trouble of going to the parole board.” 

‘‘Three-twenty-one, and don’t say I sent 
you. You didn’t scare me, friend. You see, I 
knew you could do what you said because I 
know who you are—from your brother. He 
hates you. And I hope you don’t find him.”’ 

Chris tried not to hurry out. 


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picket fence, the house was of the mellow red 
brick of old Richmond. In the basement, 
light showed through a cracked shade drawn 
almost to the sill. On the parlor floor the 
shades were also drawn, but the front door 
opened on the wide hall lit by an overhead 
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122 


Under a row of battered mailboxes, he 
picked out a crudely pencil-written ‘‘Can- 
dless”’ crowded under the most neatly written 
name on the box, “‘Farquharson Helms.” He 
pressed the bell. 

A woman’s voice called, ‘‘ Who is it?”’ 

Aware of the stories of the hostility of peo- 
ple in this area to outsiders, Chris moved 
slowly into the light from the overhead bulb. 
“You don’t know me,” he said, “but I’m 
looking for Clyde Candless.” 

A young voice answered, “‘He’s not here.” 

“Perhaps you could help me to find him. 
It’s important.” 

“Are you from the parole office?” 

“‘Oh, no. I just want to see him because he 
might know where my brother is. It’s my 
brother I’m looking for—his name is Lacy 
Mathers.” 

“Oh.” It was like a cry of fear. ‘Would 
you come up here?”’ 

Mounting the scarred and uncarpeted 
stairs, he was prepared for anything—except 
the girl he found. 

She must have been about the age of Peg 
Sherrell, but instead of Peg’s maturity, this 
girl had a young shy innocence. Large gray 
eyes stared at him out of a small white face. 
Dark hair, brushed back, flowed over her 
shoulders. Her slen- 
der legs were bare 
beneath a simple 
print dress. 

Chris was as 
startled as she 
looked. “I’m sorry 
I frightened you,” 
he said. “It’s Chris 


Mathers.” 
She nodded 
gravely. “‘I’m 


Clyde’s sister, Joan. 
Won’t you come 


He followed the 
girl into an open 
doorway. As he en- 
tered behind her, he 
saw the pitiful ef- 
forts to make the 
place a pleasant liv- 
ing room. 

“Nobody’s_ here 
but me,”’ she said. 

He nodded. 

“Tt’s cooler out- 
side. Would you 
like to go on the 
back porch?”’ 

The coolness was immediately refreshing. 
Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the 
night light, he looked down on the dark, 
secretive, unkempt yards. He was gazing at 
the wreckage in the wake of a city moving 
away from its time roots. 

“Do you live here with your brother?” 
Chris asked. 

“No, I live here with my sister and 
brother-in-law, Farquharson Helms. Clyde 
has only been here a few weeks. He’s been 
sleeping on the couch in the living room.” 

“T see. Then . . . did my brother come 
here with him?” 


“Yes. Last night. They were both very 
drunk. They kept us up until after two 
o’clock and then Clyde left with Lacy.” 

“You know Lacy?” 

“Not before last night. He said he was 
coming back to see me tonight. I don’t think 
he’ll come.” 

“Why not?” s 

“Well . . . he talked sort of wildly, Mr. 
Mathers. I don’t think he’ll remember what 
he said.” 

He realized he couldn’t tell this child that 
Lacy always went back to every woman to 
whom he talked wildly, because she became 
his Isolde until the next one came along. 
Carefully he said, ‘‘You’re the sort of girl 
he likes and—he remembers what he says.” 

“He told me I reminded him of Yvonne of 
Britanny. Is she in a poem?” 

“Yes, I can see what he meant. Look, 
Miss Candless. 1 don’t live very far from 
here. I’ll give you my phone number. If you 
can call me when he’s here, I’ll come over 
and get him.” 


VEXT MONTH 


HERE are a Jot of things a guy 

can wish for when he’s paralyzed 
from the waist down, or blind as 
night in both eyes. The war wasn’t 
over for Jimmy and his three bud- 
dies in their veterarfs’ hbspital 
ward, where medals and citations 
were cold comfort and an alcohol 
in?” rub was nothing like a dame. Only 


a miracle could put these boys on 
their feet, and that’s what they 
asked for. But was their miracle 
real? 


louse Upon a Rock 
By HENRY MISROCK 


in the December JOURNAL, con- 
densed from the novel soon to be 
published by Doubleday & Co., Inc. 





November, 1949 


“All right.” 

“You’ve been very nice to help me this 
way. You know, my brother belongs back in 
Kingsborough.” 

He heard her gasp. ‘‘Oh. I thought he was 
paroled from the penitentiary—like Clyde.” 

“You mean your brother broke parole by 
drinking with Lacy?” 

“Yes. That’s why the parole officer was 
here this evening. Mr. Moncrief.”’ 

It came back, the good-looking man he 
had passed on the stairs at the Sherrells’. ““A 
well-dressed man about forty?” 

“That’s right. They’re worried about 
Clyde because he didn’t report last week, and 
left his job without telling them.” 

“What was your brother in prison for?” 

@ Armed robbery,’ she said. ‘‘ Ninety-nine 
years. The reason I thought your brother was 
like Clyde was because Lacy was the one who 
had the gun.” x ee 


The human heart recoils from the abnor- 
mal. Everyone tries to explain the acts of his 
loved ones as variations from the normal, 
and not as disease. Then there is a shock 
element in the reaction to the misfit’s first 
involvement with society—or there was to 
Chris when Lacy first broke out of bounds. 

Hehad been plan- 
ning a trip When it 
happened. In those 
days, before he 
learned the psychi- 
atric label of ‘‘ep- 
isode,” they said, 
“He went off... .” 

Lacy went off at 
the end of a four- 
year period in which 
Chris had seen him 
only through a suc- 
cession of high 
lights. 

Following his 
graduation fromcol- 
lege, Chris had done 
graduate work in 
history in New 
York, worked there 
for the foundation, 
and married a poised 
and eager girl from 
New York—a Mad- 
ison Avenue version 
of Peg Sherrell. 

Truetohis threat, 
Lacy did not enter 
college. His father 
helped him get clerical jobs in reputable 
houses. All the jobs promised a future, but 
all of them Lacy hated—and for the same 
reason. He could not get on with the people. 

On each of Chris’ visits home, Lacy poured 
out the same story, complaining and bitter. 
The men with whom he was forced to associ- 
ate were ‘‘oafs and louts.’”’ Their talk was 
coarse, their minds gross. 

“Sure, sure,” Chris answered. Everybody 
whoever worked was forced into contact with 
vulgar minds, with insensitive ignorance. 
“Tt’s not your whole life,’’ Chris said. ““From 
five o’clock on you're free.”’ 

“Free to be by myself,” Lacy said. “Who 
am I in a position to meet but other clowns? 
All they talk about are the movies and 
radio comedians. Sports are the other topic. 
That seems the common bond formed 
by the group who wentgto college. Of 
course I’m out of that, as I’couldn’t go to 
college.” 

“Couldn’t go? You announced that you 
wouldn’t.” q 

Lacy had forgotten that Chris knew of his 
hysterical opposition even to finishing high 
school. With passing time, Lacy convinced 
himself that the family impoverished them- 
selves on his brother. 

He took to referring to Chris as “the 
glamour boy.’’ Lacy knew how to give his 
father the illusion of being his comfort in 
the lean years. He knew, best of all, sly ways 
of making him feel superior to his: wife— 
who kept their home together. 

And Lacy, trying to gull his brother as he 
did his father, would say, ‘“You had the 
courage to get out. But you know—the way 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 123 


“There’re plenty of interesting people in 
Richmond,” Chris would say. 

“Then why did you go to New York?”’ 

“My work took me there.” 

“Your work. But I’m a clerk. I neither 
produce nor sell, which the smug successes 
assure me is the only means of advancement 
in this crass country.” 

“Neither do I,’”’ Chris would say. “You 
can still develop a special talent.” 

“That’s all right for you to say, but I-——’”’ 

But I: that’s the way they all ended, all 
the high-lighted views of Lacy from his 
eighteenth to twenty-second years. There 
were other facets unrevealed to Chris, hid- 
den deliberately from him by his brother and 
by his parents. Because of their secrecy, he 
was unprepared when the blow fell. 


In the late spring in New York, he and 
Jacqueline were one week from leaving for 
Mexico. They had been married a year and 
she had quit her job. 

Plane tickets were bought, reservations 
made in Cuernavaca, Taxco, Mexico City, 
and then in Brownsville, Texas. There the 
research would be done. If Chris’ original 
digging unearthed anything, the foundation 
promised to back him for a fellowship. 

On Friday morning at the foundation 
came the phone call from his mother. Her 
stricken voice sounded weak. When he 
heard “‘jail’’ and “arson,” and that his 
father was “‘acting like a crazy man,” Chris 
took the sleeper out that night. 

His father met him at the station early in 
the morning. Standing in that chilly dim- 
ness, Mike Mathers looked old. 

Going up the long ramp, his father walked 
slowly. “‘This is a terrible thing, son. It can 
bring disgrace upon us all.” 

“What’s happened?” Chris asked. 

“T’'ll tell you in the taxi.” 


In the low voice of shame, he described 
how Lacy had gotten too drunk to come 
home and fell asleep in a vacant lot back of 
the corner drugstore. When the early morn- 
ing chill bit into him, he set fire to the trash 
cartons to warm himself, and the blaze 
threatened the store. The fire department 
was called, and they turned Lacy over to the 
police. 

Because of Lacy’s wild talk, they had not 
put him in a cell, but in one of the upstairs 
rooms reserved for “‘mental cases.” This 
implication of insanity was what undid 
the father. 

Chris held his voice casual as he asked, 
““When did he start this kind of drinking?’ 

“Over the last couple of years. He can’t 
hold it at all. He goes at it like he’s trying to 
knock himself out. He turns pale, looks sick 
and—and acts silly before he goes under.” 

“Ts that why he changes jobs so often?” 

“Only partly. They always take him back 
once or twice. But he just seems bound to get 
fired.” The cab was drawing up in front 
of the house. Mike Mathers burst out, 
“We've all had jobs we didn’t like, but he 
doesn’t act natural about it. It’s like he 
wants an excuse for this drinking.” 

“No, it’s the other way around.” 

Chris saw it all in simple clarity. Escape 
drinking, that’s what it was. Everybody 
knew about that. All they needed was to 
discover the thing Lacy was escaping from. 

Chris went straight to the jail. On enter- 
ing the gray, grim place, he felt an unac- 
countable guilt and an uncontrollable shame. 

When he squeezed the words through his 
tight throat, a fat man at a desk unhurriedly 
moved some papers around. The fat man 
said, “‘ Yeh, he’s here, but these are not visit- 
ing hours.” 

“I’m his brother. I’ve come down from 
New York to see what can be done for him. I 
just got in.” 

Without looking up, the fat man said, 
“You can go on up with him’’—he gestured 
to the guard. 

Inside the barred door, the smell came at 
him, and then the rumble of harsh voices. He 
glimpsed the hard faces of men sprawled on 
benches. Past them, at a barred staircase, the 
guard laughed. 

“‘That’s the tank,” he said, “where we put 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Mounting the stairs, Chris heard scream- 
ing. The guard laughed. 

“That’s crazy Katy, the guest of honor in 
the padded cell.” 

They paused at the barred door at the top 
of the stairs and Chris, dropping his cigarette 
on the iron step, looked down to grind it 
out. He was sure he was not going to be sick, 
but he pulled out his handkerchief and, pre- 
tending to wipe his face, held his nose 
against the overpowering smell. 

Lacy’s weak eyes, blinking without glasses, 
showed surprise, but no other feeling. He 
gave a tentative and sheepish smile as he 
pulled himself up. 

As the guard went out, Lacy moved to- 
ward Chris, very slowly. Chris shook hands 
and took out his cigarettes. ‘Will you have 
one?” 

“Yeh, I will. I ran out last night.’’ As each 
lit his own cigarette, Lacy said, “‘I’m sorry 
you had to come down here about this.” 

There was a dazed casualness about Lacy, 
like someone too drugged with sleep to ab- 
sorb what was happening. He seemed un- 
aware of his foul appearance—rumpled and 
spotted trousers, a filthy shirt, and his 
puffed, pale face dirtied with the blond fuzz 
which was all the beard he had. 

Chris pretended to be looking at the sur- 
roundings out the window. “Tell me what did 
happen. Father and mother gave me the 
outlines of the store burning, and how you’re 
booked on a charge of arson.” 

“Ah, I just did all that wild talk to upset 
the stupid cops. Then I saw they had me 
booked as a nut, and I let it go because it got 
me this room up here away from the jail- 
birds.” 

Something in his defiantly calloused tone 
opened a suspicion to Chris. ‘‘ This is not the 
first time you’ve been arrested?” 

“Once before just for being drunk. Pop 
paid the fine. That’s all it’ll be this time too.” 

“But mother has already talked to a law- 
yer. If you’re not adjudged mentally incom- 
petent, you'll be prosecuted for arson. The 
druggist will prefer charges.” 

Lacy didn’t seem to absorb it. “‘ Naturally 
you’re worried about it, Chris.” 

“Aren’t you?”’ 

“Not in the way you are. It’s what put me 
here that’s worrying me.”’ 

Chris began to feel through the incredible 
horror a familiar place where he could reach 
his brother. “‘ What is it you’re running from? 
Father said it was your jobs, and you’ve told 


November, 1949 


me a lot about how the people you work with 
upset you.” 

Looking a little ashamed, Lacy showed 
what seemed the first normal reaction. ‘I 
reckon I’ve talked too much about that. You 
had the right idea when you told me I should 
either work through the part of a job where I 
was forced to associate with churlish morons 
or, if I didn’t like the work, to develop a spe- 
cial talent where I’d be beyond them. But I 
never have anything else to help me through 
it, like any other man does.” 

“What do you mean—like any other 
man?” 

“T mean with a woman.” He spoke then 
with more feeling. “‘Every man has a woman 
of his own. Look at you—you have a wife, 
and plenty of girls before.” 

Chris remembered Lacy’s almost hysteri- 
cal attacks on the shallowness of girls during 
his high-school days, claiming they had no 
appreciation of his “‘difference.’’ He remem- 
bered, too, Lacy’s defensive poses over his 
lack of physical development—the slow 
change of his voice, the absence of muscular 
structure, the lack of beard on his unnaturally 
childish face. Suddenly, Chris looked at the 
dirty blond fuzz, and realized that this pa- 
thetic symbol of manhood even now gave an 
incongruous touch of youngness to Lacy’s 
bloated and wasted face, 

Chris asked timidly, “‘Is there anything 
wrong with you physically?” 

Perhaps the gentleness did it, for all at 
once Lacy was a young brother again. He 
said, “I used to think I wasn’t adequate .. . 
you know. Now I think I’m all right— 
maybe not all I should be, but ——” 

In a sickness of embarrassment, Chris 
broke in. ‘Then that’s not how you mean 
you’re not like other men?”’ 

“Not exactly. But you can’t understand 
what it means to have worried that you’re 
not normal physically, and now—every time 
I get a rejection—it goes back to that, and it 
makes me act not normal.” 

“How do you act not normally?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I want them to be my 
girl and, once they know that, they shy off.” 
His voice began to rise. ““But they don’t shy 
off from other men. Even those dirty beasts 
in the office have girls—nice girls too.” 

As Lacy talked, his excitement turning his 
pallor greenish and his weak eyes blinking 
nakedly without their glasses, Chris caught a 
vision of how Lacy must appear to the “‘nice 
middle-class girls” he claimed were all he 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 125 


could know. Chris determined then to learn 
the truth about his brother. 


The family doctor was one of the few of his 
kind left in Richmond. Dr. Charles Beverly 
ee like a retired cavalry officer gone to 
at. 

: Chris and his father waited in the recep- 
tion room. Then Charles Beverly came in the 
doorway and spoke to them. 

He shook hands with Mike Mathers and 
turned to Chris. “You come on in now.” 

“You mean just me?”’ 

“T think it’s better.” Inside his office, 
Charles Beverly leaned back in a heavy 
swivel chair. ‘‘We can’t talk to your father, 
Chris. All he feels is hurt. You’re the only 
one who can handle this thing.’ 

“What is wrong with Lacy, Doctor Bev- 
erly?” 

““T wish I knew. He’s a sick boy, though, 
and I’m afraid we’ll have to put him away to 
get him out of this.’’ 

“How do you mean—put away?’ 

“Tn an institution. You see, he’ll either 
have to be charged with mental incompetency 
or arson. The only way we can get around 
it is for me to sign a certificate stating that 
he was momentarily deranged by inebriacy. 
Then we can commit him as an inebriate to 
Green Valley Springs.”’ 

“You mean just put him in there with 
crazy people?”’ 

The doctor gave a tolerant smile. ‘‘That’s 
the way the old-timers thought about it, but 
you’d know better if you weren’t up there in 
New York. They have an alcoholic division, 
and old Doctor St. Johns—head of the whole 
hospital—is a very interesting character. If 
you can get him to take a personal interest in 
Lacy, I think he might do a lot for him.” 

“That’s the only way?” 

“Tf we can work it. You’ll have to per- 
suade this druggist to withdraw charges, and 
see the judge and get his permission to change 
the charge.” 

“And you can do all the rest?”’ 

“T think so. You get right on it, Chris. Call 
me for anything you need.”’ 

In that first innocence, flushed with family 
feeling and the crusade for his brother, Chris 
took in stride the druggist, the judge and all 
the tedious details. He spent his cash on new 
shirts and incidentals for Lacy, gave him a 
ten-dollar bill and a carton of cigarettes, and 
paid a jail barber. 


Lacy said, “I think of this as the best 
thing that’s happened to me. I’ve found out 
that drinking is no escape, and—even if Doc- 
tor Beverly hadn’t said so—I know I never 
want another drop. You see, I need to return 
to the real values. Mother was right.” He 
began to sound as he had when a boy. 

Chris said, ‘““What real values do you 
mean?” 

“T can’t answer Pontius Pilate’s “What is 
truth?’, but I can begin to find out what it is 
for me. Until now I’ve just been against the 
people who lived by transient things. But I 
didn’t have anything of my own, like you 
were always after me to get. As I told you 
the other day, it’s got to be in work, don’t 
you think so?” 

With guarded hopefulness, Chris said, “It 
certainly can begin there.” 

“Well, I know it’s a beginning. You see, I 
love the old days when mother’s values were 
being formulated. That’s an early America. 
In Virginia, that time coincided with the hot 
sulphur springs. Up at Green Valley, I’ll be 
near the old springs, which are romantic. It 
would just be a setting for what I’m trying 
to do, but don’t you think that would be a 
good study to make?” 
~ Envisioning it as a possibly valuable work, 
Chris said, ‘‘Wonderful. ‘The Ante-bellum 
Springs of Virginia.’ You could have a fancy 
press publish that as a ten-dollar book.” 

“You could help me with research tech- 
niques?” 

With growing enthusiasm, Chris said, 
“There’s nothing I’d rather do.” 


When Chris went by Charles Beverly’s of- 


| fice to thank him, the doctor asked him to 


wait a few minutes and said he’d run him up- 
(Continued on Page 127) 






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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL November, 1949 


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(Continued from Page 125) 
town. ‘‘Chris,” he said, “‘don’t let this alarm 
you, but I was on my way to your house. It 


seems that after you called—telling your 
| family everything was all right—your mother 


ad a kind of collapse. It’s more or less a 


* natural reaction to an emotional woman like 


your mother, only she’s had a couple of them 
before over Lacy. She needs help.” 

“What kind of help?” 

“You know, a thing like this is very hard 
on people like your parents. They’re not 
old, but they’re sort of old-fashioned—like a 
lot of people of their generation. But their 
ideas don’t change easily, and things were 
simple to them. A man was crazy or he was a 
drunkard. But Lacy is neither, and you can’t 
expect them to understand that—certainly 
not your father. He can’t help Lacy and he 
can’t help your mother. A woman needs help 
when a thing like this happens, and Lacy is 
going to need help when he gets out. She can 
help him, if she’s all right, but your father is 
bad for them both. They need a counterinflu- 
ence there.” 

“You mean me?” 

Doctor Beverly was edging his heavy car 
into the late-afternoon traffic. He said, “I 
wouldn’t mean you unless you could do your- 
self some good by coming. I’ve been hearing 
about your work from your parents, and you 
know you can get lost in the shuffle up there 
in New York.” 

Chris said, “‘ But they’re willing to back me 


ona fine project after I take a trip to Mexico. 
It’s on Juan Quintero— 


you know, the Confederate 
border agent ——’” 

“T know something 
about Quintero,” Doctor 
Beverly said. ‘‘In fact, 
the Civil War is a hobby 
of mine. I’mon the board 
of the Historical Institute, 
and you could be a big fish 
there—with plenty of time 
for your own projects. It’s 
something to think over. 
And of course from here 
you could keep in touch 
with Dector St. Johns, at 
Green Valley Springs, 
about your brother.” 

That was the inescapable point: He is my 
brother. 

As the car swung into the street where his 
family lived, Chris could only think, How 
will I ever tell Jacqueline? 


x kk 


When Chris returned to his house from 
Joan Candless’, the phone was ringing. Think- 
ing it was his mother, he picked up the in- 
strument. “Hello.” 

“You sound as if the grave has given up its 
dead.” 

“Harriet?” 

“From the lack of feeling in the way you 
say my name, I hope I’m not interrupting 
something as tender as J was interrupted in.” 


tion for his 


Hr felt his contracted nerves begin to give, 
creakily, in sections. ‘‘If you were the right 
kind of woman you’d have stayed here, keep- 
ing hot coffee, against my return.” 

“That sounds more like the Red Cross 
than my type. I'll be glad to give you some 
coffee here, if you feel up to bearding my fa- 
ther’s den.” 

“T don't think what I need right now are 
pleasantries with Herr Doktor.” 

“He and mother are out to a picture and 
when they return, they'll go straight to 
bed—running, if they find I have a guest in 
the living room. Incidentally, have you 
eaten?” 

“1 had some crackers and cheese at Linda 
Sherrell’s.” 

“Indeed. Which is my rival there?”’ 

“Neither. That was about my brother.” 

“T’ll have bacon and eggs ready for you 


when you get here.” 


“T’'ll be right up.” 

He wanted to get out before the tired, 
tedious processes of thought resumed. He 
should phone his mother. It was nine o’clock. 


_ He went into the bathroom, splashed warm 
' and then cold water on his eyes and face, 


Ninon de L’Enclos, taking 

a faney to the wizened-up 
son of a common laborer, 
undertook to educate him for 
better things than fate prom- 
ised. The lad studied hard to 
get the most out of his mirac- 
ulous opportunity. His devo- 


amounted to idolatry. But 
soon they parted ways. He be- 
came a revolutionist—she re- 
mained with the aristocracy. 
His name was Voltaire! 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 127 


went back into the bedroom, and wavered 
over phoning his mother. 

If he did, he would only have to lie about 
the Clyde Candless complication. 

Chris went out fast before he weakened 
again, and submitted to that habitual pull of 
conscience. At Westmoreland Street, he was 
lucky in getting a cab. In twenty blocks he 
rode out of the old part of the city into the 
early twentieth century. 

The home of Dr. Brandon Coles was typi- 
cal of them all. Crossing the walk of the 
shrubberied lawn to the gray-stone entrance- 
way, Chris glanced almost guiltily at his gray 
slacks and white linen jacket. 


‘THEN the door opened on Harriet in pale 
blue slacks and dark blue blouse, her bronzed 
hair brushed back in a bold carelessness. As 
she greeted him with her hard-bitten grin, 
Chris said, in a relief from many things, 
“How did you ever come out of a mausoleum 
like this?”’ 

“T had to come out or be buried here, and 
I had a lot of contemporaries as awful exam- 
ples. Come on back and sample my culinary.” 

Inside, there was no impression of formida- 
bility. He followed Harriet into a surprisingly 
charming breakfast room. 

“Do you like your eggs soft?” 

EBON Do you think I’m a barbar- 
ian?” 

“You never know about Southern men,” 
she told him. ‘‘Here, make your own drink 
while I stir up the victuals.” 

While she had stood be- 
side him at the table, he 
had a momentary illusion 
of being married to Har- 
riet, of relaxing in the 
comfort of being looked 
after. 

Then she came in with 
a tray of food. He noticed 
that the brittle gaiety, al- 
ways between her and the 
world, was missing. She 
was concentrating on set- 
ting the tray before him. 

“You look like an ac- 
tress with props.”’ 

“T never went in for be- 
ing the little woman, but 
I pray you’re hungry enough to find this 
adequate.” 

He started right in. After sampling every- 
thing, he said, “I’ve never tasted softer eggs, 
crisper bacon, browner toast or—or flavor- 
somer coffee.” 

“Now you’ve been through my complete 
repertoire. Tell me about your brother.” 

Chris related the outlines of the search 
from the Sherrells’, through Teddy’s Grill, 
to Joan Candless. Then he said, “So I can’t 
see anything to do except wait to hear from 
her.” 

“You're wrong, Chris. You ought to phone 
the police and tell them about your brother 
being with this criminal, this Candless.” 

Chris said, ‘‘It’s not so simple. Candless 
might only have broken parole to the extent 
of drinking. I don’t want to be responsible for 
sending him back to the pokey.” 

“That is not your responsibility. Your 
brother is an escapee from Kingsborough 
and the police have been alerted to pick 
him up. They don’t makea search; they just 
go where he is. So, send them where he might 
be found. In that way, you’d also spare your 
mother.” 

“All right. Where’s the phone?” 

She reached and there it was. 

Chris watched her as he dialed. She ob- 
viously kept herself in condition and moved 
with a wonderfully indolent assurance of her 
fine body. Even watching Harriet, Chris 
went under, as if in quicksand, the mo- 
ment he heard the impersonal, metallic voice 
at police headquarters. 

He heard his own voice say, “May I speak 
to Squire Poindexter?” 

“He’s not on duty now.” 

“What magistrate is?” 

“Squire Rhodes.” 

“May I speak to him?” 

The phone clicked and then a pompous lit- 
tle voice announced, “Squire Rhodes speak- 
ing. 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Squire, this is Chris Mathers. I’m calling 
about my brother Lacy. He’s an escapee from 
Kingsborough. The hospital has already no- 
tified you all that they want him back. I can 
tell you where you can get a lead on where to 
pick him up.” - 

“Ts he there now? 

“T don’t know.” 

“Call us back when he’s there, and we'll 
send someone over to pick him up.” 

“But I don’t live there myself, and I don’t 
know when he might show up.” 

“Well, what do you want us to do?” 

“JT want you to send someone there to see 
if he has come back, or find out where he is.” 

“We can’t do that unless we have a com- 
plaint against him. Have you signed a war- 
rant?” 

“No, but you’ve got the order to appre- 
hend him from Kingsborough.” 

“T don’t see anything on it here. You bet- 
ter come down and swear out a warrant.” 

“What good will that do?’ 

“Then if we find out where he is, we can 
pick him up.” 

Chris said, hanging up the phone, ‘So 
can I.” 

“Take it easy,’”’ Harriet said. ‘“Let’s get 
out of this hot box and go in the front where 
it’s cooler.” 

He was still shaking as he followed Harriet 
into a formally furnished living room. Chris 
said, with halting bluntness, ‘‘ Harriet, this 
is not your affair. Your parents would be 
upset, and we’re not getting anywhere this 
way.” 

“Chris, I’ve been accused of being a very 
selfish woman, and I’m doing this because I 
want to. Not for any other reason. Now let’s 
call somebody in authority. That’s the way 
to get things done. You say my father was 
psychiatrist on the case once. He knows the 
mayor. Let’s start with him.” 

“Your father can’t do anything now,” 
Chris said out of weary experience. “‘ Besides, 
I’d rather he didn’t think of me as always 
being in trouble.” 

Harriet looked at him with slow appraisal. 

“Yes,” he said. ‘“‘I am ashamed of people 
knowing it. It’s like always being in debt: 
you become a pitiable object.” 

“Who else can you call?” she asked. 

“Maybe the police commissioner, Carl 
Hasselman.”’ 

““Here’s the phone book.” 


” 


Diane the commissioner’s number, Chris 
knew that he and Harriet would never go 
back to the relationship they had before. 

“Hello.” The woman’s voice sounded shrill 
with suppressed outrage. 

“May I speak to Mr. Hasselman?” 

“Just a minute.” 

He really was not a friend of Carl Hassel- 
man’s, as he had told the man at Teddy’s 
Grill. He had been a high-school friend of his 
younger brother, Bill. The one time before, 
when Chris called him about Lacy, Carl had 
been sympathetic and offered to do anything 
he could in the future. 

Chris said, “I’m sorry to bother you, Carl, 
but this can be pretty serious.” 

When Chris finished, Carl said, “‘And the 
young girl told you Lacy had a gun?” 

“Had the gun, she said, as if they were 
sharing it.” 

“That can be pretty serious. But I don’t 
know what we can do. We have no complaint 
on Candless, and I would know if we did, be- 
cause he went in with a very bad record and I 
never understood why he was paroled. The 
Parole Board would have to notify us if he 
was in trouble. Otherwise, we have no right 
to go to his house.” 

“Not even looking for Lacy?” 

‘Not unless we get a call that he’s there.” 
His voice became harried. ‘‘ You see, there’re 
a lot of politics involved here, and we’re in 
the middle.” 

After Chris hung up the phone, he sank 
back in the cushions. ‘‘That does it.”’ 

““My father told me Carl Hasselman was 
afraid of his job.” 

When Chris made no answer, Harriet said, 
“Do you think you should phone your mother 
and see if he’s come home?” 

“He wouldn’t have come in this early,”’ he 
said, shying away from taking on his mother 


November, 1949 


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now. “I could talk to that Parole Board man 
at the Sherrells’-—Wade Moncrief.” 

“Has he the nerve to show his face there?”’ 

“What goes on?” 
| “Didn’t you know Wade Moncrief has 
geen Linda Sherrell’s lover for years?” 

¥ *‘TIs he married?” 

“Only to his mother. She protects him 
‘rom legal commitments.” 

“Do you know him?” 

“Oh, to say how-do. Everybody in Rich- 
mond knows him. If he’d ever had to be on 
nis own, he might have become a real guy. 
But he couldn’t cut loose from what momma 
epresented.” 

“Tsn’t Linda of the same bracket?” 

“Technically, yes, but she never really 

bscribed. Her father was a rather shady 
tharacter—of great charm, to be sure—and 
she married young. Though her husband was 
dull as ditchwater, he got the sympathy 
when she walked out on him and went to 
work. By the time Wade Moncrief came 
along, Linda was no one momma would have 
approved of, and momma stood for a lot of 
iresides where Moncrief was comfortable. 
But, of course, it’s all right what he does as 
long as it’s kept away from the homes where 

e’s welcome. Go on and call him.” 
He dialed. 
- “Hello.” It was Peg. 
Chris told her the proposition. 
She said, talking 
ery low, “I don’t 
ink that’s the thing 
o do, Chris. Wade 
Moncrief is just a po- 
itical appointee and 
he’s scared to death 
about Clyde Candless 
aow. Why don’t you 
zo to see Floyd 
‘Henry? He’s the pa- 
role investigator 
working with Can- 
dless.”’ 

“Wasn’t he your 
date when you threw 

acy out?” 

“We didn’t throw 
aim out, Chris. Floyd 
was very sympathetic 

oward him, and he is 
oward Clyde Can- 
dless. He’s worried be- 
sause he recom- 
mended Clyde’s parole 
0 the board.” 
“Would I have to wait and see him at his 
ffice tomorrow?” 
“That would be best. Tell him I suggested 
' 
Limply dropping the damp phone, Chris 
said to Harriet, ‘““ Now I don’t see anything 
ore I can do tonight. except go down and 
stand out in front of the Candlesses’.”’ 

“You might phone them.” 

Chris turned the direCtory pages again. 
Farquharson Helms was listed. 

A man answered and Chris said in his tired 
routine, ‘“‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but it’s 
important, and I wonder if you could get 
Joan Candless to your phone.” 

“Who is this?” 

“You don’t know me, but I was by there 
earlier. My name’s Chris Mathers.” 

“Yeh, and your brother was by here last 
might. I don’t want to have anything to do 
with Clyde Candless and your brother, or 
ryou either.” 


RIS’ ear rang from the jangle of the phone 
ming down. He said, ‘“There’s nothing 
else to do until tomorrow when I see this pa- 
Tole investigator.” 
Harriet poured fresh highballs, gave him 
one, and sat down facing him. “ You’ve al- 
pady done all you can. You owe it to your- 
to rest. You know, I’ve learned a lot 
about you tonight—more than in all the 
months before. This is an old story with you, 
isn’t it? This is why you’ve moved from job 
to job, and never finished a project? If you 
don’t want to talk, Chris, just say so. But I 
Can see the effect of it on you. You act like 
you're guilty about something.” 
“You know, Harriet, that’s the way I feel.” 
“Am I my brother’s keeper. you mean?” 


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eon K KKK KX 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 129 


“That’s something I’ve tried to work out 
for myself.” 

“But it is why you’re back in Richmond?” 

“It’s more complicated than that. You 
see, I came back to Richmond once before, 
after I’d left. This time I came back because 
my father died. But” —he downed his drink 
and pulled up from the cushions—‘“‘to give 
such reasons sounds like I’m blaming the 
fates for my own decisions.” 

Harriet arose too. She put her hand on his 
arm. “You’ve been keeping it all locked up 
inside you, all the times we’ve been together.” 

“Like you and your marriage.” 


* Sue laughed, letting her hand slide off his 


arm as she stepped back. ‘‘ Where’re you go- 
ing—now that you’re determined to escape 
me?” she asked. 

“T’ve got to go to my mother’s.” 


xk wk * 


No pattern of habit had formed when 
Jacqueline and Chris settled in an apartment 
near his parents’ home. In that summer, ev- 
erybody avoided mention of the reason of 
their move to Richmond. 

Chris knew that their neighborhood seemed 
small-town to Jacqueline. “It’s getting ad- 
justed to the drowsy pace,” she said, and he 
knew that Jacqueline, was using a euphe- 
mism to cover all the things she missed. 

Besides adjusting 
to his work at the 
Historical Institute, 
Chris was occupied 
with correspondence 
with Lacy and Doc- 
tor St. Johns, head of 
the sanitarium. 

Lacy’s letters were 
curiously guarded 
and never definitely 
answered questions. 

Chris composed ex- 
tremely careful let- 
ters to Doctor St. 
Johns. Doctor St. 
Johns would reply: 
“Your brother is do- 
ing fine. He seems to 
have recovered com- 
pletely from his alco- 
holic excesses, and 
I feel that he will 
return in good 
health and real man- 
hood.” 

Jacqueline said, ‘“This reads like a form 
letter. Maybe there’s no such person as 
St. Johns. You’d better go up and find out.” 

“T’ve been thinking I should go up and see 
him personally. I’ll write Lacy I’m coming.” 

Lacy’s answer was postmarked “Rich- 
mond.”’ He explained that he was giving the 
letter to a discharged patient, who would 
mail it in Richmond, and said, “You'll be 
wasting your time to see St. Johns, as you’ve 
already wasted your energy in writing him. 
He’s talked to me only twice, and they were 
sermons on how to walk in Christ’s path. [ll 
be home soon, and don’t worry about my 
drinking. I’ll never take another drink, but 
not because of this bedlam, which is only a 
crude cure for chronic drunkards—and I 
see why they’re chronic. Love to all.” 


When Lacy came home in the early fall he 
was again the appealing boy of before his 
high-school days. Most of all, he tried to 
make a good impression on Jacqueline. Chris, 
seeing them all like a normal family again, 
felt that it had not been a bad move coming 
to Richmond. Jacqueline would tell him, 
when they were alone, that she had never 
seen such a change in anybody. 

“That must have been a morbid phase of 
adolescence Lacy passed through,” she said. 
“T don’t see why he should have trouble with 
girls now. He’s charming.” 

He was for perhaps a month. During that 
time he got a job—another of the “clerical 
positions with a future.” After that his hu- 
mor began to fade, and complaints of his 
work began to intrude. 

Anxious to retain the recaptured feeling of 
family, Chris went to talk to him alone. He 
stopped by his family’s house and, as he 





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‘LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


entered without ringing, heard Lacy bitterly 
denouncing his father. His voice, rising in 
self-feeding frenzy, held the old goaded harsh- 
ness. 

Lacy was saying, “‘ Here I come home from 
a day’s work among those troglodytes and I 
have to do a cleaning woman’s work before I 
can even wash my hands. Is it too much to 
ask that you don’t leave the bathroom a 
pigsty?’’ Then he saw Chris. 

His embarrassment was partly like that of 
someone discovered play-acting to himself. 
Lacy set his face in sullen defiance and pointed 
to the bathroom. 

“You know it’s not right for him to leave 
it that way.” 

Knowing that he had been irritated by 
the same things when he lived at home, Chris 
said, “All right, it’s not pleasant. But he 
probably puts up with some things from you 
too. Come on in the front room with me.” 

Lacy followed warily. 

Determinedly casual, Chris said, ‘‘Look, 
Lacy, it’s true that you do things other peo- 
ple have to put up with. You’ve gotten ac- 
customed to your family accepting it here at 
home, but other people don’t have the same 
tolerance.” 

Lacy fixed Chris with his pale and unblink- 
ing gaze. ““What people?” 

“Well, like Jacqueline. You’ve gotten so 
you talk all the time about your job, with 
nothing except com- 
plaints. It’s not that 
she isn’t interested in 
you, but all this seems b 
like the way you were 
before you went away. 
I thought you were go- 
ing to do some work up 
there on the Virginia 
Springs, and I told Jac- 
queline that you had 
new plans.” 

“T do,” Lacy said 
defensively. ‘But she 
doesn’t know what 
happened up there at 
the asylum. They 
worked me like a field 
hand, gave me slops a 
hog couldn’t eat, and 
by the time night came 
I was exhausted. The 
only doctor I could talk 
to loved some sirupy 
song called The Lamp is Low, and turned 
derisive when I told him it was lifted from 
Ravel. His likes are better subjects for a 
book than old springs—and I’ve got plenty 
of notes on what went on among them 
all up there.’ 

“Is that what you’re going to do? Write 
about the asylum?” 

“Not just that one. I’m going to make a 
study of the whole system. I’m getting facts 
now.” 

“But that’s fine, Lacy. Everybody would 
be interested in that. And that’ll free you of 
these jobs you don’t like.” 

“Sure, it would. I can see what you always 
meant about developing something special 
of your own. I could do a book on this, called 
Bedlam.” 


past deeds. 


ington, 


softly, “your 


He had said that before. This time Chris 
had less wholehearted enthusiasm when Lacy 
talked to Jacqueline and him about his fu- 
ture plans. 

Then one night, when he came to their 
apartment, Lacy started in about some new 
thoughts he had on his book, Bedlam. 

“Lacy,” Jacqueline said, “‘it’s swell that 
you're going to do the book, but I’d rather 
see it than hear any more about it. Why 
don’t you work:on it instead of talking 
about it?” 

The pale blue eyes turned cold and hostile. 
“I’m going to do it as soon as the emotional 
phase of my life is taken care of. There’s a 
girl I’ve met recently who’s-the ideal type for 
the life I have envisioned.” 

Jacqueline cried, ‘“ You don’t mean you’re 
in love again?” 

“This time it’s a man’s love.” 

“Then why don’t you act like a man?” 

Lacy stopped coming to see Jacqueline and 
Chris after that. 


Abraham Lincoln was confronted 
one afternoon by a rather large 
woman who was quite prominent. 
“Mr. President,’’ she began in a 
tone that indicated 
accustomed to taking no for an an- 
swer, ‘*“you must give me a colonel’s 
commission for my son. I demand 
it not as a favor, but as a right.”’ 
Then she recounted her family’s 


“My grandfather fought at Lex- 
she said. 
the only man who did not run away 
at Bladensburg. My father fought 
at New Orleans, and my dear hus- 
band was killed at Monterey.”’ 
**Perhaps, madam,” Lincoln said 
family 
enough for the country. It is time to 
give somebody else a chance. 


November, 1949 


Jacqueline had become friendly with Edith 
Mathers. In the strange city, where Jacque- 
line liked none of the women, she and Chris’ 
mother exchanged the intimate details of 
living. 

Jacqueline saw her father-in-law as will- 
fully irresponsible. Mike Mathers was a 
smart-looking man when he went downtown. 
He went by the corporation offices, as if he 
still had business there. With old-timers who 
had not fared well, he showed that he had 
not forgotten the good days together. He 
slipped them a half dollar, a silver dollar, 
or maybe a couple of ones. 


JacoueE ine figured out that fifty of Edith 
Mathers’ careful calculations went in one of 
Mike’s careless gestures. 

When she told this to Chris, he said, ‘‘Oh, 
well, it’s the only pleasure he has.” 

“All right, but how about us? His life is 
over. Ours is just beginning, here in this 
blue-blooded dead end.” 

“Oh, Richmond is not that bad. You’re 
just down on everything here because of my 
family.” 

“Listen, Chris,” she said, and came 
quickly to him. Kneeling beside his chair, 
Jacqueline took his hand into both of hers. 
“T wouldn’t mind dry-rotting here if we were 
doing any good. It’s just that we were sup- 
posed to help by being here.” 

“T can see that we’re 


larly by being here... 
except that it pleases 
my parents.” 

“Yes, it does, but 
nothing can please 
them much until Lacy 
is helped. And the only 
thing that will help him 
is a psychiatrist.” 

That was the first 
time that the word was 
casually accepted. 
“You think he’s really 
unbalanced?” 

“Well, I don’t know 
any exact words about 
it,” she told him. “‘He 
acts as if there’s some- 
thing stunted in his 
inner growth—you 
know, like he’s still an 
adolescent.” 

“T know. I tried to tell St. Johns ——” 

“Why don’t you tell Doctor Beverly, and 
put it up to him?” 

Suddenly eager for some definite action, 
Chris said, “Ill phone him now.” 

Charles Beverly was clearly disappointed 
that Chris wanted to leave. “‘ Well,” he said, 
“T reckon you're not doing any good by stay- 
ing, as it applies to Lacy. The boy’s got to 
find himself. But about a psychiatrist, I 
don’t know. I doubt if Lacy would be willing. 
Your mother might, but your father certainly 
wouldn’t. I don’t know what you can do, if 
you think you can better yourself else- 
where.” 

The decision to leave was no more clean- 
cut or wholehearted than the decision to 
come. But as she had come because of him, 
he should be willing to leave because of her. 


she was not 


“My uncle was 


has done 


For nearly two years they lived in Holly- 
wood, while Chris worked at the library. He 
found the research there interesting. 

They rented a roomy and pleasant house 
near Sunset Boulevard, and Jacqueline 
found new interests in the neighborhood. All 
during that first year they were watching 
pennies, saving again for a trip to Mexico. 

They had no purpose in that second trip; it 
was simply a postponed date to keep. They 
made it in June, 1941—down the coast to 
Acapulco, inland to Taxco, Cuernavaca, 
Mexico City, and back through Nogales. 
When they arrived at their rented house at 
noon, Sunday, a long letter was waiting, from 
Chris’ mother. 

Lacy was off again. His complaints about 
the people at his jobs had grown, along with 
his self-tortures over girls, until he reached a 
crisis of self-loathing. He deliberately got 
drunk. He was terribly ill and abased with 

(Continued on Page 132) 


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(Continued from Page 130) 

shame, but the strain seemed broken—as 
from a purge. For a while he was all right. 
Then another crisis built into the current 
“spree,” longer and more violent than the 
first. Now he had lost his job. But he said 
the job had been at the root of his discon- 
tent—that and the lack of a girl. As of the 
time of the letter he was recuperating at 
home until he could look for a more congenial 
job. 

From that Sunday Chris could date the 
deterioration of their life in Hollywood. Of 
course, the war was coming, and both he and 
Jacqueline were irritated at the purblindness 
of their California friends. 

Chris resigned from the library and applied 
for a post in the history section of the War 
Department. Pearl Harbor had happened 
and everything was in flux, and another 
certainty was to be home for Christmas, 
maybe the last. But when they arrived, the 
real certainty was that Lacy had gone com- 
pletely out of control. 

The background explanations of two years 
ago were unneeded this time. Chris and 
Jacqueline listened to his mother, her voice 
low against the inner anguish, while Mike 
Mathers trudged in and out of the room like 
some tormented sentry. 

Since she wrote them in June, Lacy had 
been off again, staying away from home until 


November, 1949 


his money was gones Once he was sobered, 
and given another chance at his new job, the 
old cycle started with a new girl. This one 
seemed, even to Edith Mathers, to be really 
serious. Lacy had brought her by—a shy, 
pale girl, absorbed in religion. She induced 
Lacy to join a young people’s church. 
Then, several nights before Jacqueline 
and Chris arrived, Lacy made one of his fer- 
vent declarations to the girl. When she told 
him she wanted to be his friend in Christ, but 
was engaged to a ministerial student, Lacy 
became like a wild man. He went straight to 
the liquor store. Later he stormed into his 
office demanding the pay due him, so he could 
continue his debauch. Finally his father had 
traced him to a cheap rooming house. 
“There was some girl there,’ Edith 
Mathers said, and paused. ‘Apparently 
he passed himself off as a rich waster and 
they took all his money. Having lost his job, 
he went to the department stores where we 
have credit and charged expensive books. 
Those he took to a secondhand dealer and 
sold them for cash. Mike just found out.” 
Chris rose wearily. “I don’t know how 
to go about finding him, but I’ll talk to Doc- 
tor Beverly about what to do when we find 
him.” 
On the phone, the doctor told Chris he 
thought Lacy should be put away again. 
(Continued on Page 134) 




























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LADIES’ HOME- JOURNAL 135 


Mr. Henry’s office was neater and less] * 


gloomy. But Floyd Henry, looking as if he had 
gotten in there by mistake and uncomfort- 
ably aware of it, was a surprise. 

He had one of those serious and sensitive 
faces and his composure was a constant 
effort against shyness. He was about twenty- 
Six; everything about him was neat and fresh- 
looking. 

“Peg phoned me this morning and I’m 
certainly glad you’ve come. I'll tell you 
frankly, Mr. Mathers, we’re in trouble with 
Clyde Candless. Anything you can tell us 
will be a great help. Naturally I’ll work with 
you on your brother at the same time, though 
it’s not in our province.” 

_Chris tried a smile to put the boy more at 
his ease. “ You're the first person I’ve talked 
with in the ten years of my brother’s illness 
who was willing to do something outside his 
own province. Maybe we can get some- 
where.” 

Like many shy people who are embar- 
rassed by compliments, Floyd Henry took 
on a grave manner. “We can get somewhere 
if you recognize that your brother is sick. 
Clyde Candless is sick too. Together the 
two of them can be very dangerous. Peg tells 
me that your brother and Clyde left -the 
tavern together, both drunk, and then were 
put out of Clyde’s sister’s house.” 

“With my brother in possession of a gun. 
It was my father’s. I looked where it’s usually 
kept at my mother’s house, and it’s gone.” 

Floyd Henry frowned. ‘‘A gun,” he said. 
“Then we'll have to notify the police.” 

“T tried to get their help last night, but I 
didn’t tell them about the gun. With that, 
Lacy could be sent to the criminally insane 
hospital. He was there once, as a special pa- 
tient, and it did him no good. Now, if we’re 
going to help each other, let’s play along to- 
gether. You can cut out the psychiatric ver- 
biage and the generalities you hand out to 
the families of your parolees. I’ve been on 
Lacy’s case for ten years and I’ve talked to 
a lot of psychiatrists. I not only ‘recognize 
that he’s sick,’ but I’m working to protect 
him in his sickness because the state of Vir- 
ginia is not qualified to.” 

Floyd Henry turned. “I’m sorry, Mr. 
Mathers . . . but I do get used to dealing with 
families who have no understanding . . . and 
I am ina terrible spot. It was me who worked 
on Mr. Moncrief to parole Clyde Candless.”’ 


J ust to let the boy know that he was on 
the inside, Chris said, ‘“And Peg told me last 
night that Moncrief was a political ap- 
pointee. That’s why she suggested I see you 
instead of him.” 

“She wanted to protect me. You see, Mr. 
Moncrief was appointed to his job by a 
prominent man in the state machine, who 
wanted a cousin paroled from the peniten- 
tiary. I don’t think Mr. Moncrief relished 
the deal, and he wanted to prove that he was 
worth the job on his own merits. But he 
doesn’t know anything about the work, and 
he allowed himself to be persuaded by me be- 
cause he wanted a parolee who would make a 
news story.” 

“T gather from Carl Hasselman that it was 
a bigger story than you all expected.” 

“The police thought we were crazy. You 
know there’s a lot of opposition growing 
against the machine. If Candless backfired 
on us, Mr. Moncrief would have a lot of 
explaining to do to the big shots. So we’ve 
been trying to keep it from the police that 
he’s been breaking some of the conditions of 
his parole. But now ——” 

“What conditions did he break?” 

“He failed to report Friday. When we 
checked at his job, we found that he had quit 
without notifying us. We checked at his sis- 
ters’ on Monday and Tuesday, and they coy- 
ered for him. They said he was out looking 
for a new job, and they’d tell him to report. 
Then we checked in the neighborhood and 
found he had been going to Teddy’s Grill.” 

That explained Chris’ cold reception there. 

“Then we got scared because he had gotten 
drunk on beer once before, and immediately 
returned to his bad companions. By luck we 
caught him that other time and we should 
have put him back in. But he pled for an- 
other chance and told me—quite truly—that 


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his environment was against him. He was in 
a rooming house in a poor neighborhood, 
when he needed to be with a family. The only 
family he’s got here are his two sisters and 
brother-in-law. Helms hates him, but I per- 
suaded him to take Clyde in temporarily. Of 
course, Princess Anne is a bad neighborhood 
too. But they’re trying so hard to be respect- 
able people, and he loves his younger sister 
Joan.” 

Remembering that curious child, Chris 
asked, ‘‘ What is the family background?” 

““Couldn’t be worse. That’s what I based 
my parole plea on. It was a typical dislocated 
family. Here is a boy without education or 
trade, or even social responsibility, through 
no fault of his. We got him when we could, 
and we’ve only had a parole board in this 
state for less than ten years. And that’s han- 
dled by politics.” 

“How has Clyde Candless been doing on 
parole, before this second break?”’ 

“Fine. Here, I’ll show you.” He brought 
out a folder. ‘“‘“You can see he wants to ad- 
just, but hislifeis so pathetically empty ——” 
The phone rang. Floyd Henry shoved the 
open folder across the desk and said, “Look 
at it,” as he picked up the phone. 

When Chris saw the painful effort that 
had gone into the uneducated handwriting 
of Clyde Candless, 1n his weekly reports, the 
tensions of his own problem faded. He 
skimmed through the 
weekly notations on a 
man’s life in bondage 
to the law. 


Jake was moaning and groaning 


November, 1949 


“He was the one I was afraid of at first. 
He would look at Lacy and give a meaning 
grin, like there was some understanding be- 
tween them and he was waiting for a signal 
from Lacy to go ahead. And Lacy would grin 
back, as if he was saying—no, I didn’t imag- 
ine this—‘Isn’t she like I told you?’”’ 

She looked at Chris, seeking corroboration. 

His throat tight and choked, he said, 
“You weren’t imagining it.”” 


“WELL, after Candless finished eating, Lacy 
asked me outright for a drink. I naturally re- 
fused. He began to talk even more wildly— 
about how everybody was in a conspiracy to 
drag men like him down to the low level of 
the herd. The police were against him and in 
league with you, Chris, his worst enemy.” 

“TI know. Did he give any hint of where 
he might be hiding?” 

“Candless did.” 

“Where?” Floyd asked quickly. 

“T don’t know where. Candless kept wan- 
dering around the living room restlessly, as 
if he were waiting for Lacy to run down and 
get to the point. Then Candless saw over 
there’’—she gestured to the bookshelves— 
“the picture of Wade Moncrief. Instantly his 
face got hard and I’ve never looked into such 
cold eyes. He said, ‘So you know Moncrief? 
This is no place for me. Come on, Lacy.’”’ 

She studied both of them as she repeated 
Candless’ words, and 
Chris sensed that “So 
you know Moncrief?’’ 
were not the words 


Under week of April 


ninth: worked 45 
hours .. . earned 
DiS o Deen LAR OO, 


board .. . $3.30 lunches 
and bus fare . . . $10.00 
paid on clothes... . 

May seventh: worked 
40 hours... earned 
SSO800) a. ola 00 
board ... $2.90 lunches 
and bus fare.... Bought 
sister Joan new dress 
$7.95. . . . Paid den- 
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looth.... 

June fourth: worked 
24 hours... sick Fri- 
day and Saturday... . 


in his bed one night and his wife 
said, “Jake, what’s the matter? 
Go to sleep!” And Jake told her he 
owed his neighbor, Morris, $100 and 
he had to pay it in the morning and 
he didn’t have it, and he was so wor- 
ried he couldn’t sleep. So Jake’s wife 
went over and raised the window and 
called across the court, ‘“‘Morris! 
Morris! Wake up!’’—and Morris 
came to the window rubbing his eyes 
sleepily. ‘‘What is it? What’s the 
matter?’?’ And Jake’s wife called 
back, “I just want to tell you that 
Jake can’t pay you that $100 tomor- 
row. He ain’t got it!’’ Then she 
shut the window and said to her 
husband, ‘‘Go to sleep, Jake. Now 
Morris can worry.’’ —VALENTINA. 


which Clyde Candless 
had used. 

‘““Lacy evidently 
knew of Mr. Moncrief’s 
position,’”’ she went on, 
“for he immediately 
tried to assume a tough 
pose like Candless. He 
was saying something 
about, ‘They’ll have to 
come and get me,’ 
when Candless cut 


_ him off. That’s when 


he gave the hint. 

“He said, ‘ You’ve al- 
ready got us kicked 
out of a flop with my 
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(Probation Officer’s 
Notation: denies drinking beer again and los- 
ing time from hang-over. Warned.) 

Chris heard the phone click. Glancing up, 
he realized that Floyd Henry had said prac- 
tically nothing while he was reading the rec- 
ord. Henry was moving away from his desk. 

“That was Mr. Moncrief,’’ he said. ‘‘ Peg’s 
mother phoned him that your brother and 
Clyde Candless just left her apartment. They 
were drunk and looking for more alcohol. 
She was nearly in a state of collapse when 
she called, and Mr. Moncrief wants me to go 
right over. Will you come with me?” 


Ax Linda Sherrell’s apartment, the living 
room by morning had the same quality of re- 
pose as by evening. Against this background, 
Linda’s strain was embarrassingly apparent. 

“T didn’t think I’d be back so soon on 
the same errand,” Chris said. “‘I’m surprised 
Lucy came here. He knew Peg would be at 
work.” 

“He came to see me. That’s the surprising 
part. You know, we told you last night that 
the other time he was here he seemed over- 
excited.” 

He nodded. 

“Well, this time he was even less in con- 
trol. He kept smiling, while he ranted, as 
though he had some joke on me.” ; 

Chris had seen it all: the crafty, superio 
smile, the laughter without humor. He asked, 
“What did they want?” 

“Food, they said. I was frightened, be- 
cause I knew Clyde Candless was a danger- 
ous criminal. I made them bacon and eggs 
and toast. Lacy ate only the bacon, wolfing 
it, and asked for some coffee, while he kept 
looking around. I knew he was looking for 
liquor. The other man ate heartily, all his 
and Lacy’s too. He seemed soberer. He kept 
quiet and kept watching me, all the time. 


,99 


come on. 

Linda looked at them to see if she had 
helped. Floyd said, “Is that all?” 

“All that could help. Lacy tried to get the 
center of the stage again, but Candless 
started for the door. ‘All right,’ he said, “you 
stay here and play games. It’s no game with 
me.’ Then Lacy yelled, ‘Aw, take it easy, I’m 
coming.’ Then he grinned at me in a way 
completely unlike himself. “I’ll be back— 
Linda.’ He’d never called me that before. 

“They left and I went to the window and 
saw them hurrying to the corner. They 
turned north, toward Chesterfield.” 

“Chesterfield!’’ Floyd exclaimed. 

Chris knew Lacy wouldn’t venture on the 
main shopping street. He said, “They'll 
cross Chesterfield, into the District.” 

““Candless has no Negro friends that we 
know of,” Floyd said. 

“But Lacy thinks he has—some of mine. 
We'd better get right over there.” 


kk * 


By some juxtaposition of memory, Lacy’s 
stay at the camp was blurred in Chris’ mind 
with his own early period in the Pentagon. 

It was between Christmas and New Year’s 
Eve, and nobody in the family could bear to 
think of Lacy waiting in the jail until a wag- 
onload of criminals was formed for the trip 
from Richmond to the camp. From Judge 
Randolph’s court Chris got an order which 
permitted him to deliver Lacy to the camp. 

The shame was still raw, and Chris would 
turn to none of his friends for help. He 
turned to a Negro, Stickpin Turner, whom 
he had known longer than anyone in Rich- 
mond outside his family. 

Stickpin’s mother had worked for Chris’ 
Uncle Custis, in the days when many colored 
servants lived on the lot. As Stickpin was no 

(Continued on Page 138) 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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(Continued from Page 136) 
more than a year older than Chris, the two 
boys became playmates. He and Stickpin, 
going their divergent ways, kept their con- 
tact. 

When Chris ‘was in college, Stickpin be- 
came a numbers writer. When Chris came 
back to Richmond from New York, Stickpin 
was becoming a big shot in the numbers 
racket. 

They had called him Stickpin when he was 
a boy because of his lean height; but as he 
grew into manhood, he filled out along such 
heroic lines that “‘Stickpin”’ seemed like one 
of those reverse nicknames. 

The last time they had met, before Chris 
went to California, Stickpin had taken him 
into the Negro district to show Chris the 
world of Second Street, the Black Broadway 
of the South. 

He said, “Mr. Mathers, you all been good 
to my mother and you always acted like a 
friend to me. You're 
a white man, and I 


November, 1949 


“T just told you.” 

“Yeh, you told me.” The pig eyes glanced 
around at the audience. “I don’t know who 
you are, and who this man with you is. You 
might be Lacy Mathers, trying to put your 
brother away in your place.” 

Chris reached in his back pocket for his 
wallet, and flipped it open. “There’s my ap- 
pointment to the War Department.” 


Tie brutal eyes flicked the document. 
“Maybe you are who you say you are, but I 
still don’t have any order from the judge.” 
“All right. Then will you put into writing 
that you refuse to accept my brother, and 
I’ll take your refusal back to the court and . 
my brother back to jail. I’ve got to get on to 
Washington.” 
“You must know the judge pretty well.” 
Then Chris understood the plot of the 
show. Major Lassiter was jealous of his 
authority. ‘““You’ve got me wrong,” Chris 
said. “I don’t even 
know the judge’s first 


can’t feel to you like KEK ket ke Ke EOE name. The only time 


I do towards colored 
people, but you ain’t 
never done anything 
to make me feel that 
difference. I feel like 
a friend of yours. If 
ever you need me for 
anything, I’d like to 


get a chance to show fee dowe 


ullih 


By Nellie Burget Miller 


I ever saw him was 
two days ago.” 
“Then you’re not 
one of the judge’s 
sailboating friends?” 
“T’m not any- 
body’s sailboating 


Grandmother asked to have the friend.” 


“Okay, I'll take 


you.” From the high shelf where they had your brother in.” 


Delivering Lacy to 
the Camp, thirty 
miles north of Rich- 
mond, wasthechance. 
Stickpin came 
through as everybody 


and she must 


man-grown, 


would like to think Piled them beside her chair, with 


gathered dust, 
Unopened. Now space was needed 


Sort out the trash to burn. Her son, 


Chris said, “Thank 
you, major.” 

He turned to his 
brother. Lacy stood 
motionless and ex- 
pressionless, his pale 
eyes blank. Chris 


of his friends’ coming basket near held out his hand. 
through. Stickpin had To catch the discard. Thin fingers When Lacy ‘shook 
no car and could not broke the strings hands, he gave a 
drive. For transpor- And let the musty smell of shut-up slight smile, which 
tation, he was served things seemed to come from 


by his satellites as ex- Creep out: A christening robe, full, some infinite knowl- 


temporaneous chauf- 


Chris’ to the Camp, on by hand; 


Stickpin arranged «Award of Merit” for fourth-grade 


with Chris to pay ten 
dollars to the driver— 
in this case a lieuten- 
ant named Brother 
Tyler. 

When the car eased 
to a stop, Stickpin 
lumbered out. Chris 


proficiency 
oversea; 


Sands sat 


Lacy moved between 
them, attenuated and 
tentative. Stickpin 
formed an escort to 
the door of the house. 
Then he stood aside, while Chris ushered 
his brother into the office. 

In the hot, small office, four men fixed on 
them four pairs of inimical eyes. 

Chris opened his topcoat, fumbled the 
court order out from his inside pocket, and 
said,“ May I see Major Lassiter? I’ve brought 
my brother up.” 


A srurAaL-FACED man reached for the papers 
and, after a glance, said, ““You’re the one 
who came in that two-toned car?” 

“TJ hired their car to bring us here.” 

Major Lassiter looked at his stooges. They 
grinned in expectation. 

“T can’t,” he said, “‘take this man here on 
any such order as this.” 

Knowing the man hadn’t even read the 
order, Chris said, ““What’s wrong with the 
order?” 

“We don’t take our prisoners in, brought 
up in cars with chauffeurs and bodyguards.” 

Chris began to see what was bothering 
Major Lassiter. He said, “‘But the court 
granted me the order because my brother is 
not acriminal. He’s an inebriate, incarcerated 
by his family for his own good. As we made 
the only charges, the court thought we might 
handle it.” : 

Leaning back, his thumbs caught in his 
belt, Major Lassrter said, “I don’t know 
that.” 


chat long and sheer, 
feurs. For a trip like With yards of filmy lace, whipped 


In spelling; letters, War One, from 

A dried corsage; a bottle of colored 

She lifted them out, then put them 
back with care, 


followed him and And firmly said, “There was no 
rubbish there.” 


KK KKK KK Oe 


edge of and detached 
bitterness at his fel- 
lows’ absurdities. 

During the months 
which followed, Chris 
came to Richmond 
often alone. Jacque- 
line had been away 
from her own home 
nearly three years, 
and she was making 
trips to New York. 
There was nothing 
wrong between them, 
except Washington. 

They lived in a 
one-plus-room apart- 
ment in a small apart- 
ment hotel. No real cooking could be done 
inside, and dining out was expensive. They 
operated on a theoretical schedule of electric- 
grill suppers at the apartment alternating be- 
tween expeditions for reasonably priced res- 
taurants. But with new friends they had too 
many cocktail dates at the Mayflower and 
Statler, with the consequence of too many 
electric-grill suppers. Their actual schedule 
became something like two weeks together 
in Washington, and Jacqueline two weeks in 
New York. For those week ends Chris went 
home. 

He was there when the news came of 
Lacy’s treatment at the Camp. 

It was brought by a paroled prisoner 
named Todd. He kept saying, at first, 
“There’s nothing in it for me. I’m just com- 
ing because Lacy asked me to and he’s a nice 
fellow. He don’t deserve what he’s getting.” 

“But what is it?’’ Edith Mathers asked in 
a voice strained and low. 

“Have a drink,” Chris said, ‘‘and sit down 
and tell us about it.” 

That was what Todd wanted. To make it 
sociable, Chris made himself a highball. Todd 
looked less haggard, sitting down with his 
drink. He even gave a transient smile and 
then turned grave again. 

“Well, I got to know Lacy up at the Camp, 
and I could see right away he wa’n’t like the 

(Continued on Page 140) 








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(Continued from Page 138) 

other fellows. Most of them are real criminals, 
some hard cases. I’m what they call an in- 
ebriate, like Lacy. Don’t think giving me this 
drink is go’ start me off again. The drinking 
that gets me in trouble creeps up on me when 
things keep going wrong. That’s the way 
Lacy told me it was with him, but he don’t 
belong up there. They treat you all like dirt. 
Now, Lacy is skinny, and they got him 
working out there in the fields, standing in 
the mud and slush.” 

Chris said, “The judge said they wanted 
to make a man of him.” 

Todd looked directly at Chris for the first 
time. ““They’ll make a criminal out of him. 
Lacy’s a decent boy, and smart. I never heard 
anybody talk like him. But you know what 
they did when he complained about shoes? 
The guard, Dixon, he cursed him from—from 
here to there. When Lacy answered him, 
Dixon pushed him so hard that Lacy fell 
down. Then he waved his billy at Lacy, and 
told him if he opened his yap again he’d 
close it—but good. And he would have. He 
beat a prisoner to death last year.” 

Mike Mathers pushed away from his wife’s 
chair. “‘Son,”’ he shouted to Chris. 

Edith Mathers reached up, placing her 
hand on his arm. Even now her pride held 
command. She gestured with her head toward 
Chris, turning the situation over to him. 

Chris said, ‘That certainly isn’t what he 
was sent there for. I’m not going to have him 
mistreated. There must be somebody to talk 
to, if I have to go to the governor.” 

“That professor you had at college, Wey- 
mouth A. Jones,” his mother said, “he’s on 
tae new parole department here.” 

“He might tell me who to see,” Chris said. 

Weymouth A. Jones had been a psychol- 
ogy professor and Chris had taken two of 
his classes. Later, when Chris and Jacqueline 
lived in Richmond, they had entertained the 
Joneses and dined with them. They reached 
the phase of first names and stopped there 
because Jacqueline found Jones too clumsily 
ambitious. 

Weymouth Jones’ voice came across the 
wire. “Why, Chris Mathers.” There was an 
oiliness in his cordiality. ‘‘ Doctor Beverly told 
me you were in Washington. Shall I see you 
while you’re here?” 

“T’m going back tonight, Weymouth, and 
I’m sorry to have to tell you that I’m really 
calling for advice from you in your new offi- 
cial capacity. It is about my brother.” 

“Tm terribly sorry, Chris. What is it?” 


THe sympathy seemed real enough. For- 
getting his reservations about the professor, 
Chris poured out the story. He said, “I know 
Carter Oldham and I think he could get me 
to the governor, if that’s necessary. But I 
thought you might know a simpler way.” 

“T think there is a simpler way, Chris. I 
have nothing to do with the penal system, 
but I work very closely with the man who 
does. I’d like to take you into his office and 
mention your connections here—like Doctor 
Beverly and Carter Oldham—and I im- 
agine he’ll be glad to take steps short of 
your going to the governor.” 

Chris said, “I can report late tomorrow to 
Washington, if I can see him first thing in the 
morning.” 

“Oh, you can see him at nine sharp.” 

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate 
this.” 

“Show me. Have supper with us tonight. I 
want to know what’s going on in Washing- 
ton.” 


What happened to Lacy was not what the 
family wanted at all. Weymouth Jones had 
done a complete job on his associate in the 
penal system. The scare thrown into him was 
quickly transmitted to Major Lassiter, and 
Lacy suddenly became not only a privileged 
inmate, but a hot potato. He was given office 
work, everybody coddled him, and they 
couldn’t wt to get him out. 

He was released in early summer, and the 
one noticeable change in him was a touch of 
Todd’s bleak wisdom in his eyes. 


In the Pentagon, Chris encountered Dr. 
Henry J. Vincent, whom he had known 


November, 1949 


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141 


slightly at college. Doctor Vincent had been 
getting his experience at Lakeview, the 
Richmond sanitarium for the rich, when the 
war came and he went in the Army Medical 
Corps. He believed in psychiatry with the 
faith of the old-fashioned healers. 

Eager for knowledge to apply tohisbrother, 
Chris listened to the doctor’s stream of 
case histories, trying to find illustrations that 
fitted Lacy. The one certainty Chris grasped 
was the powerful motivation of self-pity in 
the unbalanced. 

Harry Vincent said, “All such individuals 
have a marked capacity for rationalizing, for 
self-justification. The way Lacy complains of 
his lacks—money, clothes, friends, position 
in general—without any apparent realization 
of his acts’ having caused his situation, fits 
completely into the psychotic’s pattern.” 

“But is Lacy a psychotic?” 

“No one could tell you that without ex- 
amining the patient. Why don’t you take him 
to a psychiatrist in Richmond, like Doctor 
Lancaster at Lakeview?” 

“T can’t force Lacy to go unless I’m con- 
vinced, myself, that he is mentally sick.” 

“From what you tell me, it seems clear 
that he is a pathological personality. Natu- 
rally, I can’t assure you that he is—or what 
form of pathology—without seeing him, and 
it is an expensive proposition to take on un- 
less you’re convinced that psychiatry is what 
he needs. Maybe the best way for you to as- 
sure yourself is to read a couple of books. I 
can suggest some—and they might help an- 
swer your questions. If you assure yourself 
that he is mentally ill, then you can get him 
to Doctor Lancaster. I’ll be glad to give you 
an introduction.”’ 


‘ A beautiful woman pleases the 
eye, a good woman pleases the 
heart; one is a jewel, the other a 
treasure. —NAPOLEON. 


Lacy refused to see Doctor Lancaster, even 
for an interview. On the basis of Harry Vin- 
cent’s introductory letter, Chris had a long 
conversation with the doctor over the phone. 

Doctor Lancaster said, ‘‘Mr. Mathers, it’s 
been my experience that you will waste effort 
and money to try to give treatment to an in- 
dividual who doesn’t want it. As with any 
other illness, before he can be cured the pa- 
tient must first recognize that he is sick and 
take such measures as are indicated in order 
to regain health.” 


kk * 


All these episodes from Lacy’s past had 
come to blur into the present, a single stream 
running across time. The remembered hopes 
of yesterday formed one reality with the 
repetitious burden of the search on this hot 
July morning, in Floyd Henry’s car, driving 
into the Negro district. 

Floyd suddenly slowed the car and cried, 
“There’s a white man!” 

Chris saw the flashily dressed bruiser 
lounging in the shade of an alley. It was 
Country Spence, a plain-clothes detective 
Chris had gotten to know through Lacy. He 
leaned out and yelled, ““Hey, Country.” 

The blank eyes nodded without smiling, 
and the car eased on past him. 

“If he’d seen my brother, he’d have told 
me,”’ Chris said. ‘“He’s a good guy.” 

They were moving along Hanover Street. 
After passing Country Spence, they did not 
see a white person. Alleys sliced through the 
middle of each block, and Chris looked into 
them all. 

He said, “‘Let’s move over to Second Street. 
That’s where my friends are.” 

Floyd swung the car into a side street. “I 
hope your friends are not in any of those 
hot spots.” 

“T’m afraid they run them. But I don’t see 
why you should mind entering in an official 
capacity.” 

Floyd laughed uncomfortably. “Officially 
the hot spots don’t exist.” 

“‘That’s for the police, not you.” 

They swung into famous Second Street, a 
broad and dingy stretch of low buildings with 








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a sense of hordes of dark people in motion- 
less congregation. 

Chris said, “We pull up here.” 

Floyd maneuvered the car in to the curb 
in front of a crowded and seedy-looking store. 
Heat waves rose from the brick sidewalk. 
Chris saw Floyd—his bow tie bright above 
his fresh shirt—looking like a tourist in a 
strange city, and uncomfortably aware of it. 

Chris guided Floyd toward a gloomy and 
anonymous corner building whose glass 
windows were painted an opaque gray. “All 
I want you to understand,” he said, “‘is that 
this man we’re going to meet here is a friend 
of mine.” He led the way through a ram- 
shackle doorway. It opened into a poolroom. 

Chris could see on Floyd the shock of sud- 
denly being inside the black world at play in 
its own background, with no awareness of the 
white. Then from the back, where a doorway 
opened onto the bar, a giant brown man 
lunged toward them. 

Stickpin now carried 265 pounds, solid, on 
his six-foot-four frame, and all of him was in 
proportion. 

“T expected to see you over here, Mr. 
Mathers,”’ he said. 

Chris hesitated over the introductions. 
“Mr. Turner” would seem unnatural, but 
Chris refused to introduce Stickpin by his 
first name, as Southern whites introduce their 
Negro servants. 

“Floyd Henry,” he said, ‘‘I want you to 
meet my friend, Stickpin Turner.” 

“How’re you, Mr. Henry?” Stickpin said. 

“T’m pleased to meet you,” Floyd an- 
swered, and managed a little smile. 

Free of the amenities, Chris turned to 
Stickpin. ““You’ve seen Lacy?” 

“Brother Tyler saw him half an hour ago. 
Come on have a drink.” 

“Do you know where he is?” 

With vast and pretended patience, Stick- 
pin asked, ‘‘ Would I be asking you to have a 
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In the deflation of his brief hope, Chris 
sighed. “I can use one. What’ll you have, 
Stickpin?’’ One thing Chris had learned: no 
matter on whose ground you were, or who was 
theoretically host, the white man bought. 

“The same,”’ Stickpin said to the bar- 
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Chris, ‘“What’ll you have, Mr. Mathers?” 

“Bourbon and water with ice.” 

Chris perceived that Stickpin was waiting 
on some clarification of Floyd. He said, ‘‘My 
friend here is interested in Lacy too. Where 
did Brother Tyler see him?” 

“He saw him and another fellow two 
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“‘Cops been in and out of here all day, and 
that detective, Country Spence, has been 
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looking for Lacy. I do know they ain’t no 
colored fellows they’re looking for.” 

Floyd looked sick. ‘“‘Do you suppose 
they’ve heard about Candless?” 

Suddenly there was no sound in the bar. 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Well,” Chris said, “they’ve only a little 
start. We'll work back toward town. Thank 
you, Stickpin.” 

“You know what I’ 'd do for you,” the big 
Negro said, “but ” He glanced at Floyd 
with troubled and reproachful eyes. 

“T know.” 

A white criminal in the District struck at 
every security of Stickpin’s position. Under 
existing circumstances, there was a tacit 
agreement between the illegal operators in 
the District and the police. As the commis- 
sioner, Carl Hasselman, had told Chris, it 
was not possible to force Negroes to stop 
drinking and meeting in public places, gam- 
bling and playing numbers. All they could 
do was to leave open places—such as Chris 
and Floyd were in now—which the police 
could depend upon to be operated in a quiet 
and orderly manner; and to keep numbers 
writing under responsible people like Stick- 
pin, representing in the District the local 
syndicate, in turn a part of a regional chain. 
The open places were “supervised” by po- 
licemen and detectives. Though all very cozy 
on the surface, this was a hairline balance 
which could easily be disturbed. 

Stickpin had needed only Floyd’s one un- 
guarded blunder to know that a parolee from 
the penitentiary, like Clyde Candless, was 
making trouble when he drank with an es- 
capee from a state institution. In their words, 
Candless and—now—Lacy were hot. They 








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represented news, the searchlight of the pub- 
lic on their actions. If that searchlight fol- 
lowed them into the District, it would reveal 
Stickpin’s shadow world too. That would be 
the end of their agreement with the police. 

Nodding to Floyd, Chris said to Stickpin, 
“He’s all right. Don’t worry. Nobody will 
ever know Candless was over here with 
Lacy—unless they’re caught here.” 

Stickpin nodded, but his eyes didn’t clear. 

Chris could only say, as he had to so many 
other people on so many other occasions, 
“T’m sorry Lacy came over here, Stickpin. 
We'll get right after him.” 

In the car again, Chris said, ““We-might 
try the Candless house. That girl, Joan, is 
the kind Lacy would see when he’s actually 
off.” 

Floyd drove across Commerce and entered 
the borderland of South Princess Anne Street. 
The once fashionable street looked sinister by 
daylight. 

The car came to a halt in front of 325, two 
doors above the Candless house. As Chris, 
with his hand on the handle, glanced to the 
house where he had been last night, a young 
girl ran through the vestibule and onto the 
porch. She paused at the top of the steps, 
and he recognized Joan Candless. 

Calling to Floyd, ‘Come on,” Chris 
plunged from the car. His movements at- 
tracted the attention of Joan, and she hur- 
ried to meet him. 

“Oh, Mr. Mathers,” she cried, “I was 
coming to try to get in touch with you. 
They’ve just left. My sister made them go!”’ 

Floyd ran up beside her. “Which way did 
they go?” 

“Through the back. Some people who 
knew Clyde had seen him and ——” 

“Can you show us which way?” 

She nodded, a little uncertainly. ““We can 
go back through the hall of the house, but 
your car should be locked.” 

“Go ahead,” Floyd said, moving beside 
her toward the brick walk across the yard. 

They followed Joan through the wide hall- 
way, and she opened the rear door onto the 
balcony. Now Chris glimpsed a maze of 
debris which obscured even the outlines of 
the old yards. 

Floyd gave only the slightest pause. 
“Which way?” he asked. 

Joan pointed toward an opening between 
one of the empty outbuildings and a half- 
standing brick wall. “Through there—then 








143 





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you go through the back lots to the next 
street. Cross that street and go through some- 
body’s back yard, and you come out at a 
slope with junk on it. At the bottom of that 
is a street with no houses—none that any- 
body lives in, anyway—and that’s where 
they’re heading.”” 

Floyd was already at the bottom of the 
steps. ““Do you know where they were going 
on that street?”’ 

“To some friends of Clyde’s where they’ve 
already been, and they must’ve planned to 
stay on that street, because Clyde laughed 
and said, ‘They’d never think of looking for 
us on Jailhouse Drive.’ They call it that be- 
cause it winds around back of the peniten- 
tiary.” 

“Thank you,” Floyd said. 

Chris looked back at Joan. ‘‘We’ll let you 
know how we make out.” 

“You’d better hurry,” she said. 

His reassuring smile faded as he turned 
and got the full impact of the smells. Then, 
in the back yard below, two tough-looking 
punks in brightly colored T shirts stood with 
their arms folded. 

“You guys looking for something?” 

“Youre right,” Chris said. ‘“‘We’re from 
the parole office and we’re looking for 
Clyde Candless. Do you want to help?” 

Neither of them spoke until Floyd and 
Chris drew abreast. Then the bigger one 
said, ‘““Never heard of 
him, but you’re in our 
back yard.” 

“We're just passing 
through,” Chris said, 
and followed Floyd 
into an alley between 
two houses. 

They emerged on the 
street, well down on the 
slope below Princess 
Anne. An enormous 
dog menaced their way 
between the two houses 
across from them. Floyd 
veered farther up, and found a narrower al- 
ley. Chris followed. As he climbed over a 
pile of cans and bottles, his sweat-blurred 
vision glimpsed Floyd, pausing on the edge 
of a weedy lot. Below curved the deserted 
street which Lacy’s new friend called Jail- 
house Drive. . 

When Chris panted up beside him, Floyd 
said, ‘‘I’ve been here before. If we hurry up 
to that curve, we can see the street for a cou- 
ple of blocks ahead—where it passes by the 
penitentiary wall.” 

Chris nodded, and Floyd launched off 
through the weeds. He stopped again, ten 
feet ahead. He was staring up the road, 
around the curve where Chris couldn’t see. 
But Chris needed only to see Floyd. He 
forgot himself in seeing the defeat on the 
boyish face. 

Floyd turned back to Chris. ‘‘We could go 
on to the top of the hill. That’s where houses 
begin again.” 


» 


You 


Curis nodded. They started up the slope 
of the empty street. On one side*loomed the 
white walls of the penitentiary. Then Chris 
knew why he was on this chase. It was his 
mother’s fear that the real prison would be 
Lacy’s next stop. His mother had spoken the 
truth when she said, ‘‘When they take him 
there, they’ll have to take me to the cem- 
etery.” 

He and Floyd emerged on the flat of the 
broad street at the top of the hill. Before 
them stretched rows of small frame houses. 
The streets were empty, save for a lone old 
Negro woman. 

“They could be in any of those houses,” 
Floyd said, ‘“‘and not one person would ad- 
mit ever having seen them. Well, I’ll have to 
tell Mr. Moncrief to notify the police that 
Candless has broken parole.”’ 

While he and Chris waited on each other 
for the word to start back, an old-model blue 
sedan bore down on them, its horn blasting. 
From an open front window, Joan Candless 
was waving frantically. A young woman 
driver did a rough and expert job of jamming 
to a stop. 

Joan cried, ‘Did you see them?” 

Floyd shook his head. 


Every twenty-four hours— 

Your heart beats 103.689 times. 

Your blood travels 168,000,000 miles. 

You breathe 23,240 times. 

You eat 314 pounds of food. 

You turn in your sleep 25-35 times. 

You speak 4800 words. 

exercise 7,000,000 brain cells. 
—QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS, 

25th series (Haldeman-Julius). 









































November, 1949 


Joan said, ‘Those two boys you all talked 
to—they came up to the house to warn me 
and my sister that you were looking for 
Clyde.” 

“Do they know where he went?” 

“No, but they’d seen them go through a 
few minutes before you all.” 

“T shouldn’t have blurted out that we 
were parole officers,” Chris said. 

“They’d have jumped you if you hadn’t.” 


‘Tue other girl said, with a flat, familiar 
hatred, ‘Clyde is a hero to punks like that. 
All of them are againstsanything decent and 
nice. I’m always after Joan here for believing 
in Clyde ——’”” 

“Now, Midge.” e 

“Well, it’s true. Every time Clyde works 
up toa place where he could get somewheres, 
he begins to complain at how hard things are 
for him, and what he has to do without.” 

“That’s just when he gets down.” 

Interrupting the argument of the girls, 
Chris asked, “Joan, when Clyde began to 
get down this time, did he say there was no 
use in trying to be like the others?” 

“Well’’—her voice made the word a re- 
luctant admission—“‘after he quit his job 
Friday, he did say he was entitled to some 
fun. He said they’’—she glanced at Floyd— 
“didn’t understand that nobody could just 
work and save all the time.” 

““Some excuse,’’ 
Midge started, but 
Chris went on. ; 

“Ts that when he 
started drinking at 
Teddy’s Grill?” 

“No, he started over 
the week end with some 
of his old friends, but 
they were scared of him 
when he began to get 
tight, and he came 
home. He was trying 
to sober up then—that 
was Sunday night— 
and talked about reporting to the parole 
office Monday. But my sister’s hushand 
began nagging Midge to put him out. That 
was when Clyde went to Teddy’s Grill. He 
was just drinking beer by himself until he 
met Lacy there.” 

‘Had they known each other before?” 
Chris asked. 

“T found out today that they met in jail.” 

“IT see. Do you suppose these friends of 
Clyde’s, where he went over the week end, 
are where he and Lacy are now?” 

“‘T know they’re not the same friends. The 
others lived in our old neighborhood, and 
those near here . . . I think are planning 
something.” 

Floyd roused. ‘‘ What do you mean—plan- 
ning something?” 

‘“Well, Clyde and Lacy had been there be- 
fore, and they had to leave because Lacy 
talked too much. But Lacy had quieted down 
when they came by the house awhile ago and 
Clyde—from what he said—is going tc 
throw in with the others on some deal. He 
was angry when he said that to Midge, 
but ——” 

Chris said, “‘That ties in with what Linda 
Sherrell told us. They went to her house and 
then to the District to get whisky. When 
they couldn’t get any, all the walking quieted 
Lacy down but determined Clyde to go 
whole hog, not fool around any more.” 

“That’s right, Mr. Mathers,” Joan said. 
“Your brother was not so—so high as the 
other night; and Clyde was disappointed in 
him. Lacy was telling Clyde he’d show him, 
though.” , 

Chris felt the constriction in his dia- 
phragm as he forced himself not to glance 
over his shoulder at the penitentiary. — 


kk & 


The threat of imprisonment had never 
checked Lacy’s downward spiral. It had only 
hurt his family. 

Mike Mathers at seventy had become a 
sicker man than any of them realized. But 
if his wife asked after his feelings, he grew 
indignant. ‘‘ Nothing wrong with me. I’mjust 
getting old.” 

(Continued on Page 146) 


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(Continued from Page 144) 

It was a day of sticky oppressive heat 
when Lacy did not come home. At the time, 
as a result of his latest public episode, he was 
on suspended sentence to Flat Rock—the 
institution for the criminally insane—and 
his parents had watched this break coming 
with more than usual apprehension. Mike 
Mathers roamed through the house, back to 
the kitchen where his wife was keeping the 
supper warm and out to the front porch to 
stare hopelessly up and down the street. 

“T’ve got to find him.” 

“But, Mike, you don’t know where to be- 
gin.” 

“T know all his places. I’ll go to them all.” 

Mike came back earlier than Edith Math- 
ers had expected. He came back because he 
was worn out. He went straight to bed. 

Next morning he left the house after 
breakfast, continuing his search. By the 
third night, when Mike staggered in, he was 
like a hysterically drunken man himself. He 
fell into bed and could not sleep. He got up 
and paced around the dark house. Then he 
came back into the dim bedroom. He stood 
over the still form of his wife in the bed. 

“T’ve been a sorry husband,” he said, ‘“‘a 
poor kind of man. I’ve taken you for granted, 
Edith, without appreciating you. It was 
hard to be cut down the way I was by the 
corporation. I prayed for God to make me a 
better man in my misfortunes. But it looked 
like I leaned too much on the idea of God’s 
creatures worshiping Him according to their 
natures. I’m go’ pray again now. I’m going 
in the front room, where it’s cooler, and I 
won’t bother you any more.” 


Curis reached Richmond at one o'clock 
the next afternoon. The house was full of 
kinspeople. Because Mike’s lifeless body lay 
in a funeral home, the clans gathered—close 
in death, as life could not bring them. 

“Where is Lacy?” 

They all seemed more concerned over Lacy 
than over his mother, who had found her 
husband dead gn the sofa when she went in 
at daylight, on awakening and finding that 
he had not come to bed. But she was the only 
one except Aunt Theresa who could tell them 
Lacy’s whereabouts. In the midst of calling 
her closest kinswomen, she had been called 
by the county jail. They had picked up Lacy 
in county jurisdiction. 

Aunt Theresa had assumed control of the 
house and the funeral arrangements, and she 
told Chris there was nothing he could do, ex- 
cept arrange for Lacy to attend his father’s 
funeral. 

The county jail was cleaner and smaller 
than the city jail, but the shock to Chris 
was the same. 

He had just brought himself under outer 
control when a sheepish guard was bringing 
Lacy through the barred doors into the small 
room where Chris waited. In his rumpled 
slacks and dirty tan shirt, Lacy looked like 
a criminal. 

“T suppose,” 
father’s dead.” 

Lacy nodded. 

“Do you want to come to the funeral? 
It'll be tomorrow.” 


Chris said, “you know your 


“T ought to be out of here tomorrow. The 


jailer said the only charge they’ll put against 
me can be cleared up with a ten-dollar fine. 
He said the county cops who picked me 
up will just make a drunken charge, now 
that my father’s dead.” 

Chris felt the muscles in his stomach lock 
as he struggled to control his voice. ‘“Who’s 
going to pay the fine, now that your father’s 
dead?” 

“Somebody will turn up, I reckon.” 

“You reckon wrong. You’re on suspended 
sentence from Flat Rock, and you were told 
that getting drunk once would send you 
there. You’ve made your choice and you’re 
going to take the consequences.” 

Lacy looked at him in cold hostility. “‘ Just 
because I happened to give myself one relief, 
when by coincidence a 

“It wasn’t one relief. I found out this 
morning you’ve had two or three ‘reliefs’ 
before. I’ve held back my natural feelings for 
ten years, but when you kill your father 32 

“T didn’t kill my father.” 








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“T don’t know that, and I’m not going to 
argue about it. I came here to ask you if you 
wanted to go to your father’s funeral. They'll 
let you out with a guard.” 

“T don’t want people to see me with any 
guard, like I’m a convict.” , 

“What do you think you are?” 

Lacy just stared at him, the thin derisive 
smile returning. 

Chris felt fury rising in him like hysteria. 
He turned away toward the outer door. 
Through the bars he saw two jailers in the 
office. He drew a long breath, and half turned. 

“T take it, then, you don’t want to come to 
your father’s funeral.’ 

*““Want’ is not the word. But if I’ve got to 
come with a guard and the way I’m 
dressed . . . I haven’t even the money to pay 
for a shave.” 

“Tl get you a razor in here, if you’ll cut 
your throat with it.” 

The eyes flickered in hollow amusement. 
“Are you kidding?” 

“Why should I be kidding? What good are 
you to yourself or anybody else?” 

“Heh!” The heavy voice broke into Chris’ 
hysteria from behind. He turned and saw the 
jailer hurrying toward him. ‘‘ You can’t talk 
to a prisoner like that.” 

“He was my brother, God help me, before 
he was a prisoner.” 

“Yeh, he told me what kind of brother you 
were. You took all your family’s money for 
your education so he couldn’t get any. You 
married a rich woman and live in New York 
and California, leaving your poor family for 
him to look after. And you’re so jealous of 
him that you put him away in institutions 
every time he takes a couple more than he 

‘should. There might’ve 
been two sides to that, 
but I heard what you was 
telling him.” 

“All right, you heard. 
Now I’m such a mean fel- 
low that I’m going to put 
him in another institution, 
the worst yet—Flat Rock. 
I’m going to do it because my rich wife is go- 
ing to buy off the judges and the governor, 
and if you don’t look out, we’ll buy this jail, 
too, just to put you out of work.” 

The jailer began to look baffled. He opened 
the door slowly, glancing at the other jailer. 
The second one said, ‘‘Maybe they’re both 
crazy.” 

Walking out into the cement-floored hall- 
way, Chris said, “Oh, no, that’s not your 
mistake. You'll find out your real mistake 
later. I’m the crazy one, but I’ve made people 
think that he’s me.” 


Lyinc on the bed in Lacy’s room, with the 
door closed behind him, Chris began to fear 
that he could not get himself in hand. The 
weeping had begun in the taxi coming from 
the county jail to his parents’ house. When 
he entered the houSe, he hurried back to- 
ward the little room. As he was closing 
the door, stray words of someone told him 
that the death guests thought him “‘up- 
set over his father.’’ He was, but that wasn’t 
all. He was upset for his mother, too, and 
that wasn’t all. It was Lacy who aggravated 
and magnified the sorrow for the old man, 
and the effect of his death on their mother. 
But finally it was Lacy. 

He saw the sweet-natured boy warped and 
driven by a demon, as his mother said, isolat- 
ing the defeated old man and the broken 
woman in their lonely little household. Now, 
in the hour of death, the son was continuing 
his round of institutions. And the man, 
whose body was no longer in the house, was 
robbed of the dignity of death as he had been 
robbed in life of the rewards earned for his 
old age. 

Chris started up from the bed. He realized 
the knock on the door had sounded before. 

Aunt Theresa said, ‘Doctor Beverlyis here. 
He’s given your mother a sedative, and he 
wants to see you.” 

“T’'ll be out in a*minute.’’ He stood up 
slowly. He felt no shame for his outburst. 

Charles Beverly was waiting in the front 
hall. He smiled as he offered his thick hand. 
“Glad you got down here so fast. Your 
wife here?”’ 


Snare 
Whoever still argues at 40 


has never loved truth. 


—ANDRE MAUROIS: 
Conversation. (E. P. Dutton). 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“No, she’s coming later.” 

“T think your father went the way he 
would’ve liked to.” 

“T hope so. I couldn’t imagine him sick.” 

“It’s your mother we’ve got to worry 
about now. Your aunt tells me that Lacy isin 
the county jail.” 

“They have him on a drunken charge, and 
they’ll turn him loose with a fine. But he’s 
got this suspended sentence from Flat 
Rock.” 

“He ought to go there. Your mother 
couldn’t stand him now. She’s going to break 
completely when this is over, and it’ll take a 
while to build her back up.” 


I tor Lacy that, but I was mad when I 
said it. The shame of having him in Flat 
Rock might be worse on mother than having 
him out.” 

“That is a consideration, but for his own 
good he should be put away. These episodes 
are coming with increased frequency. He’s 
sick and needs help.” 

“But he’s never gotten any in any institu- 
tion before, and we certainly wouldn’t have 
the money now to put him in a private one.” 

“TI don’t think that would help him any 
more than Flat Rock. There’s a very good 
psychiatrist there, named Coburn. I was 
wrong on old Doctor St. Johns, up at Green 
Valley Springs. He’d become senile. But 
Coburn is young and a progressive man. I’ll 
tell you who knows ‘him personally—your 
friend, Prof. Weymouth Jones.’’ He gave 
Chris a pat on the shoulder, and picked up his 
black bag. “* Think it over.”’ 

As Chris watched the tired bulk heave 
through the doorway, he thought, I might as 
well phone now. Who am I 
to sit in judgment, after at- 
tacking Lacy? 

To avoid contact with 
the crowd, he persuaded 
Aunt Theresa to bring the 
phone into the back hall. 

Jones’ voice came over 
the wires, dripping with 
commiseration. He had read the news in the 
afternoon paper. “I know there’s nothing I 
can do, old man, but feel free to call me if 
there is anything.” 

“Well, there is something.” 

Chris told him the situation, mentioning 
that the suggestion about Doctor Coburn at 
Flat Rock had come from Charles Beverly. 

“Yes, indeed,” said Weymouth Jones, 
“Coburn is a splendid man, and I happen to 
know him quite well. He’s a real research psy- 
chiatrist. You write him a full letter on your 
brother, and I’ll write him and tell him who 
you are and about Lacy.” 

“Thank you, Weymouth.” 

“I’m only too glad, Chris, especially in a 
time like this. By the way, I hear you’ve done 
a grand job in Washington.”’ 

“Tt’s about over now, with the end in 
Europe.” 

“T hope that means you’ll come back 
amongst us. Doctor Beverly was telling me 
only the other day that, with the new director 
at the institute, they hoped to lure you back.” 

“T might come back at that,’’ Chris said. 

“We'll be looking forward to seeing you.”’ 


When Edith Mathers was left alone, 
Jacqueline surprised Chris by her loyalty and 
affection for his mother. Jacqueline stayed 
with Mrs. Mathers when Chris went back to 
Washington. The following Saturday night 
when he returned to Richmond, Jacqueline 
met him at the station. From the first look, 
Chris saw in her a freshness and an eager- 
ness missing for some while. She looked 
young and pretty and expectant. After they 
kissed, Jacqueline suggested they walk home. 

The night was comfortable for Richmond. 
They walked slowly, arm in arm. 

‘“‘T want to move back to Richmond,” she 
said. 

“ Just like that?” 

“No, I’ve thought it all out. Everybody 
says that the new director at-the institute 
would give you the work we thought you 
were getting before, and’’—she stopped and 
turned to him, taking hold of his arms—‘“‘I’ve 
found the most marvelous house.” 

“Where is it?” 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Tt’s in the old part of the city, down on 
Second Street. It was an old carriage house, 
converted into a home, and an artist has done 
a beautiful job on modernizing it. There’re 
big studio windows upstairs—and a brick-en- 
closed patio, like a secret garden. I met the 
artist’s wife last week, and that’s how I hap- 
pened to find out about it.” 

“Have you found out anything about 
mother’s plans?” 

“She wants to stay where she is, and your 
Aunt Theresa is going to stay with her when 
I leave.” 

Aunt Theresa wanted to close up her apart- 
ment and move in with her sister. But Edith 
Mathers insisted on keeping Lacy’s room for 
him. 

““He’s got to feel he has a home to come to 
when he gets out,” she said. ‘It’s the one 
thing he has to work toward. Every letter 
shows how he’s been 
changed by his fa- 
ther’s death.” 

Chris looked at 
some of the letters. 
“Mother,” he said, 
‘“Doctor Beverly 
urged me to keep him 


x we we wee ek we 


eee Capo 


November, 1949 


ceptionist called him “‘doctor” in directing 
him to the elevator to the psychiatric con- 
vention. ; 

He entered a wide hallway, jammed with 
groups of men. At the end of the hall, a class- 
room opened on one side and two offices on 
the other. In one office, a young woman was 
using a typewriter. 


Curis said to her, “I have an appointment 
with Doctor Coburn. Could you tell me where 
I could find him?” 

“He’s right outside. Who shall I say wants 
him?” 

““Ah—just tell him Mathers.” 

It wasn’t over five minutes before she came 
back and said, “‘ He’ll be right in.” 

Chris glanced at his watch. It was twelve 
after two. Then he saw the thin brown man 
in a gray suit moving toward him. 

“Doctor Math- 


ers?” 

“No, I’m Chris 
Mathers. You 
know ——” 


“Oh, yes.” He did 
not offer his hand. 


AD Ot = yiowten 
there where he can get By E. V. GRIFFITH brother?” 
treatment. He told “That’s right. We 


me that Lacy is sick, 
and needs help.” 

“But he won’t get 
it there amongst those 
criminals. He says 
it’s worse than the 
Camp.” 

“T’ve been in com- 
munication with Doc- 
tor Coburn, and he 
has worked with 
Lacy. They’ve taken 
him away from the 
criminal element and 
put him on the 
switchboard.” 

“What’s a tele- 
phone switchboard 
for a boy with Lacy’s 
gifts?” 

“It might be a way 
to help him. I don’t 
know. He certainly 
wasn’t using his gifts 
when he had a chance 
tose 

“But that was be- 
fore Mike died. Now 
he says—as you can 
see in these letters— 
that he feels a sense 
of responsibility and 
wants to assume it. 
We're not doing right 
to deprive him of it.” 

“Mother, we’re not depriving him,” Chris 
told her. ‘He broke the laws. He had to be 
put away.” 

“But he says that he could get out any 
time we request it.” 

“We shouldn’t request it. Let the doctors 
there have a chance to help him.” 

“Lacy says they’re not doing anything 
with him now. They told him he could go any 
time his family requested it.” 

“That’s what Lacy said. I’ve discovered 
he doesn’t always tell the truth.” 

“But you could write Doctor Coburn and 
ask him.” 

“Let me ask you first: do you want him 
out?” 

“T do if the doctor thinks there’s nothing 
more they can do for him there.” 

“All right. I'll write the doctor and ask.” 


the trees 


sating seas, 
standing in. 


bark 


were so few 


ground. 


Twat was six months after Lacy had been 
in Flat Rock. Chris stressed that the family 
was not requesting Lacy’s release, nor did he 
personally believe in it. He simply wanted to 
know what Doctor Coburn felt about Lacy. 

Doctor Coburn replied that he was coming 
to Richmond to attend a psychiatric conven- 
tion, and would be pleased to discuss the 
problem with Chris in person. The date was 
set for two o’clock at the Medical College 
Hospital. 

When Chris reached the hospital, it was 
two o’clock. He entered the building and a re- 


Up to their scraggly knees in weeds, 


Stand shivering in the sharp 
November wind. 
Where grasses ran in green pul- 


The trees have only weeds for 
Dead lichen clings to scaly, peeling 


Where time has left the dead limbs 
warped and scarred. 

Against the sun these limbs are 
gaunt and dark; 

The twisted fruits they bear are 
warped and hard. 


What kind? They’re plum and pear 
trees. But last year 
The blooms that broke upon them 


Not even bees would work them. 
None come near 

This orchard any more, for winds 
blow through 

The clawlike branches with the 
lonesome sound 

Of lost, wild waters running under- 


zw kwe keke KKK 


had an appointment 
at two.” 

This seemed to call 
for long study by 
Doctor Coburn. Then 
he glanced furtively 
around and spied a 
wooden camp chair. 
“Will you just wait 
there for a couple of 
minutes?” 

Chris eased his way 
into the chair, and lit 
a cigarette. A man 
backing through the 
doorway, talking, 
backed into the cig- 
arette. Everybody 
apologized and Chris 
lit another cigarette. 
He looked at his 
watch. It was twenty- 
five after two. 

At twenty to three - 
Doctor Coburn reap- 
peared and said, ““We 
can go into this office 
here.” 

Doctor Coburn sat 
in the swivel chair at 
the desk. “‘ Now, what 
did you want to see 
me about?” 

Chris lit another 
cigarette. “I wanted 
to know what you thought about my brother, 
Lacy Mathers.” 

Doctor Coburn swung the chair around a 
little and looked out the window. “‘ Well, 
Mathers seems all right to me. We gave him 
occupational therapy and he’s responded 
well. He seems normal in his habits, gets 
along all right with people, and has a high 
1.Q. These periodic episodes of his, I think, 
do not constitute criminality, and of course 
that’s what we treat at Flat Rock.” 

“But when he has to adjust to society, he 
cannot get along with people at all, and his 
relations with women are definitely abnor- 
mal. It’s his complete lack of adjustment 
that causes the episodes, and they tend more 
and more toward crime. That’s what we’re 
afraid of.” 

Doctor Coburn stood up. “Well, your 
brother wants to be released, and your 
mother will be responsible for him. We’re 
crowded at Flat Rock. Unless he’s a criminal, 
he’s not really in our jurisdiction.” 

“T want you to keep my brother there 
until you know what’s wrong with him.” 

“T don’t think there’s anything wrong 
with him that we can do anything about, 
and, as I said, we’re crowded.” 

This was getting nowhere. “Doctor Co- 
burn, let me ask you one direct question. Do 
you think my brother could make an adjust- 
ment in normal community life?” 

(Continued on Page 151) 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 149 


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(Continued from Page 148) 

“He’s made a good adjustment to the 
witchboard.”” 

Chris couldn’t believe he had heard right. 
“Do you mean that that constitutes an abil- 
ity to adjust to the outside—with all the 
pressures and tensions he doesn’t get in an 
mstitution?”’ 

The thin brown man started edging toward 

the door. “I’ve got to see one of the doctors 
‘out here a minute. Can you wait a little 
while ——” 
Chris got up and looked at the view from 
‘the window. He went back to his chair and 
sat down and lit another cigarette. At twenty- 
five of four, he walked back into the hall. He 
found Coburn slinking around the edges of a 
group. 

Chris said, ‘I’m afraid I have to get back 
to my job.” 

The doctor seemed oblivious of the half 
hour he had left Chris waiting in the office. 
‘He said, “I’m meeting a lot of old colleagues 
here.” 

“Tsn’t that nice?’’ Chris moved on, his 
‘eyes blurred with rage, toward the elevator. 
\ 






















When Jacqueline learned that Lacy was 
‘being released, her new personality became 
quickly dispensable. 

“Look, Chris,” she said, ‘coming to Rich- 
mond was on the basis of Lacy being in 
‘an institution—preferably where something 
‘might be done for him, but anyway 7m one. I 
can’t see you going through any more of his 
‘episodes.’ When he goes off this time, you’ve 
got to put him where he can’? get out.” 

“All right. I agree with you. I didn’t know 
they were going to let him out. I called Wey- 
mouth Jones and he said 
‘Doctor Coburn explained 
that the family putsomuch 
pressure on him that he 
couldn’t be responsible. 
The pressure was two let- 
ters of my mother, asking 
if Lacy should come out. 
Now mother will be satis- 
fied anyway. Lacy can prove he’s changed 
since his father died or prove he hasn't. 
Don’t worry about it.” 

As it turned out, there was nothing to 
worry about. Lacy came home one day and 
got drunk the next. He returned only late at 


candle. 


had gone to bed, and out before they got up. 
They caught him on the third night, when he 
came in earlier and made for the kitchen. The 
two old women found him there, eating cold 
meat and dry bread like a hungry animal. 

When Edith Mathers met the guile in 
the pale emotionless eyes, saw the drunken 
persuasive smile contort and bare the de- 
pravity of his face, she walked quietly into 
the hall and called the police. 

After they had come and dragged Lacy 
out, she phoned Chris. “‘You can put Lacy 
anywhere they'll keep him now,” she said. 
“T’ve given up.” 


HE called Doctor Beverly. Chris said, 
“There must be somewhere we can put him 
where they’ll try to do something for him.” 

“The only thing left, Chris, is to hold a 
lunacy commission over him and declare him 
a mental incompetent.” 

Chris gagged at the word lunacy. “I don’t 
think we can prove him a lunatic,” he told 
the doctor. 

The big man’s laugh poured soothingly 
across the wire. ““Lunacy commission’ is sim- 
ply a term. A magistrate and at least two 
doctors, one of whom is a psychiatrist, must 
declare him mentally incompetent. You ap- 
ply for the commission to be held through a 
police-court magistrate. Get Squire Poin- 
dexter. I’ll be one doctor and the court will 
appoint a psychiatrist. You and I give him 
the facts and that’s all there is to it.” 


brother crazy. 
Dr. BrandonV. Coles, appointed by the court 
to sit on the lunacy commission of Lacy 


Mathers. 


the private office of Doctor Coles. 


There is not enough dark- 
ness in the whole world to 
put out the light of a single 


night, slipping in after his mother and aunt © 


That’s all there was to declaring your 


On a warm, blue April morning, Chris 
rode with Charles Beverly to the office of 


Chris was nervous, following Charles into 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


In the large, bright office, horse pictures 
and silver cups suggested a hunt club more 
than a medical office. The only occupant was 
little, gray Squire Poindexter. 

Chris asked, ‘‘Where’s Lacy?” 

“Oh, he don’t have to come, Mr. Math- 
ers,” the squire said. ‘‘We’re holding him in 
jail on a charge of inebriacy. If the boy had 
thought to get a lawyer, he would’ve forced a 
trial. But Lacy never thought of asking any- 
thing, and Doctor Beverly asked me to keep 
him until we held this commission.” 

“That’s fine,” Chris said, and heard the 
weak sound of his voice. What else could be 
done? 


‘There was no one authority in the state of 
Virginia, or in the United States of America, 
who decided what to do with the sick, mental 
or physical. During the war, men and women 
of talent and training could be concentrated 
in bureaus to draft, to screen, to direct to 
camps, to segregate into channels of apti- 
tude. Units of human beings were trained to- 
ward definite ends, transported to the re- 
quired places, supplied and attended. In each 
bureau, someone was ultimately responsible. 
But, apparently, to utilize the potential of 
citizens in time of peace did not constitute an 
objective. 

Charles Beverly said, “I declare, old Bran- 
don’s got himself in so many pictures here, 
you’d think he was a movie actor.” 

“None of that, Charles,” came a bland, 
nasal voice from the doorway, and in walked 
Doctor Coles. He was tall and wiry, magnifi- 
cently tailored in a chalk-striped gray suit. 

He advanced toward Chris with rare 
charm. “I’m so happy to meet you, Mr. 
Mathers. I’ve heardof your 
work in the institute.” 

Doctor Coles sat down 
at his desk, but pushed 
his chair back and turned 
toward them, making a 
social group. It was all 
very cozy as Doctor Coles 
ran fast through the de- 
tails, checked the statistics, and then asked 
Chris for background. 

Chris started with high lights, hurrying 
through from a habit of talking with unin- 
terested authorities who didn’t want details. 
But Doctor Coles did.. Then Chris began to 
elaborate. He had talked for half an hour 
when he brought the story of his brother up 
to Flat Rock. 

“Tt seems obvious,’’ Doctor Coles said, 
“that your brother suffers from the disparity 
of the rewards which his intelligence tells 
him he deserves.” 

Though that seemed to oversimplify Lacy, 
basically it seemed right—except for the tor- 
tuous physical period he suffered in adoles- 


—ANON. 


cence. Chris asked: “In my brother’s ado- | 


lescence, when all the trouble at least seemed 
to start, could it be that he suffered from 
some glandular insufficiency? I mean, could 
the malfunctioning of glands cause his per- 
sonality troubles?” 

Brandon Coles leaned back. “I wish I 
could answer that. The effect of the glands on 
psychotics, to my knowledge, has never been 
established beyond question. My honest an- 
swer would be: It could be, but we are not 
certain.” 

“Well, that’s the only honest answer I’ve 
had yet.” 

Charles Beverly leaned his bulk forward. 
He looked a little worried, perhaps that Chris 
would get out of hand. 

Doctor Coles, holding his small smile, 
asked, “‘ What was Coburn’s diagnosis?” 

“On releasing my brother, he wrote in his 
report that he thought Lacy was ‘probably a 
psychopathological personality, with pos- 
sibly schizoid features.’ ”’ 

With an urbane grin, Brandon Coles said, 
“T think I’ll just pin it on Coburn. I’ll take 
his ‘probables’ and ‘possibles’ out and com- 
mit this boy on Coburn’s own diagnosis. Mr. 
Mathers seems to have a very clear picture 
of the case. What do you think, Charles?” 

“T’ye thought Lacy should have been com- 
mitted for a long time.” 

““Psychopathological personality,’” Doctor 
Coles said with satisfaction, as he wrote on 

(Continued on Page 153) 


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(Continued from Page 151) 
the form, “with schizoid features. This is the 
man Coburn released because he’d made ‘a 
good adjustment to the switchboard.’ That’s 
a state psychiatrist for you.” 

Maybe Lacy had become a football in 
some game Chris knew nothing about. 
Maybe Chris was becoming lulled by finally 
having something done pleasantly and 
smoothly. But this socialite, whose expensive 
establishment was supported by a rich prac- 
tice, seemed to him to be a far abler man than 
the research psychiatrist who had kept him 
waiting two hours for ten minutes of an in- 
conclusive and stupid interview. Coburn was 
the state man and this bland customer was 
in it for himself. 

“You sign here, Charles,” Doctor Coles 
said. ““You sign here, squire . . . and you 
here, Mr. Mathers. I hope they do him some 
good down at Kingsborough. Bill Weid- 
linger is a good man.” 

“He’s the head psychiatrist at Kings- 
borough, Chris,” Doctor Beverly explained. 
“You ought: to run down and talk to him 
about Lacy, don’t you think so, Brandon?” 

“By all means.” 


ie sk Xe 


At the end of the day when Chris and 
Floyd Henry missed Lacy and Clyde Can- 
dless, Chris stayed on in his office at the insti- 
tute after the others left. All afternoon, be- 
fore every act of even the routine aspects 
of his job, had arisen the questions: Where is 
Lacy? What have he and Clyde Candless 
done? 

The first time he phoned Floyd Henry, 
Floyd told him that Wade Moncrief had as- 
sumed charge in reporting to the police. 
Floyd implied that Moncrief was throwing 
the blame on him. 

Chris returned to letters until the pressure 
had risen again to the bursting point. Then 
he phoned Carl Hasselman. the police com- 
missioner. 

Almost incoherent with worry, the com- 
missioner burbled, ‘Yes, Chris, we’ve been 
notified of the neighborhood where Candless 
went. We're investigating all his friends from 
the penitentiary, and checking over recent 
crimes. We suspect a tie-up and I think 
we're getting somewhere. But there’s so 
much to be done.” , 

At the end of the day, Chris phoned his 
mother. 

Aunt Theresa answered. *‘ No, we’ve heard 
no news. Edith wanted to call you. but I told 
her you’d phone if you'd learned anything. 
It would be good if you could come up here 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


after work. The day’s been hard on your 
mother. Why don’t you stay for dinner?” 

He had to eat something, and it would be 
easier to get through his lies and reassurances 
while they were all occupied. 

“That would be fine, Aunt Theresa,” he 
said. “I'll stay here at the office until six in 
case anything happens.” 

Nothing happened except that, after hedis- 
covered he could not return his mind to 
his project, he phoned Harriet. The maid 
answered and said that “‘ Miss Harriet’’ was 
out. He left a message for Harriet to phone 
him at his mother’s and then, for the first 
time since he had known her, wondered who 
she was out with. 

That was when he realized it was hopeless 
to stay in the office any longer. 


Chris’ mother had wilted badly during the 
day. She waited with fear and hope inter- 
locked, as her pictures of some final disgrace- 
ful act of Lacy’s alternated with prayers that 
he would be picked up before he could act. 
If she knew that Lacy, with a gun, had 
teamed up with Clyde Candless . . . but she 
mustn’t know. 

Chris said, ““Mother, take a little toddy 
like granny used to. We’ve got to help our- 
selves get through this.” 

“All right’””—she managed a smile—‘“‘but 
just a little now.” 

Aunt Theresa went out to the kitchen with 
him. ‘‘You’ve got to call Doctor Beverly,” 
she said, “‘and get him to give her a shot of 
some sort. Sheewon’t let me phone. Doesn’t 
even want the doctor to know about Lacy.” 

“T’ll phone him,” Chris said. He had the 
ice tray emptied into a bowl, the glasses on 
the table. ‘How do you want yours?” 

“Like you have yours.” 

He laughed. ““You sure you know what 
you’re doing?” 

“Until I came here, and your mother was 
so foolish about alcohol because of Lacy, I 
had my drink every night before dinner.”’ 

“Tt’s not drinking with Lacy. It just hap- 
pens to be what he uses to knock out his 
higher consciousness. If he could will his 
consciousness debased, he’d do it that way.” 

“‘Oh, I know you talk to these psychiatrists 
and all that, and I reckon you’re right. but in 
my day they were simply drunkards.” 

“Do you think Lacy acts normal when 
he’s not drinking?” 

“No, but I think there’re a lot of Lacys 
outside the asylum.” 

“That’s the whole point of a borderline 
case like his. You see him make some adjust- 
ments and think he should make them all. 


“Tell your father supper is ready, and by 
the time he gets to the table it will be.” 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


The doctors know he can’t, any more than a 
blind man can see. In your heart you still 
think Lacy is what in the old days you called 
an eccentric when he’s sober, and a drunkard 
when he goes over the line.” 

“T thank the Lord I did grow up when an 
eccentric was called an eccentric and a 
drunkard was called a drunkard.” 


Later his mother and his aunt put supper 
on the table. Chris was not hungry when 
the food came. But he tried to eat. He was 
wondering. how he could go on, when the 
phone rang. 

“T’m expecting a call,” he said, and pushed 
back from the table. 

He stood in the dim back hall and picked 
up the receiver. 

“Hello.” 

Chrisie = 

“Oh, hello, my love.” 

Harriet said, ‘Is everything all right?” 

“Tverything’s fine. I’m here with my 
mother and aunt. When am I going to see 
you?” 

“You better come right over. I’ll be wait- 
ing at the front door.” 

He walked back into the breakfast room. 
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, “that I’m not 
going to finish my dinner. I’ve had all I need 
in this weather. That was a girl I have a date 
with. She’s expecting me now. I'll call at in- 
tervals to see if Lacy has come here and, of 
course, I’ll call if I hear anything.” 

“Go on out, boy. Have some fun with your 
girl.” 

“Thank you.” He kissed them good-by. 

He walked out into the engulfing heat 
and paused. When he got used to it, he 
turned up the side street, 
moving toward Westmore- 
land. 

As he neared the rows 
of facing houses, he seemed 
to enter a tunnel of sound. 
From each house, through 
open windows, a radio 
blasted out. 

Chris hurried across the street, under the 
pale gray glare of the corner light, and suf- 
fered the grating prod of an automobile 
horn. How Lacy used to rage at the horn- 
blowers! 

Chris turned into upper Westmoreland, 
and the clamor of the radios died away. If 
they blasted here, the houses were too large 
and solid, too far back from the street. Chris 
realized that walking through the noise had 
used physical effort, like climbing stairs. He 
slowed in the deeper shadows of the street, 
wiped his face and lit a cigarette. 

What Lacy could not hold was not alcohol, 
but the intensity and enormity and definite- 
ness of his divisions. His personal Jekyll and 
Hyde were men of different ages, torn be- 
tween times. Evil for him was actually the 
adaptation he made to the external world in 
which he felt a stranger; good was the inner 
man of grand-opera-scale emotions. Trying to 
be both at the same time, he never became 
either. Only in the escapes from the unbear- 
able division did he become whole. There all 
borders, all concepts, blurred and vanished. 


» 


the mind. 


Burt Chris could “hold it” better. His own. 


dreams of great love went down the drain 
with Jacqueline. Because the love had not 
worked out, he blamed neither himself nor 
Jacqueline. The dream was a gyp. He was too 
smart to be gypped twice by the same racket. 
So when the aspiration rose in unguarded 
moments, he brought up his guard fast. Then 
he lit a cigarette, took a shower, and—like 
T. S. Eliot’s lady—‘“‘put a record on the 
gramophone.” But he could “hold it.” 
Maybe something died with each denial, but 
he was not in an institution. 

He could hold it all and Lacy could hold 
none. And was he a stronger version of his 
brother, or was Lacy stronger than them all, 
in a world where his kind of strength was 
madness? Maybe Chris had always sus- 
pected that Lacy was the better man. Maybe 
that was why he assumed the role, or al- 
lowed it slowly to presume on him, of being 
his brother’s keeper. 

Was it a flaw—to assume that somebody 
had to look after Lacy, when society could 


Mirth is like a flash of 
lightning; 
keeps up a kind of daylight in 
—JOSEPH ADDISON. 


November, 1949 


not? Jacqueline had thought so. But why 
think of Jacqueline? He was going to see Har- 
riet .. . right in that bright red-brick house, 
with the arched marble entrance. 

He stopped still, under the tree outside the 
walkway, threw away the cigarette and 
wiped his face again. Then he went up the 
walk, 

The door opened as he neared it, and Chris 
paused in the flood of light. Harriet, dimly 
white, came toward him. 

“With not only my parents in the living 
room, but the parents of all the men I should 
marry, we’re going down to your little nest, 
chum. Come on.” 


Nor a light showed in any of the old 
houses on Second Street, as Harriet eased 
the big car along the curb under the trees. 
Chris’ little two-story gray-brick house 
looked ghostly in the tree shadows. 

“You know,” he said, as they climbed out 
on the sidewalk, “at an hour like this, the 
house looks as though all the ages from the 
Civil War until now had passed by this 
street. It’s as if the neighborhood has stood 
still in time . . . like a ghost neighborhood.” 

“Chris, I’m scared enough in this section 
at night, without any ghosts.” 

Unlocking the door in the brick wall of his 
patio, Chris said, “‘But this is the safest 
neighborhood in Richmond, because nobody 
down here has any money. It’s up in your 
fancy section ——’”’ 

“Chris, I’ve heard that line before. Do you 
want me to leave you here, now that I’ve 
delivered you home?” 

“Tt is my dearest wish that you never 
leave me. Why do you ask such a question?” 

““Because this ‘Southern 
gentleman’ I was married 
to always began his cruel- 
ties when he began to get 
drunk.” 

“You mean I’m acting 
like a Southern gentle- 
man? I couldn’t be cruel 
to you, Harriet.” 

“Yes, you could. I seem to arouse it in 
men.” 

“T’m just telling you that you’ll never 
arouse cruelty in me.” 

“Maybe I am beginning to look for hurts. 
I know you don’t want to hurt me. That’s 
why I love you.” She came against him, close. 
Her face was pressed against his throat, her 
forehead dry against the damp skin of his 
neck, and her hair along his jaw. 

Harriet was the last woman in the world 
with whom he would have associated com- 
passion. He hadenjoyed her companionship— 
looking forward to an affair—because the 
feelings were clear-cut and contained. Even 
now he felt an impulse to break through the 
film of restraint by physical movements... 
by holding her body differently, by lifting 
her chin so that her mouth was below his. 

Her lips would wait for the kiss, even if he 
changed the mood with which she had come 
into his arms. She would probably suffer her- 
self to be led into the house, though that was 
not her urgency now. Probably even in the 
bedroom her mood would change, his urgency 
become hers—but it might not. Once he was 
aware of her needs as a woman in her own 
separate and complete individuality, unre- 
lated to his demands, the desire flickered and 
gutted within him. 

“Damn.” 

He didn’t know he had said it aloud until 
Harriet leaned her head back, and in the 
darkness he saw her soft and knowing smile. 
Initshard-bitten wisdomofmenand women— 
the quality he had liked because of its dis- 
enchantment—he saw now the deeper and 
sweeter knowingness of him as a specific man, 
and how he related to her. 

She said, “You get a shower. You’re like 
hugging a wet sponge.” 

He liked her then. The feeling came in a 
solid rush. It was a good, solid feeling. Only 
he couldn’t tell a woman that he liked her. 

Inside the little enclosed court, they 
stepped into sudden dark coolness. Closing 
the wooden gate, he said: 

“Now you'll admit this is a rare sanctuary 
in the heart of a city?” 

(Continued on Page 156) 


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156 


(Continued from Page 154) 

“As long as you don’t try to take me back 
into the past with you, I’ll admit it’s rare be- 
cause it’s cool and private. But romance with 
me begins at the age when I personally feel 
romantic. It was the atmosphere here that 
got the better of my judgment last night.” 

“That even takes it out of the past for 
me.” Chris unlocked the screen door to the 
house and stepped inside first, to turn on the 
hall light. She walked on past him down the 
hall, into the dim bedroom. 

“Are you testing my self-control?” 

“No, only my own powers, and that’s not 
a nice thing to do. But I’ve been badly con- 
ditioned—even my father, the eminent psy- 
chiatrist, calls it that. I mean, I played in a 
league where that was all I could depend on. 
Even though it didn’t help too much, it was 
something.” She snapped on the lamp beside 
the bed table. ‘“Get on with your shower, 
before I get maudlin at being with a man who 
evidently wants something besides my form 
divine. I’ll wait for you out in the patio.” 

He turned the shower knob to full cold, 
stepped out of the tub and began to pat with 
a towel around his middle where the shorts 
were going. The dry clean shorts felt good 
against his skin. As with the cold shower, the 
pleasant sensation on the surface of his skin 
went no deeper. 5 

He pulled on socks, slipped into his mocca- 
sins. He felt cooled off and sobered, and 
moved determinedly 
down the hallway. 


November, 1949 


ing to himself there’d been nobody else but 
him. Now you know all.” 

Now he knew nothing. At this point, in 
proper drama, he was supposed to say, 
“Nothing matters before this moment. 
You’re mine now. The past doesn’t count.” 
Where did he fit in the chain of men? Or was 
he, as Harriet believed, the end of the line? 

“When Chris did not answer with his usual 
immediacy, Harriet said, ““I hope I haven’t 
become the Fallen Woman, now that you 
“know all.’” 

e 
As if by reflex his tenderness, reasserting, 
brought an instant protection to her de- 
fenselessness in having revealed herself. 
“You're a hard girl to figure out, and it’s im- 
portant to me to do it.” 

“Maybe you're just getting around to it.” 

“Maybe I’ve been doing it slowly, and 
events have hurried me.” 

“T’m not one to interrupt but, speaking of 
events, what 7s going on outside?” 

When he paused to listen, Chris heard the 
heavy rumble of voices approaching the patio 
wall, and heavy shoes on the sidewalk. He 
realized he had heard car doors banging. 

Then a man’s voice said, ‘‘Looks like 
some kind of speak-easy or gambling joint.” 

“Ain’t no lights on. How do you get in 
here?” 

The latch clicked fiercely on the locked 
gate, and then shoulders thudded against the 
stout wood. A voice 
said with authority, 





As he moved into the 
darkness of the patio, 
Harriet said, “I have 
a nice fresh highball 
here for you, and for a 
while we have nothing 
to do but relax.” 

He found the blur of 
her face and leaned 
over to kiss her in sud- 
den appreciation. 

When he felt her 
moist open lips, even 
without urgency, his 
nerves kicked in reac- 
tion. Straightening up, 
he felt uncertain with 
her for the first time. 

Harriet’s familiarly = E 
lazy voice came like 
balm on his flesh. ““You don’t need to worry 
about me saying that I loved you. It’s its 
own reward to me, in a bitter world. Here’s 
your drink.” 

His fingers closed around the iced glass. 
“You mean love is a habit with you?” 

“T mean it’s a habit I’d like to form, for 
one man. I loved my husband, and then I 
hated him. I simply loathed him, as I do 
spiders, and feared him in the same way.” 

“The others?” 

“You’ve waited a long time to ask that.” 

“Tt wasn’t important before.” 

“That’s fair enough. Well, I thought I 
loved two others. One came along when I 
was going crazy with my husband. ‘The 
Southern gentleman’ was a sodden drunk 
and sadist at the time, and I was trapped a 
long way from home with bills piling up ——”’ 

“That was Acapulco?” 

“That was Acapulco, of which my new 
knight was the spirit of. He was a citizen of 
the world and, thank God, not a gentleman, 
but very, very rich.” 

““Oddly enough, this is hurting me.”’ 


just beginning.”’ 


 Wauart sweet words. Anyway, The Spirit 
of Acapulco was a bridge from a married 
madhouse to nothing. Then the second was 
a bridge from nothing to here, Richmond.” 

“And I’m a bridge from Richmond to 
where?”’ 

“T hope to where both of us want to go. 
And I'll anticipate your question about 
didn’t I think so with ‘the others.’ I didn’t 
think in those days. I was married out of the 
cloister of my home—you’ve seen it; thrust 
into a psychopathic ward with the bearer of 
a proud name and a big bank account; saved 
by a worldling, whose cruelties were more re- 
fined; and returned home by an itinerant ex- 
patriate. He wanted me desperately to be his 
wife, which I think was his only way of prov- 


When Dr. Charles W. Eliot, Pres- 

ident Emeritus of Harvard Uni- 
versity, was ninety years of age and 
his wife was dying he called at the 
home of his neighbor, Dr. Francis 
G.\ Peabody, and requested that an 
infant grandson of Mr. Peabody’s 
might be brought down to the room. 
The mother brought the baby to 
him and he took it and held it for a 
while. When he got up to leave, Mr. 
Peabody walked out of the door with 
him, and there, after a moment’s 
silence, Eliot said simply, ‘I wanted 
to hold in my arms a life that was 


CHARLES W. ELIOT, Volume II 
by Henry James (Houghton Mifflin Co.). 


“The door to the house 
is inside this wall. One 
of you climb over and 
find a bell to ring or 
something.” 

Chris said, ‘‘Maybe 
you’d better tell me 
what you want in my 
home first.” 

There was a brief si- 
lence, and then voices 
erupted in a sudden 
clamor, like a pack of 
dogs. Chris heard the 
word “‘police” clearly 
and his last name, 
““Mathers.”’ Then a 

thick hand showed in 
cee a=) Z| the beam of a flash- 

light on top of the gate, 
and the authoritative voice said, ‘Open 
this up.”” 

Harriet had already arisen, and moved un- 
hurriedly toward the screen door. Chris 
pulled the gate inward, standing behind it. 
He glimpsed several bulging blue and gray 
uniforms, the belt buckles and gun butts 
and badges glistening in the reflected light, 
before he blinked under the glare of the flash 
turned on him. 

“You Chris Mathers?” 

“Yes, and take that light out of my eyes.” 

“Listen here, Mathers, don’t get tough 
with us. We’re looking for your brother 
Ieacye 

The light left his eyes and, still blinking, 
Chris counted four uniforms. 

He said, ‘‘So am I, and this is the last 
place to look. Would you be interested to 
know that I phoned Carl Hasselman, my 
friend, last night, and asked him to help me 
find my brother? I told him he was with 
Clyde Candless, and that Candless had 
broken parole.” 

A whiteheaded officer held the light so 
that Chris saw the lieutenant’s badge on his 
chest. He said, ‘No, we didn’t know that, 
Mr. Mathers. We just got the information 
that Candless was with your brother when 
the general alarm went out for Candless and 
your brother.” 

“But Floyd Henry, the parole investigator, 
turned that information in a little after 
noon.” 

“T know, Mr. Mathers.’’ The voice was 
very courteous now. “‘ But since then they’ve 
committed a robbery and shot a man.” 

Quietly Chris asked, “‘What happened 
with Lacy and Candless?”’ 

“Well, several of Candless’ old pen pals 
have been working a stolen-car racket with 
fake registration papers, which they got from 

(Continued on Page 159) 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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(Continued from Page 156) 

another pal inside the penitentiary. They 
print the forms there. We’ve been getting 
pretty close to them, and tonight—just at 
dusk—we flushed them in a hot car. We 
caught a pair of them, but somewhere in the 
chase Candless and your brother got away in 
a taxi. They tried to rob the taxi driver and 
he put up a fight and they shot him. I know 
this is hard on you.” 

Chris was remembering Joan Candless’ 
words about some of Clyde’s friends ‘“‘plan- 
ning something.” He said, “‘ You keep saying 
‘they.’ How do you know it was my brother?”’ 

“He was with Candless, and the taxi driver 
said ‘they’ before he passed out. Besides, the 
gun we found is registered in your father’s 
name.” 

“This taxi driver—is he badly hurt?” 

“He has a chance to live.” 


kkk 


Lacy was first exposed to crime in his cures. 
Yet each institution, at each time, repre- 
sented the only hope of 
the family. Lacy claimed 
they put him away only x * * 
to get rid of the problem 
of him. Even if that were 
true, they knew nothing 
else to do. The rich could 
send their “problems” to VA 
private institutions or 
support them in expen- 
sive and protected idle- 
ness. But the Mathers 
were not rich and it was 
not true—as Lacy 
claimed—that he was 
“whisked away’ just 
because he “‘tooka few 
drinks.” Since their fa- 
ther died, Chris had dis- 
covered the violence and 
intensity of the episodes 
Mike Mathers had con- 
cealed. 

Edith Mathers had 
known all that when she 
told Chris he could put 
Lacy away where he 
would be kept. But no 
sooner was Lacy com- 
mitted to Kingsborough 
as a mental incompe- 
tent, and wrote her that 
he was in a ward with 
lunatics, than his mother 
began to protest. She 
told Chris, and a stony- 
eyed Jacqueline, that 
“the boy will never have 
a chance if somebody 
doesn’t help him. I’m go- 
ing to write that Doc- 
tor Weidlinger down 
there and i 

“Mother,” Jacqueline said, ‘‘Lacy is out 
of Flat Rock now because you kept writing 
Doctor Coburn.” 

“Then you write Doctor Weidlinger, son, 
and explain that your brother is not a lunatic, 
We put him there to be helped and & 


Go away, 








JacqueLine rose abruptly and started for 
the stairs. She had told Chris, when he went 
to the lunacy commission on Lacy, that he 
must either go on from there with his own 
work or resign from the institute and devote 
himself to his brother. She knew too well the 
time devoured by those letters to institutional 
heads, and the futility of them. 

Still, it wasn’t right that Lacy should be 
kept in with lunatics. 

“T’ll write Doctor Weidlinger,”’ Chris said. 

Remembering that Doctor Coles and Doc- 
tor Beverly had suggested he see Weidlinger, 
Chris phoned Prof. Weymouth Jones. 

Jones said, “Bill Weidlinger is a fine fel- 
low. You’d enjoy meeting him. Why don’t 
you run down to Kingsborough and see 
Weidlinger?”’ 

Kingsborough was an old river port. When 
Chris walked through the sultry, red-dusty 
heat to Doctor Weidlinger’s office he bought 
a magazine, and some lemon drops against 
parching his throat with cigarettes while 
waiting. Doctor Weidlinger surprised him 


For Keotert 


CAINUN 
oF 
By Marjorie Lederer Lee 


What shall I tell you 
On the day 
The neighbor’s children 


And how shall I make you 
Understand 

That snowflakes melt 
Within the hand, 

That skies are distant— 
Much too far 

For any child 
To reach a star? 


Oh, what ways 
Can I devise 

To keep the dream dust 
In your eyes? 

And should I find them, 
If I could... 

Would it be wise? 
Would it be good? 


* x Ke 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 159 


Chris was just arranging a chair for a good 
reading light when an unobtrusive middle- 
aged woman announced that the doctor 
would see him. 

The doctor was a broad, squat man in shirt 
sleeves. He shook hands and gestured to the 
chair across from the desk. “I’ve read your 
report and I think we’ve got a pretty com- 
plete story on your brother now.” 

“Do you think you can help Lacy?” 

“Of course, this is a state institution and 
our means are limited — very limited. We'll 
do what we can.” 

“Have you seen him?” Chris asked 
bluntly. ; 


No. We’re shorthanded here. I’ve looked 
at the reports on him. The doctors don’t find 
anything wrong. Say he seems very intelli- 
gent.” 

“He is intelligent. But, as Doctor Coles 
said when he committed him, Lacy is con- 
fused because he can’t win the rewards his in- 
telligence tells him he deserves.”’ 

Weidlinger said, ‘Is 
there anything you 
would suggest in the way 
of occupational ther- 
apy?” 

“Tll have to answer 
without knowing your 
facilities. He is well read 
and he has a native in- 
terest inhistory—notcul- 
tivated. If you have an 
institutional newspaper, 
or a library ia 

The doctor shook his 
head. “I see what you 
mean,” he said, and stood 


~~ xX. * 





The kitten grows up. 
And moves along, 

The crickets cease 
Their summer song? 


Chris arose slowly. 
“Naturally,” he said, 
“we'll appreciate any- 
thing you can do to help 
him. We feel that he 
can be helped, but——’”’ 
He saw Weidlinger’s 
gross body growing 
limper, as though he 
couldn’t wait to sit down 
again. Chris let the sen- 
tence hang. ““Thank you 
for seeing me.” 

“That’s all right.” 
The doctor was sinking 
back, taking his glasses 
off with one hand and his 
handkerchief out with 
theother, as Chris turned 
to the door. 


Weymouth Jones and 
Charles Beverly and psy- 
chiatrists he had talked 
to had all warned Chris 
not to place too much 
credence in Lacy’s complaints of conditions 
in institutions. “These psychotics are full 
of self-pity and very guileful at creating sym- 
pathy.” But after his interview with Doctor 
Weidlinger, Chris was inclined to believe al- 
most anything Lacy said. 

In discussing a state official, Chris had 
learned to operate on the premise that the of- 
ficial was ‘‘a good man.” Nobody in any ca- 
pacity which vaguely touched the state would 
find a flaw in an institution man, nor one doc- 
tor in another. It was like some secret society 
where oaths had been pledged. By the nature 
of the defense, Chris developed his im- 
pression. 

Of Weidlinger he talked to Charles Bev- 
erly; to his friend from Washington days, 
Harry Vincent, returned from the wars and 
building a private psychictric practice; and 
to Weymouth Jones. From this diverse lot, 
Chris drew a single portrait. 

The doctor was a trained psychiatrist and 
an able administrator for those for whom he 
administered. The Commonwealth of Vir- 
ginia, not the patients in Kingsborough, 
would lead him the way to promotion and 
pay. If the commonwealth wanted to operate 
the hospital cheaply, William Weidlinger 
would oblige. What Chris had interrupted 
with his irrelevant talk about a patient was 

(Continued on Page 161) 


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(Continued from Page 159) 
the doctor’s preoccupation with cost and ex- 
penditure for personnel, for food and upkeep, 
with selecting patients who could perform 
menial tasks and save money: Lacy’s “‘occu- 
pational therapy” was waiting tables in the 
officials’ dining room. 

The men to please were the members of the 
hospital board. They found nothing wrong 
with an administrator who, eager to create 
a good impression where it counted for ad- 
vancement, blamed nothing on them. ‘Our 
means are very limited,” Weidlinger had 
told Chris, but for the board he could show 
that he ran the hospital according to the 
businesslike methods they appreciated. For 
the patients, he had a staff, didn’t he? 

Never mind that under the low salaries he 
could not get the best people, or that, with 
his own lack of personal touch with the pa- 
tients, he could not get the most out of the 
staff, as it was. 

Below the staff, and outside the periphery 
of Weidlinger’s interest, came the paid at- 
tendants. Those in charge of occupational 
therapy were two married couples, Lacy 
-vrote. ““They are low-grade, unkindly time- 
-ervers doing a poor job poorly, with no more 
.nterest in the patients than a dinosaur would 
have in Plato. The canteen is a speak-easy, 
where the attendants curry favor with the of- 
ficials by holding out for them the choicest 
bars of chocolate. You can come down and 
check on all this any time. The patients 
working in the laundry steal clothes. We 
suspect those in the 
dairy of selling milk, as 
we never have enough. 
Everything hereamong 
the patients is based 
on guile in a competi- 
tion to gain favors from 
the authorities.” 

Chris wasn’t sur- 
prised when Dr. Wil- 
liam T. Weidlinger was 
called to higher service, 
and prepared to leave 
Kingsborough. And he 
wasn’t surprised when 

acy escaped. 


Chris learned of his brother’s flight from 
Kingsborough when his mother phoned him. 
Lacy had been hiding out for three days, she 
told him, during which time he had gotten a 
job and found a room—there was no longer a 
place for him at home, since Aunt Theresa 
had moved in. Then Lacy had phoned the 
hospital and asked for a chance on the out- 
side, on the basis of having situated himself 
in Richmond. Doctor Weidlinger agreed to 
let him stay out if the family made no objec- 
tion. 

Their mother said, ‘As long as he’s done 
all this for himself, I think the poor boy 
should have his chance. Of course the final 
decision is up to you, Chris.” 

“No, it’s all right with me. It’s out of my 
hands.” 


The phone was in the downstairs bedroom, 
and Chris and Jacqueline had just started 
to dress to go out and visit some friends. It 
was the first cool night of late summer. Chris 
remembered that detail because he had to 
close the windows against Jacqueline’s out- 
burst of fury. 

Jacqueline screamed, ‘“The next time he 
goes off, and you let it interrupt your life, 
I’m leaving this city, this state, this country 
if necessary. And you can come with me or 
not—it’s up to you. I don’t intend to spend 
the rest of my life as an unpaid attendant 
for a psychopath!” 

She had picked up the terminology, as had 
he. Sometimes Chris felt that they were like 
children playing with a dangerous toy—or 
grown men with atomic power. Lacy’s letters 
from the hospital—as his mother insisted— 
suggested anything but abnormality. And 
his talk, when Chris saw him, seemed com- 
pletely rational. 

They had long hours together on the few 
occasions when Lacy visited them, as Jac- 
queline always found things to busy herself 
at. If they encountered him at Edith 
Mathers’ house, Jacqueline went in with the 


Dr. James Y. Simpson, a profes- 
sor of obstetrics at the University 
of Glasgow, experimented with anes- 
thetics for use in childbirth. When 
he was knighted for his outstanding 
work Sir Walter Scott wrote to him 
and suggested that he adopt as a 
coat of arms, in commemoration of 
his use of anesthetics during child- 
birth, “‘a wee naked bairn” with the 
accompanying motto, 
mother know you're out?” 
—DAVID T. ARMSTRONG. 


16 


—_ 


other woman. She was through with Lacy, 
and she wanted no one to have any doubts 
about it. 

The impassive expression Lacy used to fix 
on his face during his episodes had become 
permanent. He was turning quite gray, and 
the beautiful frame of his hairline was al- 
most the only softening of the physical 
coarseness of his features. 

Lacy went to his clerical job (a good one, 
though below the rewards his intelligence 
and industry deserved), to his room (pleasant 
and comfortable, though uncomforting be- 
cause he always went there alone), then to his 
mother’s for dinner and back to the silent 
room, where he tried to read and sometimes 
could not resist writing poetry (which no 
one ever bought). Then, neat in his person 
and punctual to the hour, he went into the 
double bed and suffered the dreams that 
come to... who not? 


Lacy had told Chris that Sundays were his 

enemies. If the day was fine, he would walk 

out to the cemetery where their father was 

buried. But if the day was dreary and he 

could not walk beyond the city streets, Lacy 

air hours of the afternoon become a 
ell. 

It was on such a day that he went off. Low, 
dark gray clouds constantly threatened a 
rain that never came. Lacy was kept in his 
room waiting, not daring to walk, not able 
to settle down. When the gray winter light 
began to blur into darkness, the room became 
a cage from which he 
felt compelled to es- 
cape. 

When he went out, 
huddled in his topcoat, 
his graying hair bare to 
the night, the blinking 
neon of the beer joint 
no longer seemed a 
tawdry substitute for 
his romantic images. 

Only until that point 
in his psychotic he- 
gira could Lacy even 
approximate a _ trans- 
lation of cause and ef- 
fect. He told that much 
to Chris on Monday, the second day of his 
journey into unreality. 

Jacqueline and Chris had come to his 
mother’s for dinner, in answer to her urgent 
call. Lacy’s office had phoned her to ask if 
Lacy were sick. It was her first warning that 
Lacy had not gone to work, but she tried to 
cover for him as best she could. He had com- 
plained of a cold (true enough, as he fre- 
quently did) . . . he was probably in bed... 
and she didn’t know, though, why he had 
failed to call. 

“That’s all right,” the office manager had 
said. “‘Lacy’s a fine worker and a fine boy. 
We all like him. But I phoned his rooming 
house and he’s not there, and I just won- 
dered . . . you know, when to expect him.” 

Then Edith Mathers realized they knew 
about him at the office. Suddenly tired and 
frantic, she phoned Chris. 

“This is his seventh month without doing 
anything wrong. I’d begun to hope for him 
this time, and I’m just undone to think of all 
he might lose by going off now.” 

When Chris and Jacqueline arrived, Lacy 
was already there. It was the first time Chris 
had seen his brother going into an episode. It 
was a revelation to see him the essence of 
charming gaiety. 

Of all the baffling aspects of Lacy’s prob- 
lems, all the analyses—professional and 
amateur—Chris understood with sudden 
clarity the reason why Lacy wanted the re- 
lease of alcohol. It was as if the inner man 
had emerged untouched from the structure of 
defenses in which he usually hid. 

Nothing remained of the impassivity of 
expression, the dulled bitterness of his eyes 
and the coldly forbidding manner. True, he 
was excited, flushed, but the animation only 
made him “‘seem like other people.” Listen- 
ing to Lacy, and laughing with him, Chris saw 
the brother he might have had, and the man 
Lacy wanted to be. 

It was all there, inside him, and the mys- 
tery of abnormality imprisoned it. At this 


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162 


stage of the alcoholic suppression of his 
higher centers, the mysterious and warping 
fears were banished. 

If at this moment of euphoria he could be 
observed by an interested psychiatrist, like 
Harry Vincent or Dr. Brandon Coles, some- 
thing might be learned. He might talk to 
them as he talked to Chris, and to Jacqueline. 

She watched him with warily interested 
eyes, smiling with his witticisms and occa- 
sionally permitting a guarded laugh. It was 
to her, after the dinner of surface gaiety, that 
Lacy directed his real question. 

“You all,’”’ he asked, holding his smile of 
rare charm, ‘“‘don’t intend to send me back 
for just this little pleasure cruise?”’ 

“T certainly don’t,’’ Jacqueline answered. 
“You’ve always accused the family of put- 
ting you away just for having a couple of 
drinks before you even have a chance to 
sober up. This time you’re going to have all 
the chance you want, as far as I’m concerned. 
Of course it’s not up to me.” 

Chris said, “I’m with Jacqueline.” 

Still showing no outward change, Lacy 
arose from the table. “Then I’ll be getting 
on home, to be ready for tomorrow at the 
office.”’ 

His mother said, “‘Be sure you don’t stop 
anywhere else first. They know about you at 
the office, and they won’t accept any more 
days off.” 

He went to her with the affectionate man- 
ner of his childhood and stroked her cheek. 
“T wouldn’t leave you all here, unless I 
needed the sleep to be ready for tomorrow.” 
Then he called good-nights to them all, and 
went out of the house 


November, 1919 


he collects enough for a bottle of cheap wine. 
He can’t stop until he’s let everybody know 
what he’s become.”’ 

A surliness pushed aside Lacy’s grotesque 
pretense of just being a little high on Satur- 
day night. “‘You don’t need to worry about 
your respectable friends tonight,’’ he told 
them. “I’ve got something left from my pay 
now.” 

“Then give me that money,” his mother 
said irrationally. “It'll be harder for you to 
get anything without any money on you.” 

Lacy pushed himself up slowly from the 
table. His obsessive resentment of her began 
to heat his blurred eyes. 


“Go on,” she cried, the control breaking, 
“curse and revile me in front of your brother 
the way you do when you’re here by your- 
self. Let him see what a fine son you can be.”’ 

“Mother,” Chris said, “this is not doing 
any good.” 

“Nothing does any good. You might as 
well let him go his own way, bringing shame 
on everybody connected with him. Go on, 
get out.” 

Lacy tried, without looking directly at his 
mother, to judge if she meant that he could 
go or was only speaking in anger. 

In the whole embarrassing passage be- 
tween them, Chris saw in essence the mor- 
bidity of their relationship. For Lacy had 
kept himself in the relationship of a child, and 
his mother treated him as a willful and 
naughty child. It was his rebellion against 
the childlike dependence of his own making 
that caused him to turn against his mother. 

Then Chris understood 


humming the Liebestod 
from Tristan. 

Aunt Theresa said, 
“He’s not going to busi- 
ness in the morning. He’s 
going on with this spree.” 

“That’s what I fear,” 
Edith Mathers said. “I 


& There is no expedient to 
which a man will not resort 
to avoid the real labor of 
thinking. —siR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, 


that his mother was as 
harmful for Lacy as his 
father had been, the more 
dangerous because of the 
subsurface complexities. 
And probably Chris was 
as harmful in his own way 
as his parents. 


don’t think you should’ve let him go, Chris.”’ 

Jacqueline said sharply, ‘What else could 
he have done?”’ 

“Sure,” Chris said, trying to soften Jac- 
queline’s effect, ‘‘if this is what he needs, let 
him have it.” 

“But where will it stop?” 


It did not stop. 

On Thursday, the office manager called 
Lacy’s mother again. He said, “Mrs. Math- 
ers, I’m sorry to tell you this. Lacy came in 
today asking for his pay. He was very as- 
sertive, and made quite a scene. I tried to 
reason with him, and told him he could have 
another chance if he would only come back 
to work. But he demanded his money. I’m 
afraid we’ll have to let him go now.” 


On Friday, Lacy’s landlady called. She 
said, “‘Mrs. Mathers, Lacy has been coming 
in here too late for us to see him and leaving 
too early. Up to now, he’s been a nice, quiet 
boy, but this is our home, and we only rent a 
few rooms, and we’ve tried to keep it a re- 
spectable place. We can’t have him doing 
this way... you know.” 

“T know.” 

On Saturday, Lacy staggered in after 


dark for food. While his mother was feeding 


him, Aunt Theresa called Chris. 

They were going to a party and Chris sent 
Jacqueline on in a taxi while he dropped off 
at his mother’s house. Lacy was leaning back 
against the kitchen wall when Chris walked 
in. 

The euphoria phase was past and this 
was any bleary drunk, maudlin in the illu- 
sion that he was fascinating. After listening 
to his ramblings, Chris felt a physical revul- 
sion spreading through his pity. He said, 
“It’s no use, mother. There’s nothing we can 
do.” 

“You mean, just let him go on like this— 
a bum, for everybody to see?” 

“He'll hole up somewhere.” 

“Oh, no,” she said with unaccustomed 
bitterness. “‘Some ‘well-meaning’ friends 
have already let me know how he gets money. 
He goes into their offices and tells them he’s 
caught downtown without bus fare. They 
naturally give him a dime, or a quarter, and 


Standing in the little breakfast room, 
watching the horrible duel between his 
mother and his brother, Chris accepted, be- 
yond hope, the full and unrelieved fact that 
Lacy was beyond reach of any of them. 


On Saturday night, one week later, the 
episode reached its end. Mrs. Reeves, Lacy’s 
landlady, phoned Mrs. Mathers. She said, 
“We've got to do something about Lacy. His 
room rent was due yesterday, but that isn’t 
my real worry. He’s been lying in the room 
for three days, and it isn’t only that the rest 
of the house knows what’s going on, but —— 
I don’t know exactly how to tell you. The 
room smells bad.” 

Edith Mathers phoned Chris at the insti- 
tute just before he was leaving for the day. 
“T think we'll have to do something.” 

“All right. I’ll phone the hospital.’ 

Doctor Weidlinger had left for greener 
pastures, and nobody in the office seemed to 
have any authority. Finally a doctor came 
on the phone. 

“Lacy Mathers doesn’t seem to be pa- 
roled,” he said, ‘so we can’t send out a war- 
rant on him as a parole breaker.”’ 

‘““But he was committed there as a mental 
incompetent, and he escaped. You all let 
him stay out on the basis that he could make 
good on the outside.” 

“Then it seems to me that he would have 
to be recommitted.” 

“Tf the police pick him up on a charge, 
will you take him back?” 

‘“‘T suppose so.” 

Chris called the police. The magistrate 
said, ‘‘We haven’t any word from Kings- 
borough. If you want him arrested, you'll 
have to come here and swear out a warrant.” 

The institute was long since closed for 
Saturday afternoon and Chris knew that 
Jacqueline was long since impatient for him 
to come to lunch. He decided to let the war- 
rant wait until he went home. 

At home he had to put off the warrant a 
little longer because Jacqueline was in a bad 
mood. 

“Tt’s not that you miss your lunch,” she 
said, “‘and your own work you had set out 
for this afternoon. It’s just a symbol of the 
disruptions to our whole life.” 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Look, Jacqueline, take it easy. I’m 
bushed. I want to be let alone.” 

“Well, Garbo Mathers, you can have your 
wish. I have some things I needed to do any- 
way. I hope you like being left alone.” 

He didn’t. He was tired and he didn’t 
want to go to the police station to swear out 
a warrant. He stretched out on the bed and 
decided he would rest until Jacqueline came 
back. 

He was awakened by the bed light in his 
eyes. Jacqueline was standing beside him, 
very pretty with her skin freshened by the 
air, and very assured. “I’ve thought it all 
out,’”’ she said. ‘In case you’re interested, 
this is the end of the line. I’m going back to 
New York.” 

Though the strain had been growing be- 
tween them for the past six months, the 
break came so casually that Jacqueline’s 
threat had an element of unreality. Even her 
businesslike packing of bags seemed like 
action on the stage, unrelated to Chris. 

The only decision he could reach was to 
cease being a spectator, while Jacqueline 
moved about the room with her bright and 
aloof determination. A slow-growing anger 
began to harden a determination to match 
her own. 

He went to the telephone and dialed the 
taxi number. 

“Get to you in about half an hour, 
Mr. Mathers. We're very busy tonight.” 

“Don’t bother,” Chris said and immedi- 
ately dialed the saloon where his colored 
friend, Stickpin Turner, held court. 

“Stickpin, I need some help. Could you 
get somebody to drive you over here?”’ 

“T’ll be right over.” 

He was fifteen minutes getting there. 
During that time, neither Jacqueline nor 
Chris spoke. Her face was paler than when 
she had so gaily awakened him. Chris felt 
that if he made a move she might stay. But 
she was going to get the showdown she had 
provoked. 


Waen Stickpin’s horn blew outside, Chris 
left without a word. He climbed into the 
back seat, and a moment later the big car 
slid away from the curb. 

“It’s about Lacy,” he said. ‘‘I want to go 
to a house where he has a room. We'll pick 
him up and take him to the police station.” 

The street was dark and silent, and 
Mrs. Reeves’ house showed no light. The car 
eased soundlessly to a stop, and for a mo- 
ment the three men sat there. Brother Tyler 
was driving. 

“This is a bad kind of neighborhood for us 
to fool around in,”’ Stickpin said. 

Chris glanced at the neat red-brick houses. 
“Let Brother stay here, and you come with 
me. I don’t want to have any trouble with 
Lacy.” 

Stickpin said, ‘It ain’t Lacy I’m worried 
about. It’s the people running this here 
house. You tell them I’m your chauffeur.” 

They climbed to the shadowed porch, and 
Chris pressed the bell. A man opened the 
door, stepping back, partially behind it. 

After asking if he was Mr. Reeves, Chris 
said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m Chris 
Mathers. I’ve come to get my brother. This 
is my chauffeur. We’re going to take him 
away.” 

“T suppose it’s all right,” Mr. Reeves said, 
not moving. 

“Which is my brother’s room?” 

“T’ll go ahead and show you.” Mr. Reeves 
padded ahead of them up the steps. 

They emerged on a hall, broken by brown, 
unsolid-looking doors. Mr. Reeves backed 
toward one of the doors. 

“Tn here,”’ he said. 

Chris started briskly in and almost 
stopped at the foul smell. He felt the man 
behind him waiting for his reaction, and 
pushed on past the door. 

In the center of a rumpled double bed, 
Lacy was sprawled in blue-striped shorts. a 
dirty T shirt, and one dark sock making 
even whiter his scrawny white legs. On the 
floor around him were half-empty bottles of 
milk, a gouged-out loaf of bread, a nearly full 
bottle of some green liquid, two empty bot- 
tles of the same kind, and revolting-looking 
red chunks that seemed to be raw beef. Chris 





163 


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crossed to open the window, and Lacy stirred. 
He blinked and raised his thin body on one 
elbow. 

Stickpin laughed. “‘Didn’t expect to find 
me here, did you?”’ 

“You must’ve been sent by my brother.” 
Then he heard Chris moving and turned his 
head toward him. Nothing definite changed 
in his face, not even to show recognition, but 
subtly his expression became different. 

Chris felt as dead inside as Lacy looked. 
““We’ve come to take you away, Lacy.” 

“T’m all right here.”’ 

“No. You haven’t paid your rent and I 
know you haven’t anything to pay it with. 
They want the room. We’re going to take 
you where you'll be looked after. You’re 
sicke 

Stickpin said, ‘“Come on, Lacy, I’ll help 
you dress. Your brother will gather up your 
things.” 

Lacy made no move and Stickpin went 
over and gathered him up, like a mammy 
with a small baby. When Chris saw that 
Lacy, unprotesting, was to suffer Stickpin 
to dress him, he turned away, seizing the ex- 
cuse to pack Lacy’s clothes. At that mo- 
ment he could not have touched him physi- 
cally. 

Lacy’s trash was scattered on a basic neat- 
ness. On top of the chest of drawers, his sim- 
ple toilet articles had been arranged with 
care, but inside the drawers, where his few 
shirts were stacked, more chunks of bread 
and gobs of raw meat gave off a smell like 
the zoo. 

In the closet the smell was worse. Dirtied 
shorts and filthy shirts and undershirts were 
jammed in a heap on the shelf. Chris found 
an unmatching coat and 
pair of pants which, 
though rumpled, were free 
of filth of one kind or an- ¢ 
other. An easy chair, set in 
an inviting group of read- 
ing lamp and side table, 
was draped with a reek- 
ing shirt. Everything showed the pattern of 
an orderly and innocent life, built over 
time, suddenly destroyed by the loosed inner 
demon. 

The desk was stained with the dregs of a 
bottle of cheap wine. Above shelves where 
note paper was neatly stacked, a few books 
were arranged in a row. In the drawer there 
were sharpened pencils, and piles of foolscap 
paper covered with verses in Lacy’s child- 
like handwriting. Only one piece of paper 
was loose, scrawled on carelessly. Glancing 
at the paper, Chris saw the name of a friend 
heading what seemed a list of names. Beside 
it was marked $1.00. 


him. 


Tren he saw the names of his mother’s 
nose-and-throat doctor, the wife of a distant 
cousin, a clerk in the drugstore, another 
friend, on down to listings like “‘mailman,” 
and ‘“‘Star Cleaning guy.’’ After each was a 
figure, mostly 10, 15, and 25, but there was 
an occasional dollar, one two dollars, and one 
$.07. There were forty-eight names, and the 
total amount was $30.22. 

For the first time, Chris felt flushed with 
the shame his mother suffered at having Lacy 
expose his weakness to other people. 

“He’s all ready, Mr. Mathers,” Stickpin 
said. 

Chris looked at Lacy in his unmatched 
clothes, swaying against the big man, his 
face looking as white as death beside 
Stickpin’s dark skin. Lacy kept turned 
away from Chris, leering at Stickpin with 
a foolish grin, and asking for a drink of the 
green stuff. 

“Let him have all of it that he wants,” 
Chris said. 

“Tt’s that old mint gin. Make a dog sick,” 
Stickpin said. 

“Tt’s all of everything he’ll get for a long 
time.” 

He threw Lacy’s papers, books and toilet 
articles on top of the heap of clothes in the 
bag. 

“Get him on down to the car,’’ Chris said. 

Mr. Reeves had been joined by his wife, 
in a green wrapper. 

“You’re not leaving that room that way, 
are you?”’ Her sharp little eyes danced with 


ED aE TE 


An obstinate man does not 
hold opinions, they hold 


November, 1949 


anticipation that he would say yes, so she 
could list her grievances and detail the out- 
rages of Lacy. 

“ Just for tonight, ma’am. I’ll send a clean- 
ing woman here tomorrow.” 


Srickpin passed with Lacy, keeping his 
own bulk between Lacy and the Reeveses. 
Chris followed them down the stairs. 

Stickpin put Lacy in the front with Brother 
Tyler. 

Brother said cheerfully, “Man, you really 
got one hung on.” 

Stickpin and Chris got in the back seat 
of the car. 

“Well,”’ Stickpin said, ““we got by with 
them easy.” 

“Fine,” Chris said, thinking of going 
back to the empty house. 


KK 


In the more than two years that Chris had 
lived in his little house alone, Harriet Coles 
was the first woman he had wanted with him 
during trouble over Lacy. The big difference 
between the night before, when his mother 
phoned, and tonight when the police came, 
was that this time Harriet did not leave. In 
the sick silence after the police had gone, it 
never occurred to Chris, nor apparently to 
Harriet, that she would leave him. 

Much sobered, Chris dressed to go with 
Harriet to his mother’s. When the phone 
rang, he was so certain it was his mother 
that Floyd Henry’s strained voice came as a 
relief. 

Floyd, sounding unnaturally exuberant, 
was saying, “I’ve got my last news for you, 
Mr. Mathers. The police have just gotten a 
tip that Clyde Candless 
and Lacy sneaked into 
Candless’ sister’s house. 
Squad cars are on the 
way over there now, and 
even Mr. Moncrief is go- 
ing. I thought you’d want 
to know.” 

“T certainly do, and thanks for calling. 
Aren’t you going?” 

“I’m afraid I’ve seen the last of Candless 
I want to. He cost me my job. Moncrief had 
to have a goat, I guess, and I’m it. The job 
is over as of—well, a few minutes before I 
called you. But you’ll be wanting to get over 
to the Candless house.” 

“Yes, I do, but I’ll call you later,”’ Chris 
said. “IT can’t tell you how sorry I am, 
Floyd.” Chris turned from the phone. ‘Let’s 
go,” he said to Harriet. “I'll tell you on the 
way.” 

As the car rolled away from the curb, 
Chris told her that the police had tracked 
Candless and Lacy to the house where he 
had been last night, 321 Princess Anne. 

Harriet turned the car into the side street 
where Chris had begun his search the night 
before. They stopped for a traffic light. Then 
Harriet sent the car across the garish border 
line of Commerce Street and into the shad- 
owland of Princess Anne. 

The car lights revealed clumps of people 
moving under the trees. Ahead, in the reflec- 
tion of a wall of weird light, they saw the 
street blocked with cars parked sidewise. 
Badges and the metal of weapons glittered 
in crowds of hurrying men. 

“Pull over,” Chris said, as Harriet slowed 
the car. 

“T don’t think there’s a space left big 
enough for this car.’’ She brought it to a halt 
and was shifting gears to reverse when a 
hard-faced plain-clothes man leaned in the 
window. . 

““Get this car out of here.” 

Chris recognized the detective, Country 
Spence. ‘‘Take it easy, Country,” he said. 
“I heard that they’ve got Lacy here with 
Candless.” 

The detective leaned farther into the car. 
“Oh, hello, Chris,” he said. “I don’t know 
that your brother’s here. We flushed one 
guy hiding in the coalbin, but Candless got 
out on their upper back porch and climbed 
up on the roof. We’ve got men up on all 
the roofs around here and at the front door 
and back of all the houses. He ain’t showed 
yet, though.” 

(Continued on Page 166) 


—POPE. 











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(Continued from Page 164) 

“How about Lacy?” 

“Nobody’s seen him. It looks like this guy 
we caught in the basement was the one with 
Candless when they shot the cab driver. We 
just got word that he died.” 

“Do you mind if we park back up the 
street a little, and wait around?” 

“You know Carl Hasselman’s here, so 
what difference would it make if I did mind? 
Go back slow, ma’am, and I’ll walk along- 
side.” 

Harriet swung the big car into the space 
along the curb as if she were parking in an 
open lot. 

“You do good under pressure,” Chris said. 

“Thad to impress you because of your con- 
nections. This is better than knowing the 
mayor.” 

The detective’s head was back inside the 
car door. ‘‘ You all follow me now and you’ll 
get a front-row seat.” 

Chris walked around the front of the car 
and saw Country Spence assisting Harriet 
out on her side. 

She said, “‘How many men have you got 
here, officer?” 

“Too many, ma’am, and don’t call me of- 
ficer. Chris here knows my name is Country.” 

“And ma’am is Miss Coles,’”’ Chris said. 

“Yes, ma’am. The commissioner is too 
anxious to catch this punk. He’s let the poli- 
ticians put pressure on him.” 

They strolled in the shifting half-light of 
dimmed police-car lights broken by mov- 
ing figures. As they 
reached the street block 
of cars, Chris saw, be- 
hind the heavy shade 
trees, the darkened and 
secret houses of last 
night nakedly exposed 
by lights. The window 
shades were up, reveal- 
ing the harshly lit 
rooms, and searchlights 
from squad cars played 
steadily on the lower 
facades. 

“T don’t think a rab- 
bit could get through 
here,’’ Harriet said. 

“Too many people moving around. We 
should’ve driven them all out, emptied the 
houses, and let a few of us go through room 
by room. The commissioner’s too nice a 
guy for the job.” 

Chris asked, ‘“You mean for here, or the 
whole job?” 

“You know Carl Hasselman, Chris,” 
Spence said. ‘“He’sa fine man, but he just 
don’t know the score. This game is too tricky, 
and all he’s got is honesty. There he is now 
with Wade Moncrief. He should tell Mon- 
crief to get lost. Moncrief is the one who pa- 
roled Candless.”’ 

Chris saw the two men in a small group 
standing on the curb. 

Country Spence said, ‘‘ You all go up and 
speak to Carl Hasselman, so everybody’ll 
know you’re ‘in,’ and I won’t have to be your 
guardian any more. I feel sorry for you, Chris, 
about your brother. I hope he ain’t in it, in 
spite of we found your old man’s gun.” 

He slid back into the crowd before they 
could answer and Harriet said, “Do you sup- 
pose they’re all like that under those tough 
exteriors?” 

“Probably more than we think.” 

He edged Harriet through the fringe of 
people around the police commissioner and 
Wade Moncrief. Carl broke off when he saw 
them, and looked embarrassed at the inter- 
ruption. 


real live horse. 


met you earlier! 


Wave MONCRIEF, following the commis- 


sioner’s gaze, was worried too. Close up, his 
smooth tan skin looked puffy, and under his 
eyes the wide and dark gray circles looked like 
the beginnings of black eyes. But his charm- 
ing smile flashed on when he greeted Harriet. 
An enormous police captain hurried toward 
them. He spoke directly to the commissioner. 
His men had searched the last house in the 
group, he said, and found nothing, but officers 
working up from the street below believed 
they had the fugitive trapped in one of the 
outbuildings at the end of the back yards. 


Small Ronald having arrived at 

the story-loving age, his mother 
read to him every night. One evening 
she was unable to find the book, so 
entertained him with an account of 
her girlhood on the farm. 

Ronald’s eyes grew bigger and big- 
ger as she told of wading in the pond, 
going berry picking, and riding a 
““Gee mom,” he 
sighed wistfully, “SI sure wish I'd 
—WEBB B. GARRISON. 


yo? 


November, 1949 


“How he got down from the roof I don’t 
know,” the captain said, ‘“‘but anyway we 
know where he is.” 

Moncrief said, ‘If you know who he is.” 

The captain turned his stolid face toward 
the paroleman. ‘‘That’s our job.” 

His bluntness steadied Carl Hasselman. 
“T’ll go back there,” he said. 

“Do you mind if I go along?” Moncrief 
asked. 

Carl did mind but, moving ahead with the 
captain, he said, ‘‘ You can come along if you 
want.” 

“Harriet,” Moncrief said, “tell Linda 
where I’m going, will you? She’s in my car 
here.” 


Tue door swung open on the dark blue car 
and Chris saw the tense and lovely face of 
Linda Sherrell. 

“T heard you all talking,” she said, ‘‘and 
I’m so happy you’re both here. Come in with 
me.” 

It sounded more like a plea than an invita- 
tion. Though the front seat was easily wide 
enough for the three of them, the women 
looked, as Chris felt, compressed and uncom- 
fortable. 

Linda said, “I’m so upset. Do you think 
they’ll catch Candless, Chris?” 

“T don’t think they’ll catch him in that 
maze of outbuildings in the back of these 
houses. I was back there earlier today with 
Floyd Henry.” 

“Oh, that poor boy. I think it’s awful for 
him to lose his job. 
When that boy was 
made a sacrificial 
lamb ——” 

Suddenly the guns 
began to bark, sound- 
ing from the distance 
behind the houses ex- 
actly like short, single 
barks of a dog. Then 
the echoes rolled into 
the barking, and shouts 
rolled over the gun 
sounds, and all the peo- 
ple in all the yards 
sprang into purposeless 
action. The three of 
them spilled out of the car, as if they were 
compelled to go somewhere. 

Through all the rushing, and the heat and 
carbon monoxide, Chris smelled the night on 
the old trees and the abandoned shrubbery of 
the yards. Policemen brushed past and the 
inhabitants of the streets knocked into them. 
Chris took an arm of each girl and backed to- 
ward the car. 

If it was Lacy they had, this would be the 
best way. 

Even as he formed the thought, his body 
reacted violently against it, and he felt ill. 
Then the words, unrelated to his brain, came 
out in a thin sick voice. 

“You all get back in the car. I’ve got to go 
down there.” 

Both of them grabbed him. He didn’t hear 
what they said. In all the noise, the guns 
had grown silent. The shouting from the 
back yards was picked up on the street, like 
grotesque echoes flung back and forth. 

“T don’t care if I look a fool or not,” he 
said, ‘I’ve got to go.” 

“Nobody said you’d look a fool. But you 
might’ve gotten shot. I suppose it’s all right 
to go now. But stay in the light.” 

He moved away from them across the 
brick sidewalk. He felt so tired that he rolled 
with the unseen people pushing against him. 
As he reached the columned porch, a police- 
man lifted himself off the side railing. 

“You can’t go in here now.” 

“That’s my brother out in back, Lacy 
Mathers.” 

“Well, he’s not out in back now. He got 
away, down in the bottoms.” 

Chris focused on a kind and rugged young 
face. ““You wouldn’t just tell me that, 
would you?” 

“T just got the message a second before © 


you came. He’s gone, and it’s more likely _ 


Candless. Nobody’s seen your brother.” 
Chris stood there in the glare from the 


searchlights. Above the door, he saw the ~ 


(Continued on Page 168) 


e 





ceed very long in fooling them tha 
weren't mentally sick. The only perso 


fooli 


Lacy made no answer. His ra 
seemed immobilized beyond ca 
pression. 

Aunt Theresa returned. Shg 
Poindexter said someone 


and 


ina 
ce diffe 
f PS 


Chris’ anger thinned oy} 


/ LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 168) 









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range, table, anywhere. 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 164) 

“How about Lacy?” 

““Nobody’s seen him. It looks like this guy 
we caught in the basement was the one with 
Candless when they shot the cab driver. We 
just got word that he died.” 

“Do you mind if we park back up the 
street a little, and wait around?” 

“You know Carl Hasselman’s here, so 
what difference would it make if I did mind? 
Go back slow, ma’am, and I'll walk along- 
side.” 

Harriet swung the big car into the space 
along the curb as if she were parking in an 
open lot. 

“You do good under pressure,” Chris said. 

“‘T had to impress you because of your con- 
nections. This is better than knowing the 
mayor.” 

The detective’s head was back inside the 
car door. ‘‘ You all follow me now and you’ll 
get a front-row seat.” 

Chris walked around the front of the car 
and saw Country Spence assisting Harriet 
out on her side. 

She said, ‘How many men have you got 
here, officer?” 

“Too many, ma’am, and don’t call me of- 
ficer. Chris here knows my name is Country.” 

“And ma’am is Miss Coles,’”’ Chris said. 

“Yes, ma’am. The commissioner is too 
anxious to catch this punk. He’s let the poli- 
ticians put pressure on him.” 

They strolled in the shifting half-light of 
dimmed police-car lights broken by mov- 
ing figures. As they 
reached the street block 
of cars, Chris saw, be- 
hind the heavy shade 
trees, the darkened and 
secret houses of last 
night nakedly exposed 
by lights. The window 
shades were up, reveal- 
ing the harshly lit 
rooms, and searchlights 
from squad cars played 
steadily on the lower 
facades. 

“T don’t think a rab- 
bit could get through 
here,’”’ Harriet said. 

“Too many people moving around. We 
should’ve driven them all out, emptied the 
houses, and let a few of us go through room 
by room. The commissioner’s too nice a 
guy for the job.” 

Chris asked, ‘““You mean for here, or the 
whole job?” 

“You know Carl Hasselman, Chris,” 
Spence said. “‘He’sa fine man, but he just 
don’t know the score. This game is too tricky, 
and all he’s got is honesty. There he is now 
with Wade Moncrief. He should tell Mon- 
crief to get lost. Moncrief is the one who pa- 
roled Candless.”’ 

Chris saw the two men in a small group 
standing on the curb. 

Country Spence said, “You all go up and 
speak to Carl Hasselman, so everybody’ll 
know you're ‘in,’ and I won’t have to be your 
guardian any more. I feel sorry for you, Chris, 
about your brother. I hope he ain’t in it, in 
spite of we found your old man’s gun.” 

He slid back into the crowd before they 
could answer and Harriet said, ‘“Do you sup- 
pose they’re all like that under those tough: 
exteriors?” 

“Probably more than we think.” 

He edged Harriet through the fringe of 
people around the police commissioner and 
Wade Moncrief. Carl broke off when he saw 
them, and looked embarrassed at the inter- 
ruption. 


real live horse. 


Wave MONCRIEF, following the commis- 


sioner’s gaze, was worried too. Close up, his 
smooth tan skin looked puffy, and under his 
eyes the wide and dark gray circles looked like 
the beginnings of black eyes. But his charm- 
ing smile flashed on when he greeted Harriet. 
An enormous police captain hurried toward 
them. He spoke directly to the commissioner. 
His men had searched the last house in the 
group, he said, and found nothing, but officers 
working up from the street below believed 
they had the fugitive trapped in one of the 
outbuildings at the end of the back yards. 


Small Ronald having arrived at 

the story-loving age, his mother 
read to him every night. One evening 
she was unable to find the book, so 
entertained him with an account of 
her girlhood on the farm. 

Ronald’s eyes grew bigger and big- 
ger as she told of wading in the pond, 
going berry picking, and riding a 
“Gee mom,” he 
sighed wistfully, “I sure wish I'd 
met you earlier!’” —WEBB B. GARRISON. 


November, 1949 


“How he got down from the roof I don’t 
know,” the captain said, “‘but anyway w 
know where he is.” 

Moncrief said, “If you know who he i 

The captain turned his stolid face tow 
the paroleman. “‘That’s our job.” 

His bluntness steadied Carl Hasseln 
“T’ll go back there,” he said. 

“Do you mind if I go along?” Mon 
asked. 

Carl did mind but, moving ahead witt 
captain, he said, ‘“‘You can come along if yuu 
want.” 

“Harriet,” Moncrief said, “tell Linda 
where I’m going, will you? She’s in my car 
here.” 


Tue door swung open on the dark blue car 
and Chris saw the tense and lovely face of 
Linda Sherrell. 

“T heard you all talking,” she said, “‘and 
I’m so happy you’re both here. Come in with 
me.” 

It sounded more like a plea than an invita- 
tion. Though the front seat was easily wide 
enough for the three of them, the women 
looked, as Chris felt, compressed and uncom- 
fortable. 

Linda said, “‘I’m so upset. Do you think 
they’ll catch Candless, Chris?” 

“T don’t think they’ll catch him in that 
maze of outbuildings in the back of these 
houses. I was back there earlier today with 
Floyd Henry.” 

“Oh, that poor boy. I think it’s awful for 
him to lose his job. 
When that boy was 
made a sacrificial 
lamb ——” 

Suddenly the guns 
began to bark, sound- 
ing from the distance 
behind the houses ex- 
actly like short, single 
barks of a dog. Then 
the echoes rolled into 
the barking, and shouts 
rolled over the gun 
sounds, and all the peo- 
ple in all the yards 
sprang into purposeless 
action. The three of 
them spilled out of the car, as if they were 
compelled to go somewhere. 

Through all the rushing, and the heat and 
carbon monoxide, Chris smelled the night on 
the old trees and the abandoned shrubbery of 
the yards. Policemen brushed past and the 
inhabitants of the streets knocked into them. 
Chris took an arm of each girl and backed to- 
ward the car. 

If it was Lacy they had, this would be the 
best way. 

Even as he formed the thought, his body 
reacted violently against it, and he felt ill. 
Then the words, unrelated to his brain, came 
out in a thin sick voice. 

“You all get back in the car. I’ve got to go 
down there.” 5 

Both of them grabbed him. He didn’t hear 
what they said. In all the noise, the guns 
had grown silent. The shouting from the 
back yards was picked up on the street, like 
grotesque echoes flung back and forth. 

“T don’t care if I look a fool or not,’ he 
said, ‘I’ve got to go.” 

“Nobody said you’d look a fool. But you 
might’ve gotten shot. I suppose it’s all right 
to go now. But stay in the light.” 

He moved away from them across the 
brick sidewalk. He felt so tired that he rolled 
with the unseen people pushing against him. 
As he reached the columned porch, a police- 
man lifted himself off the side railing. 

“You can’t go in here now.” 

“That’s my brother out in back, Lacy 
Mathers.” 

“Well, he’s not out in back now. He got 
away, down in the bottoms.” ; 

Chris focused on a kind and rugged young 
face. ““You wouldn’t just tell me that, 
would you?” 

“T just got the message a second before 
you came. He’s gone, and it’s more likely 
Candless. Nobody’s seen your brother.” 

Chris stood there in the glare from the 
searchlights. Above the door, he saw the 

(Continued on Page 168) 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 169 


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(Continued from Page 168) 
ceed very long in fooling them that you 
‘weren't mentally sick. The only person you're 
fooling is yourself.” 

Lacy made no answer. His ravaged face 
seemed immobilized beyond capacity of ex- 
pression. 

Aunt Theresa returned. She’said, “Squire 
Poindexter said someone will be right out, 
and he’ll try to get Country Spence.” 

Chris’ anger thinned out. He realized that, 
in a different way from his mother and from 
different compulsions, he too had surren- 
dered to the urge to beat at Lacy. He pulled 
a crumpled, half-full package of cigarettes 
from his jacket pocket. 

“Have one?” He held the package toward 
Lacy. 

“Thank you.” Lacy fumbled in the pack- 
age. 

“Take them all.” 

Lacy put one between his pale lips and 
pushed the package into the pocket of a 
cheap sports shirt. Chris saw that a dirtied 
jacket lay over the footboard of the bed. 

“Has he got a clean jacket here?” 

“There’s one in the hall closet,’ Aunt 
Theresa said, “‘I’ll get it.” 

“Turn on the hall light while you’re out 
there.” Then he could not control it. He said 
to Lacy, “ You're still not willing to take any 
therapy like electric shock or prefrontal 
lobotomy?” 

“No. There’s not all that wrong with me,” 
Lacy said, 

Then their mother let go. ‘‘Lacy, if you 
think you can control yourself, why don’t 
you do it? You write me all your fine resolu- 
tions, pleading to be given a chance, and 
when you come out, you 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Chris turned his eyes away from his 
brother, who was rising slowly from the bed, 
with the masklike impassivity and the dead- 
ness in his pale eyes. Chris stepped into the 
hall, overflowing with the big uniforms, and 
confronted Country Spence. 

“He’s in there,’’ Chris said. 

He heard his mother sob, and the three 
policemen filed past him. 

Chris hurried to the front hall, to wait for 
them there as they took Lacy out. 


xk & 


Route 60 from Richmond to Newport 
News, through Williamsburg, follows the old 
Pocahontas Trail. The road still winds along 
the contours found convenient to foot and 
horse travelers. All along the road the white 
stone markers, erected by the Common- 
wealth of Virginia, factually list the histori- 
cal events which occurred on that spot. 


In the car, with hastily packed bags in the 
back seat, Chris had his jacket off and his 
collar open, and Harriet’s face was damply 
flushed, with little glistening beads over her 
upper lip. 

Chris said, ‘The only thing that worries 
me about this is your complete disinterest in 
history.” 

“That’s all changed, dear. I’m full of curi- 
osity about everything since you said so 
tenderly last night, ‘Let’s go whole-hog. Let’s 
get married first.’ ” 

“QE course, that was just a way of pro- 
tecting your reputation so you could drive me 
to Kingsborough. Dr. George Burton Cary 
has stopped answering my letters on Lacy, 
and I think they’re keeping something from 
me at the hospital.” 


take up with criminals.” SRL Se “Anyway, Doctor Cary 
“T wouldn’t have done adds a nice fillip to this 
that if the hospital had let If you do not have the sudden honeymoon. I'll 


me stay here and work, as 
I asked them. They kept 
me waiting for an answer, 
and then tried to get me 
picked up. They betrayed 
me.” 

“But you had no reason to expect them to 
let you stay out. They’d said you weren’t 
ready for a furlough and God knows you’ve 
proved it. Why do you have to act this way?” 

Against the embarrassing plea rising in her 
voice, presaging her helpless return to the 
old moral preachments, Lacy sat like a stone. 
His hour was running out and he stolidified 
himself to endure the details of his return to 
“the somber walls,” suffer “‘the bad ward”’ 
where he would be put with dangerous ma- 
niacs as punishment for his escape, and then, 
the policy of the hospital executed, resume 
his half-life as patient-attendant, neither 
fully a patient, nor fully an attendant, but— 
as he had written—“‘‘one of the damned, the 
lost and forsaken.” 

His mother had said, “He thinks and feels 
like anybody else,”’ and the doctor had writ- 
ten, ‘He does not have the normal ability to 
feel as other people.’”’ They were both right. 


will not bring 


HE felt hopes and fears, aspirations and 
loneliness, the desire for woman and the pleas- 
ures of the senses. But he did not feel these 
within the emotional and mental fabric of 
other people. A sense of responsibility was 
lacking, and gratitude and truthfulness, and 
the interplay of the causes and effects of 
relationships was warped by his own ego- 
centric demands. He felt pride, deeply, but 
unrelated to the necessities of living which 
support it. The hospital attributed these 
lacks and distortions to ‘deep-seated char- 
acter defects” which resulted in “defective 
judgment.” But what caused the character 
defects? Were they not, after all, manifesta- 
tions of the deeper and unreachable illness? 

Why, from the beginning, had no one au- 
thority stated flatly that this man suffered 
from a cancer of the soul? Here was un- 
encapsulated malignancy, whose roots and 
boundaries were undiscoverable. Why was 
this evil flower permitted to flourish in so- 
ciety? Why were its attendants encouraged 
to suffer the fluctuations of hope and despair? 

Aunt Theresa tiptoed back into the room, 
with an old but clean green jacket over her 
arm. “They’re here,”’ she whispered. 


capacity for happiness with 
a little money, great wealth 


bet no other bride-to-be 
ever started her married 
life with a trip to the 
psychiatrist of her future 
brother-in-law.” 

“T’m afraid he’ll never 
be a brother-in-law—more likely albatross- 
in-law.” ; 

“Chris, I’m not a girl any more. What af- 
fects you is my pleasure to take, and in stride. 
After all, seeing Doctor Cary is just some- 
thing in stride on our way to Virginia Beach. 
Kingsborough is a nice place to stop for 
lunch. Remember last Sunday at the inn, 
during our courting days?” 

“How long ago it all seems.” 

Harriet turned the car off the highway into 
the bold white involutions which led away 
from the approach to Williamsburg. 

She said, “This highway system is the 
big-time for us folks of the ‘too poor to paint 
and too proud to whitewash’ belt. This is like 
the Merritt highway across Connecticut.” 

Don’t say it. Don’t say, “There’s no 
Merritt highway for the borderlines.”” Don’t 
ruin this marriage by talking of the casualties 
unrecognized by society. 

They emerged from the involutions on the 
straight road to Kingsborough. Remember- 
ing all the similar ordeals in the past, and 
Jacqueline’s increasing resentment of them, 
Chris suffered the old sense of apology for 
involving others. 

“You know,” he said, “‘just like they 
needed several people to keep one combat 
soldier in action, apparently they need one 
to keep the borderlines where they should be, 
and at least you know that your husband 
is the man behind the man behind the 
gun i 

“Chris, my darling, don’t you know I’m 
proud to be the woman behind you? After 
all, your life is important to me, and it’s my 
privilege to see that it remains important 
to you,” Harriet told him. ‘‘Can’t you be- 
lieve that?” 

Ahead, baking under the summer sun, he 
saw the grim-walled building with the barred 
windows—the home of his brother. For once 
he could look away, even from the inner 
image. He turned to the woman.who was 
going to be his wife. He grinned to keep 
from spilling over. 

“T believe you—and, believe me, I need 
to.” THE END 


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November, 1949 


DAY OF GRACE 


(Continued from Page 42) 


content kept seeping through him, like 
heat and sunshine in his veins instead of 
blood. A very pleasant sensation. But not 
conducive to coherence. He cleared his throat 
and clenched his fists in his jacket pockets, 
a habit he had learned in youth when he 
wanted to concentrate. 

“Tn my business”—he spoke loudly into 
the listening silence—‘‘the insurance busi- 
ness, you know ——”’ 

“T know,” the Voice murmured. 

Mr. Ditterman stopped, head tilted, slight 
amazement written on his face. ‘But, of 
course,” he almost whispered. ‘You know 
everything, don’t you?” 

There was no answer. 

Mr. Ditterman forced himself to go on, 
through a growing languor. “‘I suppose you 
even know what I was about to say. Well— 
let’s see—oh, yes. In my business, the insur- 
ance business, there is such a thing as a day 
of grace. As a matter of fact, with most com- 
panies it’s really a month of grace. You know, 
somebody can’t pay on the day the premium 
is due. So unspokenly there’s a month from 
that day before we crack down on them.” He 
mused. ‘‘ We really do crack down.” 

“Yes?” the Voice invited. 

“Well, I was wondering. I know it’s a 
great deal to ask, but considering the un- 
expectedness of this—this transference— 
would there be any possibility ———”’ He 
couldn’t manage to make it. He stared at 
his thumbs and was surprised to see that he, 
who never twiddled, was definitely doing so 
in a lazy rotary motion. 

The Voice finished for 
him. “‘For you to have a 
day of grace?” 

Mr. Ditterman nodded 
humbly. 

“Why?” 

He spread hishands out- 
ward. ‘‘For those odds 
and ends,” he explained 
feebly. , 

For the first time the .Voice sounded for- 
mal. “It’s highly irregular.” 

Mr. Ditterman backtracked as fast as the 
strange feeling would let him. ‘I know,” he 
apologized. “I’m sorry.” 

The Voice pondered. “‘ But not impossible. 
No, not at all impossible. If it would make 
your stay Here more pleasant, happier in the 
long run, it most likely could be managed.” 

The languor started to run out of Mr Dit- 
terman, slowly, like molasses out of a narrow- 
mouthed jug. 

“But if you’re thinking,”’ the Voice went 
on sternly, ‘‘of twenty-four hours granted 
you to go back and clear up your mistakes, 
a sort of Cook’s Tour of reparation, or a real 
Christmas Carol, that’s out of the question, 
I’m afraid. That sort of thing happens only 
in books.”’ 


Mr. pitreRMAN didn’t reply, although his 
mind was clearing faster now so that words 
of denial crowded against his lips. 

There was decision in the Voice. “Tell me 
exactly what you wish to do.”’ 

“There were seven letters on my desk to 
be signed,’’ Mr. Ditterman listed briskly. 
“The mortgage payment was to be made at 
the bank this afternoon. The last one, by the 
way,” he explained proudly. ‘‘My wife was 
having two old friends of ours from out of 
town for dinner. Haven’t seen them for years. 
And Sandra—that’s my daughter ——” He 
hesitated. ‘‘My daughter,’”’ he went on, “‘is 
bringing—was bringing, I should say—a 
thoroughly unsuitable young man to meet 
me this evening.” 

“And you want,” the Voice summarized, 
“to sign the letters, pay the mortgage, dine 
with the friends and show your disapproval 
of the young man?” 

Mr. Ditterman nodded hopefully. 

The Voice decreed, ‘‘ Very well. So be it.” 

“ Hallelujah,’ Mr. Ditterman cried. Then 
was completely astounded at his own enthu- 
silasm. 

The red chair faded. The room went some- 
place. 


Happiness is a hard thing 
because it is achieved only 
by making others happy. 


(Houghton Mifflin Company). 


Once again Mr. Ditterman stood on the 
corner of Third and Maple streets in the 
town of Lanham, Indiana. The clock across 
the street managed to disentangle its hands 
from the blatant black of its advertising, 
enough to announce that it was ten minutes 
of one. The newspaper under Mr. Ditter- 
man’s arm carried the date of July 14, 1949. 
He knew because he checked carefully to 
see. 

Still looking at the paper, he stepped from 
the curb as he had that other time. He heard 
the sudden shout, the shriek of a horn, the 
roar of a truck. He looked up to see the 
driver’s face, white, oval-mouthed, para- 
lyzed. He saw the truck’s great wheels bear- 
ing down on him. He froze. 


On y this time it was different. This time 
the truck swerved sharply to the left, out 
into the middle lane, and wove around Mr, 
Ditterman, flying back a banner of exhaust 
fumes and the driver’s curses. 

“Whew,” Mr. Ditterman breathed. He 
proceeded cautiously across the rest of the 
street. It could have happened like that, he said 
to Somebody. J see. It could, if You'd wanted 
at thal way. 

He swung around and bumped into a large 
heavy body. It was his dearest enemy, George 
Broadhurt. 

Broadhurt grunted. He was a great grunter. 
There was something supercilious about his 
grunts, as about his tilt of the head and his 
heavy, ponderous way of speaking, that had 
always irritated Mr. Dit- 
terman beyond control. 

“Huh!’”’ Broadhurt 
snorted down. ‘‘Watch 
where you’re going, why 
don’t you?” 

Mr. Ditterman let the 
paper slide to the side- 
walk. He looked George 
Broadhurt over from head 
to toe. 

What he saw surprised him. He saw the 
man who had stolen an idea from him, from 
Mr. Ditterman, when they were both in their 
twenties. He saw the man who had used that 
idea to build up a fortune. The man who 
lived in the biggest mansion in town and 
owned riding horses and had money in the 
bank and a car a mile long. He saw the man 
who had condescended to him for the past 
quarter century. 

_ But, astoundingly, he saw a lot more. As if 
somebody had peeled George Broadhurt, so 
that his second skin showed. 

Why, thought Mr. Ditterman in sheer 
amazement, the guilt has lain on him all these 
years like lead in his heart. He’s conde- 
scended to me because he didn’t dare look me in 
the eye. He’s avoided me because I'm like a 
gallows rope swinging before a murderer’s 
gaze. I'll be doggoned. 

It was neat. It tied up. It made sense. It 
made Mr. Ditterman feel very good and com- 
fortable too. So that he wished mightily he 
had known it before. 

If I had, his thoughts went on, J could have 
gone up lo him and said, “Look here, George, 
we were mighty youmg and I flew off the handle 
and ‘threatened to beat your brains out and it 
was a dirty trick you did to me. Bul we've lived 
a bit since then. There’s no use holding grudges. 
Ive done pretty well on my own. Matter of fact, 
I’ve had a mighty fine time doing things the 
hard way. Ive learned a lot about myself and 
my capacities. I’m not at all sure I'd like to 
have the shoe on the other foot.” 

He opened his mouth. He put his hand 
gently on George Broadhurt’s arm. “George,” 
he found himself saying, ‘‘ you’re an arrogant, 
filthy-rich, rotten old fool, who thinks every- 
body in the town should step aside for you. 
I’m a taxpayer, too, George, in my own small 
way. I’ve aright to my share of the sidewalk, 
even if not to my share of the profits you’ve 
sucked from my idea. If you don’t want your 
false teeth pushed down into your lying 
throat—you’ll watch where you're going and 
you'll stay out of my way.”’ 

(Continued on Page 174) 


—STUART CLOETE: 
The Third Way 





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(Continued from Page 172) 

Horror filled Mr. Ditterman. He’d borne 
it in silence and dignity all these years. Now, 
when at last he felt kindly and forgiving, 
he’d shot off his mouth like any bully. 

George Broadhurt was looking at him. 
There was horror in his eyes too. And a little 
fear for his flabby chin and his soft muscles. 
He circled carefully around Mr. Ditterman 
and walked quickly away. 

Mr. Ditterman turned to watch him. The 
droop of George’s shoulders belonged to a 
tired old man, and a defeated one. Poor 
George, he sympathized. I broke the camel’s 
back. Somewhere in the back of his subcon- 
scious, a phrase ran its course. ‘‘No Cook’s 
Tour of reparation,” it repeated. 


Mr. Ditterman pulled in the cool air of his 
office with gratitude. He nodded to his secre- 
tary, smoothed back his dank hair and asked, 
“Got those letters ready yet, Miss Lane?” 

The girl’s vaguely blue eyes behind their 
thick glasses showed bewilderment. ‘“‘I put 
them on your desk before lunch, Mr. Ditter- 
man, remember?” 

Mr. Ditterman flushed. He hated to make 
mistakes. “‘Of course, of course,” he said 
briskly. ‘‘That’s one reason why I am here, 
isn’t it?’’ He marched into his private cu- 
bicle and sat down slowly. 

He was very tired—a feeling, he realized, 
he’d carried with him for some time now. He 
was used to it. Even in the mornings, dragged 
out and weary. Maybe he wouldn’t have 
noticed it, except for that time . . . There. 
When the sun was in him, and the lightness. 

“T dreamed it,”’ he said aloud and rubbed 
his hand over his knotted forehead. 

He glanced up to see Miss Lane’s worried 
face puckered around the door. ‘I—I 
thought you called me,”’ she explained hast- 
ily. “I’m sorry. You’re... all right?’ 

Mr. Ditterman noticed her hair, draggling 
two strands down the back of her neck. Her 
cotton dress was rumpled and uneven at the 
hemline. He saw the worry on her face too. 
Worry for him. All at once he remembered 
the shopping errands at Christmastime, the 
bills she’d paid for him on her noon hour, the 
precision of her letters, and his cigar box al- 
ways filled on the desk. 

Why, his mind exclaimed in italics and 
exclamation points, Miss Lane’s in love with 
me! She has been for the past eight years! She 
goes home every night to that crippled mother of 
hers and presses herself fresh to come back to me 
in the morning. And she dreams about me and 
makes up little stories of how I finally discover 
her true worth 

He was filled with such tenderness for Miss 
Lane. For her and all the others like her. He 
pulled the letters embarrassedly toward him. 

“Miss Lane,”’ he said crisply, “‘your slip’s 
showing. Why don’t you do something about 
yourself?” 

The face and form raced from the door- 
way. The outside door opened and shut. 

“Oh, dear,’’ Mr. Ditterman moaned aloud. 
“T’ve made her cry again.” It shocked him. 





“I live in constant fear that she may become good at it.” 












































November, 1949 © 
It shocked him deeply and for the first time, 
“You might,” he remarked slowly into space. 
“have given me a little opportunity not to 
be so much like I’ve always been.” 

Then he concentrated on the letters. They 
were pretty standard, except for one. That, 
one was addressed to Lam Cooke. 5 

Everybody in Lanham, Indiana, knew 
Lam Cooke. A slim man with very curly gray 
hair and a smile that was up at one corner and 
down at the other. He had gentle gray eyes, 
and a gentle voice and a hesitant manner 
filled with apology. With reason, that apol- 
ogy for living. Because Lam Cooke was apt 
to be found in the middle of a field, in the 
state hospital, in the back alley behind Sam’s 
Bar, at two o’clock of any Saturday night, 
limp with liquor. 

“An alcoholic,” Mr. Ditterman had been 
known to remark s¢ornfully. “‘That’s what 
they call him nowadays. In my time, he | 
would go by the good old-fashioned title of 
drunken bum.” 

Yet even Mr. Ditterman had to admit | 
that Lam wasn’t exactly a bum. When some- 
body would hire him he’d work, gladly. That 
is, until the newness of the job was dulled by 
the crescendoing desire for a drink. 

Mr. Ditterman expounded to Marjorie | 
once, “‘Mrs. Cooke ought to divorce him. It | 
isn’t good for that little kid to have a father 
like Lam.” 

Marjorie disagreed for once. ‘‘No,” she 
spoke decidedly. ‘‘Mrs. Cooke won’t live 
with him until he’s stayed sober a year. But | 
knowing that he can go there for Sunday din- 
ners, that he has something to spruce up for, 
that once a week he can be a family man— 
that’s the thing that keeps Lam alive.” 

Staring fixedly at the letter under his 
hand, Mr. Ditterman saw for the first time | 
what Marjorie meant. Two things made 
Lam Cooke as good as he was, kept him from _ 
going all the way over: the fact that his wife - 
waited for him; and his insurance. 

Once when Lam had managed to stay sober 
nine months of that hoped-for year, he said 
to Mr. Ditterman proudly, ‘It’s good for a 
man to know that his family will be taken 
care of—in case anything happens to him.” | 

The next day he started off on a rooting- | 
tooting spree that ended in the hospital. \F 

The letter read: “‘ We regret to inform you © 
that your policy has been canceled. This is 
due to the fact that it has been borrowed 
upon to its maximum, no interest has been | 
paid and the last two premiums have not 
been met. .. . Sincerely,” the last word said. 
“Sincerely,” and waited for Mr. Ditter-— 
man’s steady, neat signature. 

The words blurred a little. In their place > 
was Lam Cooke’s sensitive face. 

’ His dreams, Mr. Ditterman reflected with — 
compassion, were always too big for his abili- 
ties. And the roughness of the world was some- 
thing he couldn’t face. He just ran away from 
it, like a little boy from a promised spanking. 

Mr. Ditterman walked over to the filing 
case. He pulled out Lam Cooke’s policy. Two 

(Continued on Page 176) 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 








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(Continued from Page 174) 
premiums of $23.96 each; interest to about 
$45; $100 would clear the whole thing up. 
Would put Lam Cooke back in the insured 
class. 

Mr. Ditterman went to his desk. “‘I’ll do 
it,” he exulted aloud. ‘““When I go to the 
bank I’ll draw out a hundred and mail it to 
Lam along with a premium notice.” 

Maybe, he mused, if somebody had done 
something like that just once for Lam, to... 
sort of restore his faith in human nature—in 
himself —— 

He felt very fine about it. That’s why he 
was so aghast, so suddenly disconsolate, to 
see his hand write decisively ‘Alfred J. 
Ditterman” under the word “Sincerely.” 
He tasted the quick, rancid flavor of the gum 
on the back of the envelope, noted that Miss 
Lane had already stamped it, and put it 
into the outgoing-mail basket. 

A Day of Grace was a very complex thing. 

Mr. Ditterman stood in line at the crowded 
bank. He always got a sort of glow from 
coming into the bank. Here he was an estab- 
lished businessman with several thousand 
dollars in savings, a house practically his, and 
the knowledge that he had done it all himself. 

At the window the teller looked up, winked, 
glanced down at Mr. Ditterman’s book and 
said, ‘‘ Well, by golly, it’s all yours now, sir. 
Nothing but taxes to pay the rest of your 
years.” 

“The rest of my years,” Mr. Ditterman 
echoed. “‘ Yes, yes, indeed.” 

As he swerved away from the window with 
the little checked-off mortgage book tucked 
into his pocket, a hand grabbed his arm. 

“Ditterman,” a loud 
voice whooped. “‘Ditter- 
man, old man, I would 
have words with you.” 

Mr. Ditterman stared 
down at the puffy red 
hand with distaste. Phil 
McCoy was the loudest 
and, strangely, the most 
successful real-estate man 
in town. “‘Go ahead,” Mr. 
Ditterman offered ungraciously, working 
his way toward the door. 

“Got a bid for your house,”” McCoy yelled. 
“Fourteen thousand. I know for a fact it’s 
six thousand more than you paid to have it 
built. You’d be a durned fool to pass it up.” 

Mr. Ditterman thought of his house. 
Really his, now. Marjorie loved every corner 
of it. She had put herself into every hand- 
made drape, every curtain, every hooked rug. 
The last fifteen years of Marjorie’s life were 
represented in its atmosphere and charm. 

He shook his head. “‘ Where could we go? 
There’s not a free spot in all Lanham.” 

Phil McCoy whinnied. “Why should you 
worry about that? Live at the hotel till you 
find yourself a lot. You’ve got plenty of 
time to build another home—but you won’t 
get a chance like this again.” 


each other. 


Ure .easen screams climbed in Mr. Ditter- 
man’s throat. Time! he wanted to shriek. 
I’m dead. I’m already set and gone. It would be 
like taking candy away from a baby, or a baby 
from its mother. Marjorie has used that house 
to compensate for every disappointment —— 

It was true. He knew it. He knew, vaguely, 
that Marjorie had wanted more of life, of 
love, of marriage, of romance than he and 
his neat ways had ever been able to give her. 
He didn’t like the thought, so he put it away. 

As he did, he knew something else, too, 
with a leaden certainty. If he weren’t so 
dead, if he were alive, he’d snap at this 
chance to make a good piece of money. He 
wouldn’t consider Marjorie’s feelings. So this 
time he didn’t feel any wonder. He listened 
to himself say, as he knew he would: 

“Let’s go to my office, Phil. Let’s see about 
this thing.” 

The long July day was coming to a close as 
Mr. Ditterman walked slowly toward the 
residential part of town. Because he didn’t 
like the shape of the day behind him, he 
looked ahead to the evening. 

“Dinner with old friends,’ he had ex- 
plained to the Voice. One thing he’d omitted, 
though. Sally Shane, whom he hadn’t seen in 
almost twenty years, was more than an old 


Men and women have 
enough in common to en- 
able them to misunderstand 


—C. WILLETT CUNNINGTON: 
Why Women Wear Clothes 
(Faber & Faber, Ltd.). 


Novemwer, 1949 — 


friend. She was golden curls, a lovely young 
curved body. She was a first kiss on the top 
of a hill with the moon sliding up. She was 
dancing a: the State U proms. She was the 
promise of a life that could be nothing less 
than thrilling, nothing less than rewarding. 

She was also, Mr. Ditterman brooded as 
he turned slowly up the flagstone walk of his 
ex-home, heartbreak and a vow broken. It’s 
tough enough to lose the girl you love, but to 
lose her to your best friend, and the football 
captain at that (when you’re just captain of 
the debating team), is something never to be 
forgotten. , 


He fitted his key carefully in the lock. — 
She’d always been there, he thought sadly. 
She’d stood in the way, a radiant illusionary 
figure, of his closest moments with Marjorie. 
He shrugged, straightened his shoulders and 
opened the door. 

He found himself immediately engulfed in 
a swarm of flabby arms, moist cheeks, tick- 
ling curls and cheap perfume. The shrill coy 
voice swirled around him like the high whine 
of a mosquito: 

“Alfred, you pet. You doll baby. After all 
these years.” 

Mr. Ditterman felt his hat go flying, made 
a futile grab for it and entangled his hand in 
a wad of lace. Finally he took a firm stand, 
pushed with both elbows outward, and found 
himself free. 

There she was. All of her. He sucked in a 
weak breath and tried to take the tremble 
from his knees. Because he couldn’t bear to 
face directly the buxom obscenity of flesh 
that was his first love, his lifelong wistfulness, 
he swiveled to look at 
Charlie Shane. 

They’re a pair, he 
thought wildly. Because 
what had been muscle and 
drive and great shoulders 
in his best friend had be- 
come a sort of gelatin. Set 
enough, Mr. Ditterman 
supposed, but somehow 
giving the effect that a 
warm room would melt it to stickiness. 

“Well,” Mr. Ditterman announced weakly. 
“Well, well, well.” 

Sally hooked her great arm through his. 
“You haven’t changed a bit, Al, honey,” she 
blurbed. “‘And what about little me?” 

Mr. Ditterman caught Marjorie’s eyes. 
For a long moment he forgot the Shanes and 
the day behind him. There was a twinkle in 
her brown gaze, a tenderness, a sympathy 
that told him something. 

Why, Mr. Ditterman told himself, she 
knows how I feel. How disillusioned and hor- 
rified. Has she known, too, all these years, how 
I’ve dreamed of Sally? 

Marjorie nodded, almost as if in answer to 
his question. ‘“Has Sally changed, do you 
think, Alfred?’’ she asked. The twinkle was 
pure mischief now. 

Mr. Ditterman stared into Sally’s up- 
turned eager face. Somewhere under the flesh, 
the cheapness, was the sweet exciting girl, 
whose spirit always seemed to be on tiptoe. 
He saw that Sally realized, unadmitted, the 
layers of time and food and pettiness which 
had reshaped her. Set deep in the writhing 
bloom of her face, her blue eyes asked shyly, 
hopelessly, for the flattery that would re- 
store those faraway days. 

Her eyes said, as clearly as words, ‘“‘I could 
have been a very different person with you, 
Alfred Ditterman. But it was such a little 
flame and it needed tending. And Charlie 
never even saw its glow. After a while, it just 
went out.” 

The sadness descended on Mr. Ditterman 
again. The silence of the room waited to be 
splintered. 

He crashed it with one hard blow. “‘Sally 
changed?”’ He laughed curtly. “Why, I 
wouldn’t have known her on the street. I 
never saw such an alteration in any human 
being in my life. Unless maybe it’s Charlie.” 

Three gasps put a concentrated period on 
his sentence. He watched the unwilling tears 
climb slowly into Sally’s eyes. Charlie 
walked over to her and put his hand gently 
on her shoulder. 

(Continued on Page 178) 





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(Continued from Page 176) 

Then Mr. Ditterman said brusquely, 
avoiding Marjorie, “‘Let’s eat. These people 
look as if they enjoy food.” 

Marjorie’s dinner was good, as always. 
Charlie heaped his plate high and described 
half a dozen inns in California, smacking his 
lips over the real food and the remembered. 
Sally pulled herself together and attacked 
the roast chicken with a thoroughness and 
an economy of gesture that showed great ex- 
perience. Mr. Ditterman ate sparingly, with- 
out appetite. Marjorie’s plate had no po- 
tatoes, no homemade rolls. 

Marjorie, Mr. Ditterman reflected proudly, 
has an excellent figure for her age, and fine skin 
and fine eyes. Something stirred in him, as 
warm as that moment with the Voice. Al- 
most. 

After dinner Charlie pulled an ivory tooth- 
pick from his vest pocket. ‘‘ Well, Sal,’’ he 
intoned, ‘‘we’d best be getting along. Catch 
that nine-o’clock train.” 

Marjorie protested, “‘So soon? I thought 
you could stay overnight.” 

Charlie looked at Mr. Ditterman and his 
eyes were hard, shiny marbles set in soft 
dough. ‘‘Thought we could. But the sooner 
we get back to old Cal, the sooner I can get 
to work. We’ve had a good long vacation. 
But we have to eat, you know.”’ 

Mr. Ditterman said nothing. It was the 
least he could do. He stood in the doorway, 
after calling a cab, watching his young love, 
his young friend waddle down the walk. 

For all of us, his mind grieved, for all of us, 
the letdown of living. 

Marjorie shut the door. She looked at him, 


straight. ‘““ You hurt them,” she stated softly » 


at last. ““You hurt them 
very badly and chased 
them away.” 

Mr. Ditterman shook 
himself, the ripple of a 
chill. ‘‘Nonsense,’’ he 
snorted. ‘‘ People that age 
aren’t sensitive kids any 


more.’’ He yawned. 2 
y | RO Sa ae 


‘““Where’s Sandra? I 
thought she wanted to see me tonight.’ 

Marjorie’s voice sounded flat, disapprov- 
ing, a rare quality. ‘“She ate downtown with 
Hank, because of the Shanes. They’ll be 
along.’’ She ran one finger over the newel 
post. “‘Dad,”’ she said at last, slowly, ““be— 
be kind to them. Be gentle. They’re so vul- 
nerable.”’ 

He stormed past her. His hand actually 
itched to place itself over hers on the post. 
His lips tingled, wanting to touch against the 
place at the back of her neck where her long 
brown hair finished its growing. 

Am I fifty-one or twenty-one? he asked him- 
self. 

The thought of the sale of Marjorie’s 
home lay heavy on him. 

He sat down in his own leather chair. 
He picked up the paper. He was acutely 
aware of Marjorie’s steps in the kitchen. 
Thoughtful, they were, and unlike her usual 
happy pacing. 

Marge—he saw the words as if they were 
written in headlines across the front page— 
don’t worry, my dear, my dearest. See, I love 
you. I’ve loved you always. There’s never been 
anything quite so wonderful in my life as 
you. You have been the driving force—the 
Treason 





Younc voices reached out to him from the 
hall. They stood in the archway, hand in 
hand, his Sandra and Hank Levitt. They 
were a fine-looking couple. Sandra, small, 
neat and dark. Quick and birdlike. And the 
lank, tall, tawny-haired boy. 

Sandra said, ‘‘Dad, Hank and I—we want 
to talk to you ——”’ 

Why, they're scared stiff, Mr. Ditterman 
told himself. Of me. Aloud he snapped, “Of 
course you do. Why else do you suppose I’m 
not in my bed after the day I’ve had? I 
thought you’d never get around. In my busi- 
ness appointments ——’’ Thank the Lord he 
couldn’t seem to go on. 

Hank stepped forward easily. ‘‘We’re 
sorry, Mr. Ditterman,” he drawled. “‘We 
took a walk. It’s such a beautiful night ——’’ 

Sandra looked up at Hank. 


Never marry a man you 
may have to sweep around. 
—Edward S. Jordan's mother: 


The Inside Story of Adam and Eve, 


November, 1949 


Mr. Ditterman revised his opinion. Scared, 
my eye. They're nervous, because they'd like to 
have everything smooth and open and above- 
board. But they're not scared of anything in the 
world, least of all me. They have a—a sort of 
armor. Nothing can really pierce it. It's all 
around them like the moat that protects a castle. 

Hank’s soft voice was running counter- 
point to Mr. Ditterman’s thoughts. ‘‘So I 
have one more year at art school. I’m really 
doing very well ——” 

Sandra put in eagerly, ‘Everybody says 
he’ll be very famous someday.” 

Hank smiled sweetly at her. “Anyway, 
famous or no, with the little my mother left 
me there’s enough for us to get by—just— 
but we’ll be together ——” 

“What they have,”’ a soundless speaker said 
in Mr. Ditterman’s ear, ‘‘7s the truest and the 
best and the nearest-to-God thing in the world. 
You know that now, don’t you?” 


Mk. pitterMAN nodded, almost kindly. “I 
thoroughly disapprove of this marriage,”’ his 
wayward voice said tartly. “I shall do every- 
thing possible to impede it. Which probably 
won’t be much, because*you’re of age, Sandra. 
Life is rugged enough when you start out 
with some sort of security. When you go 
along blind, as you two young fools are about 
to do, with only high-flown dreams, you’ll 
come a cropper sure. There will be no wed- 
ding from this house. And now will you please 
go, Mr. Levitt?” He stalked from the room. 

The outside door shut fairly promptly, but 
not before he had heard Marjorie walk from 
the kitchen, had heard the comforting hum of 
her words, had known that she and Sandra 
were walking up the stairs together, arms 
around each other, linked 
‘against his harshness. 

He crawled into bed, 
bruised in body, heart, 
mind, soul and any other 
place the human organism 
could ache. Marjorie came 
in at last. She undressed 
silently and slipped in 
beside him. 

He said slowly, ‘I sold the house today, 
Marjorie. At a handsome profit. We must be 
ready to leave in a week.” : 

The whole bed seemed to tense with her 
body. Finally she asked, ‘‘Where will we 
go?” 

He turned on his side away from her. He 
couldn’t bear it. Her voice was so little. “Ti 
Sandra persists in this error of hers, you and 
I can take a suite at the hotel. Temporarily 
at least. Good night.” 

Marjorie whispered, ‘‘Good night.” 

In the dark it was different. He could see 
better in the dark. After a while he knew that 
tears poured silently down Marjorie’s cheeks. 

The ache in him ballooned and spread until 
it throbbed everywhere. Out into the world, 
touching everybody, including everybody, 
stretching, stretching its pain into infinity. 

Infinity, he meditated at last. Marjorie was 
breathing evenly now, her heartache put to 
sleep. But I, Mr. Ditterman thought, J can- 
not carry this burden. In one day, the damage I 
have done. The pain I have given. The faces 
floated ghostlily before him. George Broad- 
hurt. Miss Lane. Lam Cooke. Sally and 
Charlie. Sandra and Hank. And now Mar- 
jorie. Marjorie. 

He pulled himself creakingly from bed. He 
went down on his knees at the dark side. 

Oh, look here, he screamed silently. J 
wanted it and I got it. But I've had enough. Let 
me, please let me, break through to Marjorie. 
Let me tell her how sorry I am and how differ- 
ent I wanted it to be.and how much she means 
to me. Just let me tell her that I love her. It’s 
been years. Maybe never—and words mean so 
much to a woman. Please let me 

There was nothing but darkness above 
him, around him. Marjorie’s voice reached 
out at last, as did her hand. 

‘“‘Alfred,’’ she cried. ‘“‘Dad, what’s the 
matter?” 

Now, he thought, now I'll have my answer. 
Now I'll be able to tell her how sorry I am. I'll 
be able to say, ‘I’m praying, my darling. 
Praying for the first time since I was a kid. For 
you. For us. For everybody. But mostly to be 
allowed to tell you that I love you.” 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


He found himself groaning instead. ‘Went 
to get my slippers,’”’ he muttered fiercely. 
“Got a Charley horse in my right knee. Can’t 
get back up again.” 

So that’s my answer, his heart cried. Not 
even Marjorie. “ No real Christmas Carol.” 

He permitted Marjorie to help him back to 
bed. He watched her turn on the lights, her 
braids swinging softly above the flowered 
cotton of her gown. He lay still, as she poured 
liniment on her hand and rubbed it, hot and 
slick, against his knee. Around and around. 

At last he said, very softly, “‘ You’re a good 
woman, Marjorie.” 

She lifted her head surprisedly from her 
task. She caught his eyes with hers and held 
them. A funny thing, Mr. Ditterman could 
feel his own eyes softening, shining and beg- 
ging. 

Let her see, he pleaded. Let her see. 

That, that at least he was to have. Because 
she must have seen. Her face grew young 
under his gaze. Her lips turned full and 
trembled a little. Her linimented hand 
reached for his own. 


Wauen the light was out again Marjorie lay 
warm beside him, her hair tickling his cheek. 
Their hands stayed linked together. Mr. Dit- 
terman floated on the bed. The tight bands of 
the miserable day were all loosened now. He 
felt light and free, as if he could soar right 
above the darkness, up and up. 

I wonder, he speculated sleepily, zf I’/l have 
to go through that truck routine again. 

Then his sleepiness vanished. The black- 
ness of the room was gone. In its place was a 
rosy warmth that reached higher and higher. 

The Voice laughed. ‘Twice is enough to 
have a truck come at you, I’d say. Well, how 
did you enjoy your Day of Grace?” 

“Tt was a mistake,’”’ Mr. Ditterman said 
earnestly. “My mistake. No wonder it’s so ir- 
regular Up Here.” 

There seemed to be movement around him 
this time. The Voice was beginning, slowly, 
slowly, to shape up into a silver sort of shine 
that had outlines, hazy, but growing clearer. 
Mr. Ditterman could feel other shining fig- 
ures around the corner of his sight. 

“What I want to ask,” he said deter- 
minedly, “‘is how I got to Heaven in the 
first place—a stinker like me.” 

The Voice laughed. ‘‘You were a pretty 
good man, son, according to your lights.” 

“Was 1?” Mr. Ditterman asked eagerly. 

“A Day of Grace,” the Voice went on 
thoughtfully, “is a mite different Here than 
in the insurance business, son. You had a real 
Day of Grace, one of Ours.’’ 

Mr. Ditterman felt confused. 

In back of him someplace a teacherlike 
voice intoned, ‘‘Webster’s New Standard 
Dictionary, page three-ninety-one—Grace, 
noun, the unmerited favor and love of God 
toward man in Christ; divine sanctifying, re- 


generating and preserving influence; spiritual 


” 





excellence 

The Voice broke in, laughing. “‘That’s 
Miss Emma Sanskopfer, your eighth-grade 
English teacher, remember?” 

Another voice, pedantically sweet, said, 
“The Reverend J. M. Newland-Smith, M.A., 
describes grace as ‘A spiritual gift of God 
which makes man pleasing to Him and able 
to serve Him.’ Rather good, what?” 

“Who's... that?” Mr. Ditterman whis- 
pered. 

“That’s Reverend Dealer. He baptized 
you—which you wouldn’t remember.” 

Mr. Ditterman felt happiness climbing up 
into his throat, a golden radiance. They were 
all Here. Marjorie would know. She’d be 
Here too. He’d have another chance. 

Then the sunshine warmth ate into him 
until he became sunshine of a sort—until he 
realized the enormity of the gift he’d been 
given. For even one day—to look into peo- 
ple—really to see them—to know them—as 
the Voice did 

“Thank you. Thanks a lot,’”’ he managed 
gratefully. 

The figure around the Voice was becoming 
so brilliant Mr. Ditterman blinked in the 
dazzle. Then his eyes seemed to shift into 
high. He stood a million miles tall, knowing 
he could look at the Face, when the time 
came. THE END 















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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


TALK OF A WEDDING 


(Continued from Page 45) 


like one of those elect who are utterly sure 
of themselves. Not that she ever really 
hoped to escape her inner uncertainties. In 
order to be sure of yourself you had to be 
sure you could have what you wanted. 

At six, her great desire had been to be 
loved—to be as important to her mother as 
were her two brothers, Larry and Tom. She 
remembered herself—eager, asking, humbly 
grateful for affection. She remembered Tom 
and Larry—‘“‘No, youcan’t. You’re toolittle.”’ 
Not unkind, simply not interested. She re- 
membered her mother, absorbed, impatient— 
“Oh, stop bothering me, Jo. Can’t you see 
I’m busy?” She was decorating a cake for 
Tom’s birthday party. 

“Why can’t I have a party?” 

“Because it isn’t your birthday. Besides, 
who would you ask? You never want to make 
friends, to play with the other children.”’ 

Jo went and sat on the steps in the spring 
sunshine. The other children were busy with 
some game. She could not push in among 
them. How could she think they would want 
her? Her brothers didn’t. Her mother didn’t. 

By the time she was sixteen, she had 
changed to wordless hostility, denying her 
need for what she could not have. Her mother 
thought she was ‘“‘difficult.’’ At twenty-six, 
she had stopped being humble a long time 
ago. She had a good job, and she was good at 
it. There were, she reminded herself fre- 
quently, people who envied Jo Fenner— 
young, successful, independent, with her 
own apartment, her own life. 


Sue had gone to this party today not ex- 
pecting much of anything. It was one of those 
semisocial affairs people give, and attend, for 
business reasons. 

She noticed Mark Hamilton at once. He 
was so obviously not a buyer, and the others 
so obviously were, clustered by twos and 
threes and fours, talking shop. He was stand- 
ing alone—if you could say anybody was 
alone in a room the size of this one, with so 
many people in it. But he was not talking to 
anyone, and he looked quite at ease with his 
own thoughts. Jo wished she were the kind of 
person who could walk over to him and say, 
“Hello. I’m Jo Fenner, and I’m curious about 
you. You can’t be interested in selling women’s 
clothes.’’ She wasn’t that kind of person. She 
picked up a glass, and wandered about, 
speaking to a few people—not really wanting 
to join in any conversation, but not liking to 
appear stranded. She paused by a window 
and looked out. When she turned, there was 
Mark, smiling at her. 

““T know who you are, because I asked,” he 
said.‘‘ They tell me you’re a sort of Girl Won- 
der. The. youngest advertising manager in 
the history of Gaines Department Store. Is 
that right?” 

Jo tipped her head at him. She felt lifted, 
buoyed up. “Are you interested in me, or my 
job?”’ She could do this light, casual, on-the- 
surface kind of thing well enough. 

“Both,” he said boldly. Then he told her 
his name and that he was teaching at the uni- 
versity and had addressed the Ad Club. 
“You didn’t come,” he reproached her. 

“I’m sorry.” His profile would go well ona 
coin, she thought irrelevantly—better than 
King George. She liked the way his hair was 
brushed, dark and smooth against the shape 
of his head. She couldn’t be sure, but she 
thought his eyes were gray. 


They left the party soon after that and 


had dinner at a place where the light was 
good enough to see your plate, soft enough 
for seclusion. They talked a great deal, 
mostly about themselves. That is, they would 
start with semantics, for instance, because 
Mark taught a class in the Language of Ad- 
vertising. 

“Semantics,” Jo scoffed. “A rose is a rose, 
isn’t it—even to Gertrude Stein?” 

“When you think ‘rose,’ what do you see?’”’ 
he asked. 

She saw something blood red, with shat- 
tered petals, and she didn’t have the least 
idea why. “I won’t tell you. You’re trying to 
psychoanalyze me.” ; 


November, 1949 





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“Cagey,” he taunted her. ‘All right, let’s 
take something not so simple as a rose. What 
about sorrow or hatred or love—when I say 
‘love,’ does it mean the same thing as when 
you say it?” 

“What does it mean when you say it?” 
» The words slipped out, because they sounded 
like something clever to say. She wished she 
could recall them. 

“Tell me about you,” Mark commanded. 

She answered with mock gravity. ‘‘ Well— 
to begin with, I had an unhappy child- 
hood ——” She meant it to sound like a joke. 
Not for worlds would she confess that she had 
never forgiven her mother for the kind of 
childhood she had had. 

Mark said, ‘Poor baby!” and she pro- 
tested, laughing: 

“I don’t know you well enough to let you 
feel sorry for me.” 

“You will,” he assured her. “Stop chang- 
ing the subject. You had an unhappy child- 
hood. Then you grew up—go on from there. 
Tell me your likes and dislikes, what books 
you read. I must find out about you.” 

“Maybe I can’t read.” 

“Don’t be evasive,’’ he said. 


Evasive. Captivating. They were adjectives 
to be applied to a desirable woman. Jo 
wrapped herself in their caressing implica- 
tions. She stopped in the doorway of the liv- 
ing room, trying to see it as it might appear 
to Mark Hamilton’s eyes. He would like 
the rich red curtains, she was sure, and the 
deep chairs by the fireplace. It wasn’t a 
chintzy room, although it had been once. 
She had changed it all 
as soon as her mother 
left. There were no half- 
read books lying about, no 
photographs on walls or 
table of family or friends. 
She had always said she 
didn’t care for photo- 


To educate a man is to 

form an individual who 
leaves nothing behind him; to 
educate a woman is to form 
future generations. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


ful idea of inventing another engagement, 
she forgot her intention. 

They went to the theater, they went danc- 
ing, they walked in the park. They sat before 
her fire, and Mark read poetry to hery They 
talked endlessly. Jo forgot to be flippant, 
or challenging, or evasive. It was intoxicat- 
ing to know that she could be herself, and 
that Mark still found her interesting, excit- 
ing—that he cared what she thought about 
the most trivial things. 

So the weeks went by. Not many weeks, 
for this was a rapid romance. They were hav- 
ing dinner at the apartment, one lovely, 
smoky, early-fall evening. Mark had cooked 
the steak and made the coffee. ‘‘You’re a 
wonderful girl,’ he said. ‘‘But you make 
lousy coffee.’”’ Jo hadn’t minded his saying 
that. He made it seem a whimsical and 
charming trait—the flaw that made her per- 
fect, in his eyes. 


They were lingering over the coffee when 
Mark said, ‘‘I was notified of my yearly sal- 
ary increase today. Three hundred. It’s not 
enough to support a wife—but let’s get mar- 
ried anyway.” 

Jo was startled. It was the first time she 
had ever had an actual proposal of marriage. 
She looked at him quickly, to see if he meant 
it, and he did. He was smiling, but tense. 

“Married?” she said. 

“Tt’s customary. Before we set up house- 
keeping together,” he explained with elab- 
orate casualness. 

Jo clasped her hands together under the 
table, trying to steady herself, trying to 
match his surface man- 
ner. ““I—I couldn’t possi- 
bly get a day off before 
a week from Thursday. 
We're working on the 
Christmas catalogue.” 

“ Darling.”’ Mark almost 
upset his chair. “‘I do hate 


graphs. She would not ad- oo ae a coy woman.” 
mit that she didn’t want i That night, Jo wrote to 
her mother’s pictured face her mother. There had 


where she had to look at it every day. 
There was a letter from her mother, shut 
up inside the desk. She didn’t need to read it, 
to know what it said. Her mother’s letters 
were always the same—pages of information 
about the speech Larry had made at the last 
sales engineers’ meeting, about young Larry’s 
new tooth, the needlepoint she was making 
- for Marcie’s dining-room chairs. At the end 
there would be a short paragraph, vaguely 
reproachful, about Jo herself. ““I don’t see 
why you don’t come on to Chicago. Larry 
could get you a job.” Blandly ignoring the 
fact that Jo had a job in which she was at 
least as successful as Larry was in his. There 
was only one kind of success, for a woman. 
It had been a great relief, it had been an 
escape for Jo, when her mother moved to 
Chicago to be near Larry and his children. 
One of the most irritating things about her 
mother, Jo thought, was that you could never 
tell her the truth. You couldn’t say to her, 
without rancor, that she was the kind of 
woman who would always love a son more 
than a daughter. She would think you were 
being mean, tears would come into her eyes, 
she would wonder plaintively why you 
couldn’t be more like Larry and Tom, who 
never said things to hurt their mother. 


Jo wondered, sometimes, whether things 
might have been different if her father had 
lived. He had died when she was very small. 
For a short period, during her fifteenth year, 
she had kept his photograph on her bedside 
table, yearning over it in a welter of adoles- 
cent emotion. But she got over that.. How 
could you love someone you couldn’t even re- 
member ? 

For that matter, how could you love some- 
one you had known less than a day? It wasn’t 
love, she thought, with cool self-derision. 
Mark Hamilton was a physically attractive 
man, with an interesting mind. 

You are, she disciplined herself crisply 
merely feeling the glow of a good flirtation. 


But the glow lasted, if that’s what it was. 
Mark telephoned her the following evening, 
and although she had some vague, pride- 


been a letter in her box when she and 
Mark came in, and she had laid it on the 
dressing table when she went to freshen her 
make-up. 

It was the same as all the other let- 
ters. And, at the last, the usual reproach. 
“You ought not to be living there all alone. 
It’s not right—for a girl 

Jo actually smiled over that, although it 
would have irritated her a week ago. 

‘Dear mother,” she wrote. ‘‘I’m sure you 
will be happy to learn that I’ve decided to 
take your advice, and stop living alone. I am 
going to be married as soon as I can get a 
day off from the job.”’ (Her mother wouldn’t 
like that. She thought a girl ought to stop 
working when she married.) ‘‘ You would ap- 
prove of Mark. He’s handsome, and edu- 
cated, and a college professor. He doesn’t 
mind that you never taught me to cook.” 

She restrained herself from adding some of 
the other things Mark had said. He liked the 
idea of her having a career. He said she was a 
fine, clever girl and would be a prop for his 
old age. He liked the way she walked, and 
smiled, and even the way she gesticulated 
when she talked. He loved her, and that cov- 
ered everything. 

Jo mailed the letter next morning and 
was too happy to reflect that Chicago was 
barely two and a half hours away by plane. 

She had always got on well with the people 
at the store. Because she was a success, and 
they knew it and admired her for it. But to- 
day she was more than a success—she was 
completely happy, for the first time in her 
life. She loved them all: the buyers who com- 
peted for her advertising space; the girls in 
her department. 

She went out of her way to see Peggy Lamb 
in millinery, and tell her she was going to be 
married. 

“Gosh,” Peggy said, ‘“you have every- 
thing, don’t you, honey?” 

“Everything,” Jo agreed. “‘Have you got 
a hat to go with the way I feel? It’ll have to 
be quite a hat.” 

She wore the hat when she met Mark after 
work the next day. He said it was a charming 
hat. They had dinner at their favorite spot, the 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


place where they had first dined together the 
night they met. 

“1’d have the same meal,” Jo said, “if I 
could remember eating anything that night. 
You were so fascinating.” 

“How ridiculous you are. We had crabs 
Meuniére. And you paid more attention to 
the food than you did to me.” 

“T’ll make up for that,”’ she promised. 

Wonderful to be talking heavenly non- 
sense with someone who cherished every 
word. Someone to whom you were the most 
important person in the world. 

“Mark,” she said, ‘‘ will you mind wearing 
pale blue pajamas? Because if you do, we’ve 
got to have the bedroom redecorated.” 

Mark started to laugh. Then he stopped. 
He said gravely, “‘ No, I won’t mind. Will you 
be wearing pale blue?” 

““Of course. It’s the only color that goes in 
there.”’ She knew she was blushing, and Mark 
knew it, but he didn’t tease her. 

It wasn’t much after nine when they got 
back to the apartment. Mark had a book of 
poems by a new man, which he wanted to 
read to her. In the foyer they stopped, and 
looked at each other blankly. The living-room 
light was on. 

Jo moved reluctantly to the door. Her 
mother was sitting erect in the wing chair, 
working on a piece of needlepoint. She wore 
her glasses, but paradoxically they made her 
look younger, more daintily feminine. 

“Well,” she said, “‘you’re home at last.” 

Jo answered stiffly, ““You might have let 
me know you were coming. This is Mark 
Hamilton, mother.” 

Mrs. Fenner was gracious to Mark. 
“Surely my child didn’t think I would let 
her be married without her mother. But 
then, Jo always had such odd ideas.” 

Mark was behaving beautifully. He was 
deferential, but not ingratiating. He sat 
down near her mother. He asked if she had 
had a comfortable journey, and she began to 
tell him about her journey, in some detail. 

Jo went into the kitchen. J ought to 
have told Mark, she thought. She had 
never been explicit about her family. Mark 
knew she had a mother, two brothers— 
that was all. It hadn’t seemed to touch their 
life—hers and Mark’s. 

When she came back into the living room, 
Mark was saying, “I wonder you didn’t re- 
marry. An attractive woman like you.” 

“Oh, I had my children—my boys. And 
Jo, of course,” she added hastily. “Really, 
you’ve no idea how relieved I am, now that 
I’ve seen you, Mark. I used to worry about 
Jo, she seemed so antisocial.” 

Jo was struggling with an old resentment, 
as old, as childish, as six years. It cost her an 
effort to make her voice pleasant. ‘May we 
talk about something else? You are embar- 
rassing me, mother.” 

“All right. We’ll talk about Mark. I de- 
clare, I don’t know how you ever managed to 
capture such an attractive man.” 


Marx laughed. “T struggled, but it was no 
use. She’s a determined young woman.” 

Jo said abruptly, “‘I’ll go make some 
coffee.” 

“Let me, darling. Your coffee is lousy.” 
Mark smiled at her. 

He had said that to her a dozen times. It 
was one of their pet jokes. Why should she 
suddenly feel that he was being critical? 

“T could never get Jo to take the slightest 
interest in the kitchen,” Mrs. Fenner sighed. 

Jo said evenly, ““You never wanted me in 
your kitchen. You thought nobody but you 
could turn out food good enough for the 
boys.” 

“You were always jealous of your broth- 
ers,’ Mrs. Fenner said gently. 

Jo shut her lips tight. Why had she let her- 
self be goaded into such a remark? 

She didn’t enjoy the rest of the evening, 
and she was almost glad when Mark left. She 
felt dull, lifeless. But Her mother was bright 
and chatty. ‘“‘He reminds me of that boy, 
Paul—what was his name? In high school. 
You remember him, Jo.” 

““Thaven’t the least idea what you are talk- 
ing about,’’ Jo said coldly. 

His name was Paul Creedon. She remem- 
bered him perfectly. He had been managing 


editor of the high-school paper, and she had 
been in love with him, in the shy, painful way 
of sixteen. She would have died if she had 
thought he knew how she felt. 

One evening when they had been working 
on the paper, after school, he had walked 
home with her. 

“How about a malt?” he said. 

Jo had an intoxicating thought. “Why 
don’t you come up to the house?” she sug- 
gested. ‘We have a thing you mix them in.” 

Her mother would surely be impressed. 
Paul was a fine, handsome, intelligent boy. 
Her mother liked boys. 

Jo had been pleased that her mother looked 
pretty, pleased at her obvious pleasure in 
greeting Paul. When she came back to the 
porch bearing the tray of glasses, Mrs. Fen- 
ner was chatting gaily. 

“Did you know my boys? Tom and Larry? 
You remind me of Tom. My little girl is so 
different from her brothers, so shy. She has 
never been very popular. She needs someone 
like you—I hope you’ll do what you can to 
help her ——” 

Jo began to quiver inside. She put the tray 
down and one of the glasses tipped. 

“Oh, Jo, you’re so clumsy,” her mother 
cried reproachfully. 

In silence Jo brought a towel and wiped up 
the spilled malt. In silence she stumbled to a 
chair, and sipped at the rich, sickening drink. 
She was relieved when Paul left. 

“That’s a charming boy,” her mother ex- 
claimed. ‘‘Why haven’t you brought him to 
the house before?” 

Jo stood up. The malt lay heavy in her 
stomach, she thought she was going to be sick. 
He'll never come again, never, never, she 
thought bitterly. You've spoiled everything. 
She rushed upstairs and locked herself in her 
room. Her mother was very much annoyed. 
She said she didn’t see how Jo ever expected 
to be popular if she wasn’t willing to put her- 
self out a little to be charming and agreeable. 


But that was years ago, Jo told herself. You 
have your own life now, you have Mark. 

Her mother was delighted with Mark. 
“You don’t appreciate how lucky you are,” 
she said to Jo. She deferred to Mark’s opin- 
ions. She cooked his favorite dishes. 

Mark accepted her attentions with smiling 
good humor. It became a sore point with Jo 
that he never once complained, although 
their twosome had become a threesome. He 


**Now when daddy comes downstairs we'll have our first patient.” 





November, 1949 


ought to have minded that. If they ate at 
home, Mrs. Fenner cooked the dinner, and 
waited archly for Mark’s applause, If they 
went out, she went with them. 

Jo found herself resenting such a small and 
natural thing as the fact that Mark seated her 
mother first at dinner. It was proper, it was 
good manners. But once again Jo felt rele- 
gated to second place. 

She acts as if I weren’t good enough for him. 
You'd think she was Mark’s mother, not mine. 
That’s the way she behaves—and it’s the way I 
behave. And Mark? She didn’t know which 
side Mark was on. 

She wished desperately that she had not 
written that letter. Then her mother would 
not have come from Chicago. She had come, 
ostensibly, to see Jo married—and yet she 
had not once asked about their plans. 


As a matter of fact, Jo thought, with a feel- 
ing of humiliation, they didn’t have any 
plans. Mark had not asked her to set a date, 
and she couldn’t be the one to bring it up— 
not before her mother. Perhaps, if they had 
an evening alone —— I’ve got to do something, 
she told herself. 

She thought it out carefully. When she was 
leaving for work in the morning, she said to 
her mother, “I won’t be home for dinner.” 
She was curt, because she didn’t intend to 
argue about it. 

“But I was going to make blueberry pie— 
I’ve ordered the berries.” 

“They'll keep until tomorrow,” Jo said. 
““Good-by, mother.” 

She felt pleased at having handled the 
matter so decisively. It gave her confidence. 
She telephoned Mark as soon as she reached 
her office, and made a date to meet him at the 
store at five-thirty. 

She worked easily and swiftly that day. 
At the staff meeting, they liked her idea of 
Tower Day bargains, once a month. Gaines— 
the Store With the Tower. It was a good tie- 
in. Once more she felt herself to be the tal- 
ented, the successful Jo Fenner. 

At five she began to clear her desk, so she 
would have time to primp. The telephone 
rang while she was powdering her nose, and 
she hummed as she crossed the room to an- 
swer it. It was Mark. 

““Look—darling—do you mind if we meet 
at the apartment? There’s a book I promised 
to lend your mother—she wants it tonight.” 

(Continued on Page 187) 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


| 185 


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(Continued from Page 184) 

“Oh,” Jo said blankly. And after a minute, 
“Did mother call you?” 

“Why—yes.”” Was there an odd, faint 
hesitancy in his votce? 

“All right. The apartment—at six.” 

She went home, feeling depressed. She 
thought she would have a shower and change 
her dress. Perhaps she could coax herself into 
a more festive mood. As soon as she opened 
the door, the aroma of cooking met her. The 
dining table was elaborately set for three. 
There were candles, flowers. While Jo stood 
taking it in, her mother appeared in the 
doorway to the kitchen. 

Jo said slowly, “I thought I told you I was 
going out.” 

“Oh, I knew you wouldn’t mind changing 
your plans. As Mark says, you can eat out 
any time. It’s a very good dinner.’’ She was 
airy, complacent. “Men like home cooking.”’ 

Jo hated herself for the way she was shak- 
ing. She enunciated each word with care. 
“You arranged this with Mark?’ 

Mrs. Fenner answered obliquely, “I’m as 
fond of Mark as if he were my own son. And 
blueberry pie is his favorite—he told me so.” 

“T asked you a question,” Jo said harshly. 

“Really, Jo.’” Her mother spoke in an of- 
fended tone. “You are just as difficult as 
ever. If you don’t change your attitude, I’m 
afraid you're going to lose Mark. I’ve done 
everything J could ——” 

“You certainly have. You always have.” 
All the antagonisms hoarded through years 
of thwarted affection, all the bitter things 
she-had never said, came 
crowding into her mind. 
“All my life you’ve done . 


spoil things for me. To 
make me feel how unim- 
portant I was. With Mark, 
with Paul Creedon, with 
Larry and Tom. Evenwith 
my own father. You never 
wanted me to share in the 
memory of him—to feel that he had loved 
me ——” She couldn’t go on. 

“How can you talk to me like this? Larry 
or Tom would never Your father 
wouldn’t have been so silly about you, if he 
could see you now. I would never have had 
another child, I can tell you, if he hadn’t 
wanted a girl so much. It was for him—and 
then he died, and left me alone ot 

Jo stared at her. ‘‘ He died,’”’ she whispered, 
“and you've hated me ever since, haven’t 
you?” I mustn’t shout or scream, she thought. 
I must be quiet. She made a strong effort. 
“I’m going to telephone Larry, and ask him 
to come and get you.” 

“You wouldn’t dare!”” Jo was too over- 
wrought to be aware how her mother’s face 
changed from pathos to anger and something 
very like panic. ‘“‘ What would Mark think of 
your treating your mother so? And I should 
certainly tell him,” she finished, with tri- 
umphant emphasis. 


tion. 








Jo couldn’t stand any more. “Tell him!” 
she cried. “Tell him anything you like!”’ 

She turned blindly to the door, opened and 
closed it. But she had no memory of getting 
down to the street. She began to walk, again 
blindly, but she was not really surprised 
when she found herself back at the store. It 
was her only refuge: her job, her work. 

The night watchman let her in, took her up 
to her office in the tower. The proofs of Fri- 
day’s newspaper ads lay on her desk. Thank 
God, there was work to be done. Her job was 
the only thing she was any good at—the only 
thing she would ever be any good at. She sat 
at the desk, and held her throbbing head. 

Her mother had routed her, as she always 
did, and this time she had succeeded in shat- 
tering her completely. Jo felt ashamed and de- 
feated. Failure. Failure. You'll always be a 
failure. Even with Mark. Especially with 
Mark, because she cared so much. 

He had seemed pleased when she had sug- 
gested this date tonight, for “just the two of 
us.” Until her mother wanted something dif- 
ferent, and then Jo’s wishes had been put 
aside. 

She was too proud for a love that took for 
granted, that made allowances and was in- 


everything you could to § A young man who is not a 
radical about something is 

a pretty poor risk for educa- 
—JACQUES BARZUN: 
Teacher in America, Atlantic Monthly 
Press (Little, Brown & Company). 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


dulgent, that considered her desires of sec- 
ondary importance. Meantime, there was her 
work. She tried to concentrate on the page 
before her... . 

Some small sound roused her—it might 
have been the subdued hiss of the elevator 
door closing. She lifted her head. Mark was 
standing in the doorway. 

“What do you want?” 

“T want to know how you dare walk out on 
an appointment with me?” 

She turned her back on him, and went to 
the water cooler. She got a drink, and stood 
before the mirror and combed her hair and 
nee on fresh lipstick. At last she faced 

im. 

“Tt’s no use, Mark. I’d be a failure at mar- 
riage. It’s what I am, all the things that have 
happened to me since I was a child. I’d 
rather have nothing than failure.” 


ae 
Yes,” he said. ““That’s what’s the matter 
with you.” 

She flinched, and threw up her head. ‘‘ You 
see, I can’t stand criticism, even from you. I 
was conditioned to hate it ——” 

“T’ve got a complex too,”’ Mark said. “‘I 
have to be.able to depend on the people who 
are important to me. I was so sure of you, but 
this last week ——”’ He came closer, he said 
angrily, “I want back the girl I fell in love 
with—the girl I asked to marry me.” 

Jo stammered, ‘I don’t know what you 
mean.” 

“Don’t you? Let me give you an example. 
Do you remember something you said, only 
last night?’’ He mimicked 
a cool, mocking voice. 
““Mark is very romantic. 
He reads poetry to me.’” 
He added, in a different 
tone, “I thought you liked 
having me read poetry to 
you.” 

“But, Mark, I do! I love 
it.” She responded in- 
stantly to the hurt and 
puzzlement in his voice. It had never oc- 
curred to her that Mark could be less than 
completely sure of himself. She had been too 
filled with her own self-torment. Now she re- 
membered vividly a dozen small things. She 
said swiftly, “It’s the effect my mother has 
on me. It’s always been like that—when I’m 
with her, I’ve got to be constantly demon- 
strating how self-sufficient I am, how noth- 
ing she can say will affect me. And it was 
worse, this time. Because you seemed to get 
on so well with her.” 

“Well,” Mark said, “she was your mother. 
I didn’t want to fail you there. So when she 
telephoned, and said this dinner tonight was 
to be a surprise for you te 

Jo laughed shakily. “It certainly was. 
She’s always had a genius for putting me in 
the wrong. I don’t know why she came 
here ——” 

“But, darling, that’s obvious,”’ Mark told 
her. “She came because she found that 
living with Larry—and Larry’s wife—was 
nowhere near so pleasant as she had ex- 





pected. Your ‘marriage was an excuse for] 


her to get away, and save her face. I 
don’t think that your mother cares for fe- 
male competition of any kind.” 

“T wonder.” 

Jo had always supposed that her mother 
and Marcie got on perfectly, because. their 
ideas were so similar, but Obviously 
her mother had not had things €xclusively 
her own way in Chicago. Perhaps Mark 
was right. 

He grinned at her, and she realized sud- 
denly that they were back on their old basis of 
complete ease and understanding. She didn’t 
quite know how they had got there, but it 
was wonderful. She knew it was up to her not 
to lose it—not to let her supersensitiveness 
and overdeveloped pride get in the way 
again. 

She looked at Mark with a flick of mischief. 
“T’ve heard some talk of a wedding,” she 
said. ‘‘But it’s been a whole week since you 
asked me to marry you.” 

Mark matched her mood instantly. He 
snatched up her hat and presented it to-her 
with a sweeping gesture. “‘ What are we wait- 
ing for?’’ he demanded. THE END 





Spon IG wis 


187 






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PROBLEM: QOur second young couple with more taste 


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and their own evenings at home. They have collected a couple 
of good pictures, some dishes, a few books and accessories, 
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we knew the furnishings might have to withstand a first and 
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was a find, with its spring cushions, rubber-and-felt back and 
excellent upholstery job included in the price. The fabric used 
was a sturdy, vat-dyed cotton, 10! yards of it, at $2.25 a yard. 
And though perhaps the sofa was outstanding, everything in the 
room was of honest workmanship and good for years of serv- 
ice. The bentwood construction of the laminated bamboo 
armchair ($22.50) suggested the utmost in after-dinner relax- 


ation. But just to be on the safe side, (Continued on Page 190) 


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> 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


November, 1949 


MODERN-ROOM BUDGET 


Bent Bamboo Armchair 
Dining Chairs @ $17.00 
Dining Table 

Coffee Table . . 

Sofa. 

End Tables @ $29.95 . . 
Ottoman . . 

Sq. Yds. China Matting 


Lamps and Shades @ $15.00 . 


Ceiling Light 
1045 Yds. Fabric 
34. Yds. Fabric 
3. Yds. Fabric 
5 Yds. Fabrice 

Foam Rubber, Cotton 


(Continued from Page 188) 

you could buy some foam rubber from an 
upholsterer, and cover it yourself to make 
seat and back cushions like those in the 
picture. The third and last major piece of fur- 
niture, the sawbuck table of pine ($54.98), 
was, like the lamps, actually of traditional 
design; and, like them, demonstrated what 
contemporary decoration is all about: Any- 
thing simply and obviously adapted to its 
purpose ‘is “‘contemporary” or will go with 
it. This table and the light above it will come 
in as handy for playing games and totting up 
the family bills as for dining. And though 
tae light was exceptional in being simple, 
handsome, efficient and glareproof, you can 
find similar styles at lighting-equipment 
stores for the $30.00 we paid, or for less. 

Among the other smaller items, the split- 
bamboo ottoman ($32.00 without the cush- 
ion) was upholstered in a yarn-dyed rayon 
dress fabric which is tough and fadeless. 
This material, also used for the pillows on 
the sofa, had the feel and the look of wool 
and was altogether a great bargain at $1.49 
a yard. The cotton stuffing for the pillows 
and the ottoman cushion and the foam rubber 
for the armchair pads came to $6.00, and you 
supply the labor. The black-finished oak cof- 
fee table was only $27.50. The end tables, of 
cordovan-finished mahogany, were $29.95 
apiece; and the pair of lamps on them, very 
special with their suéde-cloth-covered bases, 
their dark shades and brass trim, were in- 
credibly inexpensive: $15.00 each. The alumi- 
num chairs around the dining table were 
doctored up by painting their frames gray to 
match the stripes in the curtains and by us- 
ing more of the coral-colored fabric for their 
backs and seats. The five yards of colorfast, 
preshrunk, heavy-warp cotton required for 
these and the armchair cost $11.25. 

Since the curtains were of cotton dress 
goods, we were able to buy enough to cover 


TO Re I Keer 


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for Sofa @ $2.25 . 

for Curtains @ $1.50... 

for Ottoman and Pillows @ $1.49... . 
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$ 22.50 
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54.98 
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one whole wall from floor to ceiling for $51.00. 
As for the China matting, it is so old-fash- 
ioned that it’s new again. Our grandmothers 
put it down for the summer when they took 
up. the winter carpets. But we like it for 
year-round use, especially at the price: 75 
cents a yard. The brush attachment of your 
vacuum will clean it slick as a whistle, we 
hear,anda damp clothwilltakeup most &pots. 
Thus you won’t have cleaner’s bills, and you 
won’t have moth damage either—virtues 
that make its replacement every few years 
worth while. Or if you ‘d rather have a more 
expensive floor covering, and you can’t afford 
it right away, matting is certainly one of the 
best temporary expedients. 

From the viewpoint of looks, an effect of 
serenity and spaciousness without drabness 
was achieved by using a restful green on the 
walls and a blending shade of the same color 
on the sofa, so that it seemed to recede into 
the background. The plain, neutral surface of 
the matting and the absence of busy, figured 
patterns helped. Plaids and stripes con- 
trasted with the monochromes, and did not 
give the impression of jumping out at you. 
Anything obtrusive makes a room look 
smaller—one reason geometrical patterns 
and abstractions are so successful in a mod- 
ern box of a room. Then for character and 
accent you can use positive colors as shown. 
Large plants are almost stand-bys in con- 
temporary rooms, taking the place of more 
finicky decorative objects. And though they 
are not cheap, one goes a long way and lasts 
a long time. The ancient hobbyhorse, dis- 
mounted from his rockers and occupying the 
center of attention, was set up only to sug- 
gest that this blank wall space above the sofa 
offered a fine chance for a little exercise of the 
imagination. An old weather vane or a frag- 
ment of the figurehead of an old-time sailing 
ship would do as well. You name it as your 
individuality dictates. THE END 


I OS I SE Se RR ee 


An ee Gilwne 


By Edna St. Vincent Millay 


I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the 
corner of my apron: 

Penelope did this too. 

And more than once. You can’t keep 
weaving all day 

And undoing it all through the night; 

Your arms get tired, and the back of 
your neck gets tight; 

And along towards morning, when 
you think it will never be light, 
And your husband has been gone, and 

you don’t know where, for years, 
Suddenly you burst into tears; 
There is simply nothing else to do. 


OK SE KEK Ree Kw ee Re eee 


And I thought, as I wiped my eyes 
on the corner of my apron: 
This is an ancient gesture, authentic, 


antique, ° 
In the very best tradition, classic, 
Greek; 


Ulysses did this too. 

But only as a gesture, a gesture 
which implied 

To the assembled throng that he 
was much too moved to 
speak. 

He learned it from Penelope .. . 
Penelope, who really cried. 


OK ORE OR Oe ae eee 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


To stale: dream 














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PHYSICIAN recently told one of his pa- 

tients, ‘What you need is two months’ 

vacation on another planet.’’ Certainly, 

on this planet, these are such grim days 
that many are oppressed to the point of 
gloom, dreadfully in earnest, weighed down 
and worried, until we need to be reminded 
that while frivolity can be ruinous, serious- 
ness also can get out of hand. 

David Livingstone lived in sober earnest, 
pioneering the unexplored African jungles as 
a Christian missionary; but what he was 
most sorry for, as he recalled his home com- 
ings to the missionary station, he has told 
us: ‘“‘I have but one regret in looking back on 
my stationary, missionary life. That is that 
I did not play more with my children. But I 
worked so hard, physically and mentally, 
that in the evening there was seldom any 
fun left in me.” 

This matter of retaining zest and resilience, 
and living for the fun of it, is not of merely 
individual importance. When primitive man 
first made pottery, he made it as a matter of 
utilitarian necessity. He wanted receptacles 
in which to put food and drink. It was serious 
business. But later, when life had eased a 
little, man began to play with pottery, to 
mold, decorate and color it, to shape it in 
symbolic forms and graceful lines. All art 
comes from play. It springs from the margin 
over and above the demands of bare neces- 
sity. It is life’s surplus and overflow. 

When primitive man first began to use his 
voice, it was a matter of life and death. He 
shrieked with fear, cried for help, bellowed 
with rage to scare the enemy. It was serious 
business. But when life eased a little, man 
began to play with his voice, to sing—love 
songs, folk songs, crude at first, but springing 
from that sacred margin over and above bare 
necessity, within which man does what he 
wants to do for the fun of doing it. 

Indeed, early man’s first religion was a 
utilitarian affair. It wasa way of getting rain, 
raising crops, defeating enemies, holding off 
a ghostly horde of demons. But when dread 
was a little lifted, men began to play with 
religion. They rejoiced in the Lord; they sang 
songs and danced before the Lord; they built 
beautiful temples to the Lord, held festivals 
of thanksgiving before Him, and, as the 
Hebrew Psalmist said, went up to the sanctu- 
ary to keep holiday. 

That plus in life, that extra vitality from 
which come great art, music, religion, is a 
profoundly important quality, always to be 
found in those persons whom we most ad- 
mire. A great character is like Gothic archi- 
tecture. Architecture at the first was a neces- 
sitous affair, building a roof over one’s head 
to keep the weather out, but Gothic archi- 
tecture went so far beyond such bare utility 
that it began to play with balanced thrust, 
flying buttress, soaring pinnacle, whimsical 
gargoyle, delectable tracery. A great cathedral 
is superabundant architectural vitality kick- 
ing its heels. Wherever in personal character 
one finds such abundant living, one finds au- 
thentic greatness. 


Ir is this quality that makes Robert Louis 
Stevenson so attractive; fighting illness for 
years and exiled to a South Sea island, but 
saying in the end: “Sick and «well, I have 
had a splendid life of it, grudge nothing, re- 
gret very little.” It is this which makes St. 
Francis of Assisi so unforgettable. Others 
have worked at saintliness; he played at it. 
He sang the Canticle~of the Sun about it. 
Said Gilbert Chesterton, writing of St. 
Francis, ““He made a dash for his . . . enter- 
prise with something of the air of a school- 
boy running away to sea.” 

Indeed, the church stressing Jesus’ tragic 
fate as “despised and rejected of men” has 
too much neglected this other asnect of His 


BY HARRY EMERSON FOSDICK 


character. This lover of flowers and children, 
who disregarded solemn fast days and told 
His followers, when they did fast, not to 
“look dismal,’’ this lover of His work who 
called His message an invitation to a royal 
banquet, with His repeated injunctions, 
“Fear not”. . . ‘Be not anxious” .. . ‘Be of 
good cheer,” and His command to His disci- 
ples, even when they were persecuted, to 
“leap for joy,” was no ‘‘pale Galilean,” as 
Swinburne called Him, but an example of 
that exuberance which He Himself described 
as having life ‘‘more abundantly.” 

So far as children are concerned, everyone 
recognizes the psychological insanity of such 
a rule as that laid down in a denominational 
school’s book of discipline in 1784: “‘The 
students shall be indulged with nothing 
which the world calls play. Let this rule be 
observed with the strictest nicety; for those 
who play when they are young, will play 
when they are old.” That kind of thinking 
forgets that the world’s great pioneers in 
every realm have always played, whether 
they were young or old. 


Many years ago a railroad-track inspector 
was disturbed by seeing a young man with a 
wild-looking setup of mirrors, fussing with 
his contraptionat the rear of a college campus 
in Cleveland, near the railroad track. 

“What are you doing here?” asked the in- 
spector. 

“Oh,” was the mild reply, ‘‘I am just try- 
ing to measure the velocity of light.” 

To which the inspector, still suspicious, 
replied, ““Why in hades should any fool want 
to make a fuss about a thing like that?” 

“Because,” the young man answered, “‘it 
is such corking good fun!” 

That young man turned out to be Albert 
Michelson, Nobel-prize winner and foremost 
authority in his special realm of physics. He 
is typical: great art, music, architecture, re- 
ligion, science—of course they are serious! 
But their supreme exemplars have got more 
than seriousness out of them. 

As a religious teacher I am concerned 
about the way religion is habitually pre- 
sented in terms of necessity. Whether to keep 
out of hell and win heaven, or to save civiliza- 
tion, preserve the nation, and get through 
life oneself, the necessity of religion is com- 
monly urged upon reluctant minds. I agree 
that religion is a necessity; but more than 
that, it’s a luxury. It is like language. Lan- 
guage is a necessity, but alas for the man 
who can think of nothing more than that to 
say about it! Language is glorious. We can 
play with it as it leaves the low levels of 
utilitarian necessity to soar and sing. The 
genius of language, not exhausted in a pro- 
saic stock-market report, comes to its flower 
in Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, where 
it goes on festival. 

So a humdrum religion is just about as 
good as no religion at all, and sometimes it is 
much worse. Religion is only a caricature of 
itself until it becomes exhilarating good news. 

When not presented as a necessity, re- 
ligion is commonly presented as a duty. Re- 
ligion certainly involves duty, and duty is a 
great word, but alas for a man whose spiritual 
experience is exhausted in that! In this re- 
gard religion is like family life. Two people 
marry; they determine to do their duty; they 
do it. He works; she works. As the years pass 
they work harder and harder. They are ab- 
sorbed in work. They do their duty by each 
other and by the children. And once in a 
while, seeing a family like that, one longs to 
cry, “If you are going to save this home, 
play! Play with each other! Play with the 
children! You will get more across to the 
children playing with them than you ever 
will scolding them.’’ Home life is not simply 
duty; it is a festival. It is being a family for 


the fun of it. It isputting the spirit of the — 
game into the home. No family life is right — 
until it kicks its heels, . 

The basic difficulty with many people lies — 
in their misconception of what fun is. To live — 
a life interested in worth-while things; to 
grow a character upon which you yourself 
can inwardly depend, and of which you need 
not be ashamed; to hold great faiths, and try 
to live up to them; to do something for some- 
body that leaves the world a more decent — 
place; and in the end to fulfill the ancient — 
saying that “a good man leaveth an inherit- — 
ance to his children’s children’”’—that, with 
all the jollity and resilience that go with it, is — 
not just duty, but the best fun to be found in 
this troubled world. 

To be sure, heavily burdened folk can find 
mere living so difficult that they have no fair 
chance to live for the fun of it. Work and 
trouble make up their day-by-day experience. 
Nevertheless, so far as work is concerned, it 
is worth remembering that the finest work in 
the world is done for fun. Some good work 
comes from necessity; some good work is 
done for money; but the best work is always 
done for fun. 

Millet, the French artist, had to paint ad- 
vertising signs to make both ends meet, but 
it was not his best work. When, however, he 
painted his Brittany peasants for the love of 
painting them, then he was at his best. An 
author may have to write hack stuff to keep 
the pot boiling, but it will be second-best. 
When, however, the pot is boiling, and he 
has leisure to write something that he wants 
to write for the creative joy of writing it, that 
will be his best work. That is how John Bun- 
yan wrote The Pilgrim’s Progress. He said 
he wrote it for a diversion and a pastime, 
and put ‘his pen to paper with delight, 

“... nor did I undertake 

Thereby to please my Neighbor; no not I; 

I did it mine own self to gratifie.”’ 

The Pilgrim’s Progress is a great book. It was 
written for fun. 


As for trouble, who of us has not comé from 
visiting a friend, in some tragic situation, 
with tears in our eyes and exultation in our 
hearts, saying, ‘‘He is a great sport’? That 
language is significant. It describes some 
very stimulating people who, when the day 
is hard, still play the game. Recently, in a 
British paper, I found an article by a friend 
who, visiting the United States, had run upon 
a story in San Francisco concerning a barber 
who, after the earthquake and fire had well- 
nigh destroyed the city, put this placard in 
his shopwindow: “‘ Whoever comes in smiling 
will be shaved free of charge.”” My British 
friend made that the text of his article to his 
own people, now in their Serious situation, 
pleading for a quality of character which is 
the undying glory of his nation. 

This is a law-abiding universe, however, in 
which we cannot get that spirit year in and 
year out through a long lifetime on a low 
philosophy of what life means. Even a thor- 
oughgoing materialist can do many worth- 
while things for fun, but when he thinks of 
life as a whole, he comes out where Somerset 
Maugham, the novelist, comes out in his 
book entitled The Summing Up. That’s 
where the pinch comes, in summing it up; 
and Somerset Maugham sums it up like 
this: “‘ There is no reason for life and life has 
no meaning.” How can one get resilience and 
bounce out of life on that basis? 

Over against that, in these grim days es- 
pecially, we need, alike for our personal and - 
our social life, a renewal of conviction that 
the great spiritual heritage of our Western 
World is true—seriously true, but exhilarat- 
ingly true also: that life has divine source, 
meaning, destiny. On that basis, life can do 
more than plod—it can dance. THE END 








‘LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


November, 1949 


CAN I CHOOSE THE SEX OF MY CHILD? 


and yet it is to a single sperm, both in 
size and shape, as an orange is to a sewing 
needle—or, more accurately, to a piece of 
thread, with a knot at one end, about the 
length of a needle. 

When the sperm enters the egg, fertiliza- 
tion takes place. The egg then continues to 
descend the Fallopian tube for a period of 
about a week, during which time it grows a 
group of tiny tendrils. When it enters the 
uterus, these tendrils are used to attach it to 
the wall, and the process of growth begins 
which ends in the birth of a baby nine 
months later. 

Let me turn back now for a moment to the 
composition of ovum and sperm in order to 
explain the process by which the sex of the 
baby is determined. 

The human body, like all other living mat- 
ter, is composed of billions of microscopic 
cells. Each of these cells contains still smaller 
objects called chromosomes; in the case of 
human beings, and with a single exception to 
which I shall come in a moment, there are 24 
linked pairs of chromosomes, or 48 in all, in 
each cell. Each chromosome contains a num- 
ber of still smaller objects called genes, 
which control the growth, and all the charac- 
teristics, of the living plant, animal or man. 

The exception to the rule about 48 chromo- 
somes is found in the female egg and the 
male sperm. Developed from special germ 
cells, the egg and the sperm have only 24 
chromosomes each, instead of 48—one 
chromosome from each of the linked pairs in 
the ordinary cell. When the sperm enters the 
egg, the 24 male chromosomes join the 24 
female ones, to make 48 again. Since the 
genes within these chromosomes carry all 
the hereditary characteristics, the baby thus 
inherits equally from both father and mother. 
The only exception is that certain (dominant) 
genes are more influential than other (re- 
cessive) ones, so that the baby will inherit 
the color of his eyes and hair, and so on, 
from one parent and not from the other. 


‘Tue 24 chromosomes of the female egg are, 
in general, all alike. The male sperm, how- 
ever, is different. One half of all the male 
cells contain 24 normal chromosomes; but 
the other half of the male cells contain 23 
normal chromosomes and one which is very 
much smaller. 

Whether the future baby is to be a boy or 
a girl depends entirely upon which of these 
two types of male sperm cells enters, and ferti- 
lizes, the female egg. If the sperm with 24 
chromosomes, all the same size, reaches the 
egg first, and fertilizes it, the baby will bea 
girl. If the sperm which contains one dwarf 
chromosome in addition to 23 normal ones 
reaches the egg first, the baby will be a boy. 

The premise which Doctors Hart and 
Moody assume is that the two types of male 
sperm differ in their ability to reach and pene- 
trate the female egg, at various times of the fer- 
tility period. The scientists are not yet sure 
which of several factors, separately or in 
combination, is responsible for this fact. The 
ovum may be more difficult, or easier, to 
permeate early or late in the cycle. Various 
conditions in the genital tract may produce a 
similar variation. One or the other of the 
two types of male sperm may have greater 
activity and “‘aggressiveness.’’ Doctors Hart 
and Moody believe, without as yet having 
been able to verify it, that probably the third 
of these hypotheses is the most significant. 

Earlier in this article I mentioned corrobo- 
ration from a study of 9489 births resulting 
from artificial insemination. This material 
was collected when Francis F. Seymour and 
Alfred Koerner wrote to a large number of 
doctors asking them to report on cases of 
artificial insemination among their patients 
(of course, without revealing names or other 
identifying data). Since normally 105 males 
are born to every 100 females, there should 
have been, in 9489 cases, 4861 males to 4628 
females. 

But in fact, there were 5676 males to 3813 
females, an increase of 48 per cent over the 
number of males that would have been expected. 


(Continued from Page 40) 


The reason, Doctors Hart and Moody be- 
lieve, is that artificial insemination is in 
general carried on with the greatest attention 
to the exact time when the prospective 
mother is fertile, as based on an attempt to 
determine the time of ovulation. It would 
therefore take place after ovulation, in a larger 
percentage of cases than could be expected 
under normal conditions. 

I have mentioned also corroboration from 
studies of twins. Since monozygotic twins 
are born from a single fertilization, one sperm 
and one egg, they are of course always of the 
same sex. But dizygotic twins >re born from 
two separate eggs, which h: ve been 
fertilized by two separate sperm. If pure 
chance governed the sex, as has always 
been supposed in the past, the number 
of boys and girls in these combinations of 
twins should be 105 boys to 100 girls. On 
the contrary, a study of 401 pairs of twins 
showed that twins of the same sex exceeded 
those of different sex by 34.5 per cent. This 
difference is so tremendous that it cannot 
possibly be explained on a basis of pure 
chance. 

Since we know how many of all twins are 
monozygotic (about 25.5 per cent) it is pos- 
sible to break down the U.S. census figures on 
twins into monozygotic and dizygotic groups. 
Among 86,996 sets of twins, the dizygotics 
who are of the same sex exceed the normal 
proportion of boys and girls by approxi- 
mately 26 per cent, again enormously be- 
yond any accidental variation. 

The significance of these figures in regard 
to dizygotic twins is that fertilization of both 
the eggs is believed to take place at prac- 
tically the same time. The fact that there is 
such a tremendous proportion of twins of 
the same sex strongly supports the thesis 
that the time during the ovulation cycle 
when insemination takes place plays an 
enormous part in determining the sex of the 
baby. 

Doctors Hart and Moody are continuing 
their experiments, of which the first group, 
with laboratory rats, concerned insemination 
late in the ovulation cycle. As already re- 
ported, the later in the ovulation cycle in- 


“Is this the lady of the house 





semination took place, the larger the propor-— 
tion of males. These proportions ranged 
from 149 males to 100 females, up to 255 
males to 100 females. 

When the same rats were bred again under 
normal conditions, they produced only an 
average of 91 males to 100 females, showing 
that the remarkable results achieved earlier 
did not result from any peculiarity in these 
particular rats. 


New experiments are now in progress with 
insemination early in the ovulation cycle, to 
produce a preponderance of females. Other 
experiments will be conducted in regard to 
other species. A review of the evidence 
already collected, however, can leave no 
one with the slightest doubt that there 
is a definite and marked correlation be- 
tween the sex of a child and the time in the 
fertilization period in which insemination 
took place. 

What will happen when this amazing 
scientific principle becomes generally known 
and is widely accepted? It is usually argued 
that most people want a boy baby rather 
than a girl, If they are able to choose, within 
fairly broad limits, does this mean that we 
shall have a tremendous imbalance of the 
sexes? 

Not at all, in the opinion of authorities 
who have considered the problem. They 
point out that while most people want their 
first baby to be a boy, they almost always 
prefer that the second baby be a girl. (No 
matter what the parents may have wanted, 
they usually become entirely reconciled to 
the sex of their offspring within a few days, 
and thereafter wouldn’t have had the baby 
be’ of the opposite sex for anything.) It 
seems altogether certain that when parents 
are able to dictate the sex of their children 
to some degree, the first child will be more 
likely to be a boy; but the second is pretty 
sure to be a girl, and the alternation will go 
on very much as before. Mother Nature has 
more than one string to her bow. She is not 
likely to let the human race wreck itself by 
producing a great preponderance of one sex 
or the other. THE END 


No, I guess not.” 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 195 | 


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196 


DELUGHT FOR 





Nestle’s Semi-Sweet Chocolate 
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Brownie Recipe 


SIFT 





























together and set aside ¥% c. sifted flour 

% tsp. baking powder, % tsp. salt 

MELT over hot water, mix until smooth, and set 
aside 1 pkg. Nestle’s Semi-Sweet Chocolate 
Morsels, ¥3 c. shortening 

BEAT until thick and lemon colorea— 

2 eggs with % c. sugar 

ADD — Flour mixture 

STIR IN—Chocolate mixture and 1 tsp. vanilla 

Pour into 8" square, greased, wax paper lined pan 

SPRINKLE—(optional) 1 c. chopped nutmeats 
on top and press lightly into batter 

BAKE AT: 375°F. TIME: 25 Min. YIELD:16 sq: 

When cool, cut into squares (2" x 2") 











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By LOUELLA 
G. SHOUER 


ELEN and Larry Fritz rent a charming apartment over a four-car 
garage on a private estate near Philadelphia. Because Helen works 
two days a week and commutes to New York those days, she’s devel- 


oped her own way of making dinner-getting quick and easy. You’ll want 


to add some of her tricks to your own collection of in-a-hurry menus. 


“In planning my dinner menus for the week,” Helen confided, “I 


usually start with a roast. If we are going to have guests—either for the 
week end, for Saturday dinner or for Sunday-night supper (when I will 
usually serve it sliced cold)—I buy a fairly large roast—five to six 
pounds, depending on the kind or cut. When we aren’t having guests, I 


often have a roast chicken. In any case, the remains of the roast pro- 
vide one or more different dishes during the week. If the leftover roast 
is lamb or pork, we will invariably have it curried over rice. If the 
roast is chicken, I use it in a casserole stretched with noodles.” 


So for Monday 


Chicken-and-Noodle Casserole 


Orange-and-Grapefruit 
Salad 


A salad of cold sections of oranges 
and grapefruit is just the right tart ac- 
companiment for the casserole. 


CHICKEN-AND-NOODLE 
CASSEROLE 


Cut up 1% cups cooked chicken. 
Leave it in fairly large pieces. Sauté 1 
onion, chopped, 2 or 3 mushrooms, 
sliced, in 3 tablespoons butter or mar- 
garine. Push vegetables to side of pan 
and add 2 tablespoons flour and 114 
teaspoons curry powder. Blend smooth 
with the fat. Add 2 cups liquid gradu- 
ally— 1% cream and 4% chicken broth— 
or if you have a little chicken gravy left 
from the roast chicken, add that too. 
Cook, stirring constantly until thick- 
ened. Add chicken, salt and pepper to 
taste, and 2 tablespoons seedless 
raisins. If you like more curry, this is 
the time to add it. Cook 2 ounces (14 


package) noodles in boiling salted wa- 
ter until tender. Follow directions on 
package. Drain. Mix noodles and 
sauce together. Pour into a casserole 
and bake in moderately hot oven, 
375° F., 20 minutes. 


Monday Memo. You will need 
to have cooked chicken on hand, of 
course, plus noodles, canned chicken 
broth, cream, mushrooms and nuts 
(optional), onion, curry powder, 
bread or rolls, milk, coffee or tea. 
One grapefruit and two oranges will 
make a salad for two, plus greens. 
French dressing and chutney. 


Tuesday 


Kidneys and Sausages— 
Baked Potato Halves 
Scalloped Tomatoes 

Apple Compote 


First off, put the potatoes in to bake. 
Scrub and cut them in half. They bake 
in half the time. 








PHOTO BY STUART 














KIDNEYS AND SAUSAGES 


Slice 1 veal kidney after removing the 
fat around it. With a pair of scissors, 
snip out the bit of membrane in the 
center of each slice. Cover with boiling 
water and simmer 5 minutes. Drain off 
the liquid and save. In the meantime 
fry 14 pound link pork sausages (or 14 
pound bulk sausage meat). Drain off 
all fat but 2 tablespoons. Add 1 small 
onion, chopped, and if you have them, 
4 mushrooms, sliced. Cook 5 minutes. 
Add kidneys. Sprinkle with 2 tea- 
spoons flour. Stir well and add 14 cup 
of the strained liquid from the kid- 
neys. Stir well until slightly thickened. 
Cover and simmer 10 minutes or until 
kidneys are tender. 





APPLE COMPOTE 

Peel, core and cut into eighths 1 quart 
tart apples (114 pounds). Add 2 cups 
water, 34 cup sugar, the juice of 2 
lemons, and 1 lemon, sliced, and 14 
stick cinnamon. Simmer until apples 
are tender. Add 2 tablespoons red 
cinnamon candies after removing 
from heat. 


Tuesday Memo. You will need | 
veal kidney, pork sausages, | No. 2 can 
tomatoes, 1’2-2 pounds tart apples, 
3lemons. Have on hand: onions, garlic, 
potatoes, mushrooms, brown sugar, 
sugar, stick cinnamon, red cinnamon 
candies (optional), salad greens—if 
you'd like a salad with this meal— 
bread, butter or margarine, milk, tea 
or coffee. 


Wednesday 


Tomato or Onion Soup 
Hamburgers—Green Salad 
Ice Cream— 
Apricot-Raspberry Sauce 


Wednesday nights Helen doesn’t get 
home much before 8 o’clock. Instead 
of a regular dinner, she and Larry like 
a soup-and-sandwich meal, topped off 
with ice cream, which she keeps in her 
refrigerator for quick desserts at all 
times. You may not have a schedule 
like Helen’s, but there’s always an 
evening when a hot soup, hamburgers 
and a salad hit the spot. 


APRICOT-RASPBERRY SAUCE 
FOR ICE CREAM 
To \% cup raspberry jam, add 14 cup 
puréed apricots. If you have stewed 
dried apricots cooked for breakfast, 
use those. Otherwise, you can use 
canned apricots. 


Wednesday Memo. You wil! need 
%-% pound ground beef, | pint ice 
cream, 4 hamburger buns. Have on 
hand also a favorite canned soup, 
greens for salad, dressing, raspberry 
jam, canned apricots or stewed dried 
apricots, butter or margarine, milk, 
coffee or tea. 


Thursday 


Ham-and-Broccoli Brilée 
Green Salad 
Lemon Sponge 


Make dessert first. Prepare the sauce 
for the main dish while the broccoli 


cooks and the ham is frying, then 
everything will be done together. 


HAM-AND-BROCCOLI BRULEE 


Cook 1% bunch broccoli in boiling 
salted water until just tender. Mean- 
while, cut a 14-to-34-pound slice of 
smoked ham in half. Brown on both 
sides in hot skillet. Make the sauce as 
follows. Melt 2 tablespoons butter 
or margarine. Add 2 tablespoons flour 
and blend smooth. Add 1 cup milk 
and cook until thickened, stirring 
constantly. Stir in 144 cup grated 
cheese and salt and pepper to taste. 
Lay ham in shallow baking dish. 
Drain broccoli and lay it on ham 
slices. Pour cheese sauce over the 
broccoli. When nearly ready to serve, 
place under broiler and broil about 4 
minutes or until lightly browned. 


LEMON SPONGE 


Mix together in the top of the double 
boiler | tablespoon cornstarch and 144 
cup sugar. Add 34 cup boiling water 
and cook, stirring constantly over di- 
rect heat until clear. Add 1 tablespoon 
butter or margarine, a pinch of salt 
and a little grated lemon rind. Put 
top of double boiler over hot water. 
Add 2 egg yolks, slightly beaten, and 
cook a few minutes until eggs thicken. 
Stir constantly. Remove from heat. 
Add 4 cup lemon juice. Fold in 2 
egg whites, beaten stiff but not dry. 
Cool and serve in sherbet glasses. 


Thursday Memo. You will need 
a /2-%4 pound slice smoked ham, 1 
bunch broccoli (you will use half for 
another meal or cook and use in salad 
over week end). Be sure you have on 
hand lemons, eggs, cornstarch, salad 
greens, dressing, cheese, butter or 
margarine, milk, tea or coffee. 


Friday 
* Quick-Baked Fish Fillets 
Boiled Potatoes — Peas 
Hot Gingerbread 
Honey Topping 


For dinner tonight make gingerbread 
from a mix and serve it hot with a 
creamed honey topping. The fish fillets 
bake only 15 minutes at the same oven 
temperature as gingerbread. 


QUICK-BAKED FISH FILLETS 


Spread a shallow baking dish with soft 
butter or margarine. Lay washed fish 
fillets on buttered dish; 24-34 pound 
isenough fortwo. Sprinkle with salt and 
pepper, paprika and chopped parsley. 
Pour 14 cup heavy cream over the fish. 
Dot with butter or margarine and bake 
15 minutes in moderate oven—350° 
F.—just until the flesh of fish turns 
perfectly white. Serve with lemon. 


HONEY TOPPING 
Cream 14 cup butter or margarine, 
adding 14 cup honey gradually. Then 
add 3 tablespoons cream bit by bit, 
creaming all the while. Serve a spoon- 
ful on top of hot gingerbread. 


Friday Memo. You will need 7%-*4 
pound fish fillets—flounder, cod or 
haddock—1 package frozen peas, 1| 
package gingerbread mix. Check sup- 
plies for potatoes, parsley, cream, 
honey, butter or margarine, milk, tea 


or coffee. 





Ak 5 ' NGG 1 


All AAY ERPIENIRDS 
| mii sr E } 


Tomato Soup when 


OLD ME to try using Campbell’s 
he recipe calls for tomato flavor. 


Well, they were right—it’s marvelous! Turns a good 
dish into a super dish! Why don’t you try it? Your 
family will love it. Here’s a grand beef stew: 


BROWN BEEF STEW 


1% pounds lean beef, 


1 can Campbell’s Tomato Soup 


cut in 12-inch cubes 4 medium whole carrots 


2 tablespoons fat 
3 cups boiling water 


10 small whole onions 
4-5 medium potatoes 


1 bay leaf 2 stalks celery, cut in 2-inch pieces 


1% teaspoons salt 


Brown meat in fat in deep 
kettle or Dutch oven. Add water, 
bay leaf and salt; simmer about 
1% hours, covered, or until 
meat is almost tender. Add 
Campbell’s Tomato Soup, 


Vie 


2 tablespoons chopped parsley 


carrots, onions, potatoes, and 
celery; simmer, covered, about 
45 minutes or until vegetables 
are cooked. Sprinkle on parsley 
just before serving. Makes 4-5 
generous servings. 


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Made to Campbell’s own matchless recipe from luscious, 
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whisper of seasoning. The finest tomato sauce you can buy 
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Y, cup sugar 2 tablespoons sugat 

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Place over medium heat. Cook until mixture comes to a oa oil, 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


TOUGH GUY 
BELISARIUS 


(Continued from Page 60) 


“And what do you do for a living?” 

That was a shock approach. It came from 
the cadet on my right, and when I looked 
around and up at him, he was smiling. He 
had gray eyes, not at all like Mr. Langford’s, 
and he was Keith Allison. Something about 
him made me forget to speak. 

““May I have an answer, or would it be a 
military secret?” 

Here was another cue, this time to indulge 
in some sparkling repartee. But all I could 

@hink of was the truth, so I said, just as 
though I were filling out a form and had 
reached the heading Financial Status, ‘‘I 
haven’t earned my living yet, but I’m going 
to join a stock company in two weeks.” 

“Two weeks isn’t long enough to allow for 
wasting time on Ganomey.” 

He.was apparently referring to Mr. Lang- 
ford. ‘I thought his name was Stewart,”’ I 
heard myself saying, in the quietest silence 
that ever spread along a table. 

“‘He was so christened, but of late has ac- 
quired a nickname spelled g-n-o-m-e, the g 
being silent. Since, in this academy, we do 
not permit letters to be silent, he has become 
Ganomey.” 

Of course, like a dummy, I couldn’t resist 
looking at Stewart. 

“Do you approve of his nickname?”’ Keith 
asked. 

Knowing that everyone was listening, I 
just shook my head and said, “It’s too de- 
scriptive.”” 

That did it. I took the center of the stage 
for a roar of laughter that made my face hot 
and the pit of my stomach cold. Stewart was 
laughing harder than anyone and when he 
got control of himself, he said: 

“Keith has a pretty nickname too. Would 
you like to add it to your collection?”’ 

I wouldn’t but I knew I had to. 

“He is called The Body. In his case, -also, 
it is just too descriptive.’ 

More guffaws and me having to look at 
Keith, whose sun-tanned face rouged up like 
a sunset. 


Twas so glad when Mrs. Gillis gave the sig- 
nal to leave the table that it was pitiful. You 
wouldn’t have known I’d ever seen the foot- 
lights the way I took cover in the darkness of 
the car as we all piled in to drive to Cullum 
Hall, where the dance—no, the hop—was be- 
ing held. Here was I, invited to West Point 
to use the dramatic technique I’d supposedly 
learned in Miss Richman’s course for the 
purpose of finding out which way a man’s 
heart is turning, and the very first thing I did 
was to insult him and perhaps ruin Beth’s 
chances forever. 

Miss Richman says I don’t need make-up 
except behind the footlights, so all I wanted 
in the powder room was to leave my cape and 
avoid Beth’s logical fury. I was trying to slip 
by the row of girls in front of mirrors when my 
roommate’s blue-and-gold reflection stopped 
me as she added another layer of lipstick. 

“Andrea! What a perfectly super approach. 
From here on Stew won’t mind no matter 
what gross question you ask. I just knew 
those honors could be used for something.” 
She jumped to her feet and gave me a quick 
hug. ‘“‘Come up when you're ready and get 
on the ball.” And she was gone as though a 
wind had blown her. 

Then I realized that a wind was all around 
me and I was alone ina calm place at the cen- 
ter. There was a fever in the wind—the heat 


November, 1949 


~ TAMER 


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was glad my happiness was a thing of my 
own making. I’d do what I could for Beth 
and then get out of this gruesome-twosome 
setup of female competition for the attention 
of conceited brass-buttoned males. Give me 
my career! I had an uplifted feeling as I hit 
Beth’s trail out of the powder room and 
walked smack into Keith Allison. 

Without even asking, he grabbed my hand 
and led me up the broad staircase to the ball- 
room. Right there my ballet training came in 
handy. He took me in his arms and I seemed 
to fit there so perfectly that I could guess ev- 
ery movement he made in time to make it 
with him. I felt like a feather being blown by 
a strong wind, like playing a part in a Vien- 
nese operetta. The uniforms, the gala dresses, 
the music risifg in a crescendo of drums and 
brass that carried us with it. I sneaked a look 
at him, tilting my head because of his being 
so tall, and just then he looked down with 
those oddly colored eyes of his—like an old 
roof in the rain, slate-gray and glistening. My 
breath caught as though I were going down 
in an elevator. 

He said, ““To dance with you is an emo- 
tional experience. Actresses know how, don’t 
they!” 

“So do cadets.” 

“Together we are a sensation.” 

At this point, my guilt complex made me 
remember that I should be dancing with 
Stewart, probing for the source of Beth’s 
trouble. 

“Where is Mr. Langford?” I asked. 

“Must you waste time on Ganomey on 
your one night away from Shakespeare?’’ 

He was making fun of me. “Speaking of 
waste,” I said, ‘‘isn’t your 
whole life a waste?” 

Instead of getting angry 


answered slowly as though 
thinking it over. ‘That 
depends on your way of 
looking at it. A soldier’s 
life is like a play. The 
scene is always changing 
up to the final curtain.” 
Then he smiled a little flash of a smile. “It 
ought to appeal to an actress.” 

That was definitely a “‘line,’’ as Beth would 
say, and it was my cue to play up to it. “An 
actress never settles for one leading man when 
she can have Romeo on Monday, Don Juan 
on Tuesday ——’” 

He interrupted. “‘ Those civilians! Give the 
soldiers a break. How about including Na- 
poleon, Caesar, Belisarius ——”’ 

“T’ve had dates with Napoleon and Caesar, 
but I’ve never heard of Belisarius,”’ I told 
him. 

“You've missed a big experience. He was 
an ancient general—a tough guy but kind to 
women.” 

He was making fun of me again, but before 
I could think of something to say, Stewart 
cut in. I thought I was going to be glad, but I 
wasn’t. He didn’t dance well and he didn’t 
hold me comfortably. While I was trying to 
get into position so that my feet wouldn’t be 
under his, I saw Keith dancing with a girl in 
red, with black hair. She had such a perfectly 
repulsive way of cuddling down against his 
shoulder that I wanted to see what kind of 
face went with the cuddling. Keith seemed to 
know what I wanted and kept turning so that 
her back and his face were always toward me. 
And he kept looking down at her as though 
she were the most terrific emotional experi- 
ence. I tried to forget them and put my mind 
on what I would say to lead Stewart into a 
conversation. Just as I decided about the 
opening sentence, another cadet cut in and I 
was passed from one to another like a bucket 
going to a fire. When I got to the fire it was 
Keith. 


He took my hand and said, “Out of circu- 
lation for you.” 

He led me off the floor and down the stairs 
and through a door and out onto a wide stone 
balcony overlooking the river. 

“How beautiful!” I said, meaning the river 
with the moonlight on it. 

“Yes—beautiful.”” But he didn’t look at 
the river. He looked at me and I knew he was 
going to say something crucial. ‘“Has anyone 


as I had expected, he E If one has plenty of money 


but no children, he cannot 

be reckoned rich: if one has 

children, but no money, he 
cannot be considered poor. 

—CHINESE PROVERB. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


ever told you you have the most amazing 
hair?” 

I had to say something quickly, so my 
words just tumbled out: “Oh, yes, Miss Rich- 
man, my drama teacher. She thinks it will 
give us some unusual effects with certain 
lights and colors and she’s counting on it to 
make the public notice me. You see ——” 

He was laughing. ‘I wasn’t thinking of it 
as a commercial asset.” 


I SUPPOSE he thought I was conceited. 
“There’s so much competition,” I said, being 
apologetic, ‘that to get anywhere on the 
stage you have to have something .. . differ- 
ent.” 

“It’s different all right. I’ve never seen 
that color before. It’s like—well, a rusty 
pipe.” 

Now, even girls that haven’t had dates 
know that nobody admires a rusty pipe. 
“Well,” I heard myself saying, and I sounded 
like the shrew before she was tamed, “‘if you 
want to see something different you might 
look at your own eyes. They’re like rain- 
drops—thousands of raindrops rolled into 
two.” 

The minute I said it I was sorry. First be- 
cause it sounded silly and then because of the 
effect on Keith. He looked at me in a certain 
way and it was sort of terrifying. Knowing I 
had to do something, I took a quick step 
backward and wailed, like Ophelia in the 
mad scene: 

“Will Stewart Langford ever dance with 
me again?” 

He stopped right in the middle of what he 
was about to do—but definitely something. 
“Do you want him to, es- 
pecially?” heasked coldly. 

“Oh, yes, more than 
anything.” I put the pas- 
sionate note in that time. 

“It can no doubt be 
arranged, but”—he lis- 
tened a minute—‘“‘not 
tonight. That is Army 
Blue now, denoting the 
end of this most romantic 
evening. As you may have noted, our time 
here is allocated. If the allotment for ro- 
mance is not enough to complete a mission 
successfully, we chalk up a failure. May I 
see you home?”’ 

He waited while I fetched my cape. Then 
we walked out of Cullum Halland around the 
parade and up the hill and up the steps. On 
Colonel Gillis’ porch we faced each other. He 
stood as stiff as a toy soldier. 

“Thank you for a delightful evening,” he 
said. ‘Since you live at the farthermost lo- 
cation, I shall have to hasten to meet re- 
quirements. Good night.” He turned and ran 
down the steps. 

Curtain. An unusual one for a Viennese 
operetta. Actually the setting called for a love 
duet. A stone balustrade, moonlight, the per- 
fume of honeysuckle. In such a situation, 
Romeo —— But Belisarius was different. A 
tough guy! And, as far as I could see, not 
even kind to women. Luckily, I managed to 
get to bed without waking Beth. 

The next morning everything was differ- 
ent—I mean life. Beth’s bed was empty, and 
that was a break for me because I wanted to 
get adjusted before I saw anyone. The sun 
was terribly bright and the trees terribly 
green. My spine felt cold and my face hot and 
all of me was excited. I thought it was be- 
cause I was one day nearer my debut in the 
stock company. 

But somehow I kept thinking what an 
awful mess I’d made out of my visit so 
far, and what was I going to say to Beth? 
Since there was no use putting off the evil 
hour, I plunged down to the dining room 
where Mrs. Gillis and Beth were dragging 
out breakfast to include me. 

“T’m sorry I’m late,” I remarked simply, 
meaning to start with something unemo- 
tional. 

Mrs. Gillis explained that there was no 
such thing as being late in June Week. 
Beth’s mouth was full of toast, but, as soon 
as she swallowed it, she fixed me with a 
knowing look and said: 

“We've got to get started, Andrea. There’s 
Parade this morning, swimming this after- 






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noon and—did anyone invite you to the hop 
tonight?” 

No one had, so I said so. 

At that Mrs. Gillis practically screamed, 
“You mean to say Keith Allison didn’t ask 
you!” 

“Roach powder!” said Beth. “I suppose 
we'll have to get Bill to fill in. Mummy should 
have coached you.” 

“Coached her? Whatever do you mean?” 
Mrs. Gillis’ voice was shocked. 

Instead of answering her mother, Beth 
leaned across the table toward me. “I’ve 
seen the old album that daddy had when he 
was a cadet. He was high-ranking and a reg- 
ular bearcat to look at. From the picture, 
mummy wasn’t exactly Hedy Lamarr and 
there was big competition. She got daddy, 
though, and you know she must have had 
something. If she’d tell you ——” But 
by that time Mrs. Gillis had gone, so Beth 
could be realistic. ‘Andrea! What did Stew- 
art say?” 

I couldn’t tell her that Stew and I acted 
as gags for each other so I said, carefully, ‘‘I 
danced with him only once. You have to 
work up to this thing gradually.” 

She seemed satisfied for the moment, but 
I knew it was a case of peace in our time and 
the time would end that night. 

As it turned out, Keith played the lead at 
Parade. It really wouldn’t have been neces- 
sary for him to stand out in front and give 
commands because he was the kind you 
would notice anyway. And, besides, his voice 
would make people do things, even non- 
military things. By the time he had marched 
the corps away behind the ivy-covered walls, 
I was in such an emotional state that I could 
have played a great Isolde or a Tosca. But 
somehow it was Mona Vanna who kept com- 
ing into my mind. Mona Vanna and the bar- 
barian chieftain Prinzivalle who summoned 
her to his tent and then escorted her home 
in honor. Perhaps Belisarius was kind to 
women that way. Renunciation! You had to 
learn that to have a successful career. 

Beth didn’t want a career and she had no 
intention of renouncing. On the way home, 
she babbled about Stew and how absolutely 
darling he was, marching past—perfectly un- 
conscious of the fact that Keith was so much 
more attractive physically and important 
mentally. It just shows how love can warp 
your judgment so that even your psychology 
course has been a waste of time. 

I wanted to get her off the subject of Stew, 
so I asked, casually, who was the black- 
haired girl in bright red. She knew right 
away whom I meant. 

“‘That’s Lollie Richardson. The girl who 
danced so much with Keith. She’s been after 
him ever since he entered the academy. 
Heard last night, via the grapevine, that she’s 


‘Seams? Yeh, sure. ... Sure, they’re straight. ...Sure.... 





November, 1949 


finally landed him, but no one seems to be 
very sorry for Keith,’ 

“Why should they be sorry?’’. 

“Tt would serve him right to get a hot rock 
like Lollie for keeps. He’s an awful wolf. 
Hands out the same line to every girl he 
meets.” 

The next thing was to get ready for swim- 
ming. You can imagine that, after all the 
emotion and hearing that Keith was a wolf 
and probably engaged to Lollie, I didn’t want 
to go to the swimming party. I suppose I had 
a premonition just as Julius Caesar did the 
night before he was murdered. But history 
repeats itself. Caesar and I made the same 
mistake. We both went to the party. I didn’t 
have as much choice as he did, because, after 
all, when you are visiting you have to follow 
the plans your hostess makes for you. 

Beth told me that Stew and Keith and a 
lot of other cadets and girls would be there 
and I must wear my best bathing suit. And I 
knew without being told that I was ex- 
pected to isolate Stew and find out if and 
when he intended to marry Beth. The whole 
prospect made me feel as disorganized as raw 
hamburger. I’d brought one bathing suit, the 
green one that mother sent me for the spring 
meet. (That was the time I forgot and wore 
my old one and made a sensation in reverse 
when I walked out in front of the crowd to 
have the medal pinned on, looking like last 
year’s fish catch, so the coach said.) So now 
I put on the new one and stood in front of the 
mirror studying myself. 

The Andrea Hunt in that reflection was a 
stranger to me. Her head was thrown back at 
a bold, careless angle, her hands were on her 
hips with one hip thrust forward and the 
queerest glitter in her eyes. The ensemble 
reminded me of Carmen in the scene where 
she lures Don José to destruction. Then, sud- 
denly, Carmen relaxed into Andrea Hunt. 
It had struck me that when Keith saw that 
Nile green with my different hair he’d say it 
reminded him of mold on the rusty pipe. 

Just then Beth came out of the closet 
where she’d been unearthing her equipment. 
“This frumpy number is all I can find,” she 
said, but it would be all right because Stew 
never noticed clothes and what she ought to 
wear to please him was an armchair and a 
ham sandwich. Beth has a nice enough fig- 
ure, but it’s a little warped in places by the 
cheese and crackers and so forth. The suit 
was yellow and made her look like one of 
those little pots of honey—small and round 
and gold and twinkly. 

In no time we were at the pool and in our 
suits, and the first person I saw was Keith. 
He had on swimming trunks that looked as 
though they were painted on him and it was 
easy to see why he had his nickname. I de- 
cided right then that his eyes were interest- 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 201 


ing like a general’s but the rest of him was 
definitely a second lieutenant’s, which is 
the grade he would have the next day. 

He was talking to a girl in a white bathing 
suit, but as soon as he saw us he came right 
over. The girl followed and even before Beth 
had a chance to say, “‘Lollie, this is my room- 
mate, Andrea,” I knew who she was. She had 
dark eyes and Latin smoothness and an air 
that told you that to her every man was just 
another date. Every man, that is, except the 
one standing between her and me. We looked 
at each other thoroughly, and I knew what 
Beth meant when she said Keith would be 
punished if he got Lollie Richardson. I had 
no reason to want him punished so I wished 
she would take a powder the way Juliet did. 

Keith smiled at me and I thought, Here 
comes the crack. But instead he looked the 
way Miss Richman does when I’ve played a 
scene the way she wants it and said: 

“Ts my leading lady as good at swimming 
as she is at dancing?” 

I couldn’t have answered that one, but 
Beth turned from her conversation with 
Stewart and did worse than not answering. 

“Good at swimming? And how! Go on, 
Andrea, give us an exhibition.” 

Everyone stared at me till I felt my skin 
peeling and Lollie piped up in a voice that 
was slow and low but horribly clear, “Go on, 
do. We love exhibitionists, don’t we, honey ?”’ 
And she actually squeezed Keith’s arm and 
looked up at him in thatrepulsive way of hers. 

Instead of answering, he reached out and 
took my hand. ‘““Come on, leading lady, let’s 
show ’em.” 


We dived into the pool and swam away to 
the far end, sideways, looking at each other 
through the water. His stroke was strong 
and even. His eyes were the color of the water 
that rippled across his face as he kept smiling 
at me. 

““We’re almost as sensational here as we are 
on the dance floor,” he said. ‘‘Only here, one 
thing is missing.” 

“What?” I asked. 

“That amazing hair is under a cap.” 

“It'll be on view at the hop tonight,” I 
promised. 

“May I take it to the hop?” 

I was going to say yes when I thought of 
Bill, who had undoubtedly been told he was 
to take me. “I’m sorry, but I’m going with 
Bill.” 

“Bill? Bill who?” He stopped swimming 
and smiling too. 

“T don’t know his last name,”’ I said, being 
perfectly truthful but sounding like a moron. 
After all, you are supposed to know more 
about your date than his first name. 

That spoiled everything. Just as the eve- 
ning had ended with Army Blue, the after- 
noon ended with a terrible scream. I looked 
and there was someone flopping around in 
the deepest part of the pool as though she 
were drowning. All I could think of was my 
lifesaving course, so I zipped over, grabbed 
what was flopping and towed her to the side. 
The next thing, Keith was lifting her out and 
laying her on the ground. I wasn’t worried, 
because, as her limp head hung over his arm, 
where I was treading water, her eyes were 
open and looking at me and I’m almost sure 
she said, ‘‘ You sad sack!”’ It was Lollie, of 
course. 

I dressed, went right back to Colonel 
Gillis’ house and lay down on the bed. It was 
good to be alone. I needed time to think, and 
it was really necessary to run through some 
parts for the stock company. 

When, about two hours later, Beth came 
in, I was so absorbed in the play she thought 
I was really crying. I explained that I was 
thinking through Othello from Desdemona’s 
point of view. 

“Oh!” Light dawned for Beth. “‘Some- 
thing happened to her in bed, didn’t it?”’ 

“Of course. She was murdered by her hus- 
band. Smothered with a pillow.” 

“Gruesome woman!”’ 

‘Her husband was the gruesome one.”’ 

“Well, I’d rather have one and be mur- 
dered than not have one.” 

That was almost an unmoral statement on 
Beth’s part, but it shows what being in love 
will do to one’s principles. At this point I 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


think we were both a little off balance: Beth 
peeved at me for not making progress with 
Stewart, and I facing the fact that, as far as 
men were concerned, I went over like a lead 
balloon. It didn’t help matters either when 
Beth let out that Lollie had won a gold medal 
in an A.A.U. swimming meet. 

Yes, we were off balance and so was the 
Gillis household. It seems that at the dinner 
party the night before we had eaten all the 
exciting food the family would have till next 
month. I like soup and tossed green salad, 
but you can’t invite virile men in to eat it, 
and so we had a droopy meal before we went 
upstairs to dress for the hop. 

Beth told me I ought to apply psychology 
to my dressing. “‘ You hide your appeal,” she 
said. ‘‘In competition with Lollie you haven’t 
a prayer. That girl does a strip tease in every- 
thing she wears. Did you note the bathing 
suit?” 

“T thought it was sort of disgusting.” 

“T wish everyone did. She gets the same 
effect when she’s dressed for church. Wish I 
knew how she does it. Since you’re an actress, 
why don’t you try playing a part that has a 
chance of beating her at her own game? How 
about Salome?” 

““The most she wore was seven veils.” 

“‘She got what she wanted and cut to order 
too.” 

By this conversation I could see that Beth 
thought I was trying to get Keith away from 
Lollie, and that was a terrific exaggeration. I 
decided right then I’d show her I didn’t care 
about him or any man. I put on the plain 
white evening dress that I’d never had time 
to wear at college and my pearl beads and a 
black velvet ribbon on my hair. Instead of 
Salome, I looked like the Two Orphans. 

Very promptly, as they 
do everything at West 
Point, Stewart came for 
Beth and Bill came with 
him. Bill was everything 
I didn’t like in a man 
except scrubbed-looking, 
but I had brought him on 
myself, so Beth said, and had to make the 
best of him. He made a few wisecracks that 
fell awfully flat and then we went to the hop. 

In the powder room, while Beth was work- 
ing on her face, I got more and more worried 
about everything. Having Bill around my 
neck, so to speak, made it even harder to put 
my mind on being subtle with Stewart. I 
thought, Suppose I don’t do any better tonight 
than I’ve done so far and Stewart goes away 
without saying anything and Beth commits 
suicide? 

“Would you,” I asked Beth’s reflection, 
‘would you be awfully upset if Stewart 
didn’t care?”’ 

She stopped the lipstick halfway across 
her mouth. “‘ Upset! ’d—I’d have to go to an 
old ladies’ home.” 

“They won’t take you until you’re at least 
forty-five.” 

“Then I’ll be like you and have a career. 
There isn’t any career I want except being 
Stewart’s wife, but—I’ve always been sorry 
for you, Andrea, not being in love. Now I 
guess you’re the lucky one.” 


‘Tuart should have made me feel superior, 
but it didn’t. In fact, when we went upstairs 
to the ballroom and looked around to see who 
was there, I began to feel sort of faint. Right 
away, to get Stewart and me together, Beth 
proposed trading hops. She danced off with 
Bill, after giving me a certain look, and I 
knew that it was now or never. Realizing 
from past experience that I couldn’t be 
subtle with Stewart while having my feet 
stepped on, I suggested that we sit it out. 
He seemed thrilled and we sat down. I 
thought I had him interested, but he just 
kept staring at the dancers and thinking. 
That made me think, too, and both of us for- 
got to make any sound at all. 

In my thoughts I saw myself standing 
before the footlights with deafening applause 
and people shouting “Brava.” And later, 
there was a queue of men—the queer kind 
that do such things—lining up outside my 
dressing room, bringing me flowers and flat- 
tery and begging me to go to supper. And 
that was the most I could ever have and it 


We are always getting ready 
to live, but never living. 


November, 1949 


was only maybe. And all of it wasn’t as 
much as —— 

Just then I glanced at Stewart and saw a : 
look in his eyes that made my heart stumble. 
That was worth more—the look he gave to 
Beth as she danced past. 

“Stewart!”’ He started but didn’t turn. 
“Are you in love with Beth?” 

“Of course.” 

. “Then why—why don’t you tell her so?” 

“Tell her! An ugly guy like me!” He 
turned and looked full at me and he wasn’t a 
bit like a ganomey. In his face was an enor- 
mous tenderness like a light. 

“But she loves you. She told me so.” 

“Me? Me? A girl like that!”” And then he 
understood and color came into his cheeks 
and his voice sounded small and crushed with 
excitement. ‘‘Do you mind if I go to her?” 

I stood on tiptoe watching him until he dis- 
appeared among the dancers, going to find 
his happiness. I was so absorbed that I ac- 
tually jumped when someone grabbed my 
hand and a voice said: 

“May I have this one, leading lady?” 


We didn’t dance, though, except just 
across the room. Then Keith led me out of 
the ballroom and down the stairs and out 
onto the balcony where the moon was having 
a ball of her own on the river and the moun- 
tains. In the warm June night my hands were 
like ice. I was thinking that Stewart might 
have gone away forever and never known 
that Beth loved him. Fate lets people do 
things like that and perhaps two lives are 
ruined. I didn’t want anyone’s life to be 
ruined. 

We sat on the stone balustrade, Keith and 
I, with a moonbeam between us. My heart 
was beating so that I 
thought I would choke. 

“Leading lady,’’ he 
said, ‘I brought you here 
to tell you a story. Two 
years ago, through the 
babblings of Ganomey, 
I heard about a bronze- 
haired gal with a bathing beauty’s figure, 
a voice that stood them in the aisles and 
the guts to devote her assets to a single 
purpose instead of wasting it on sundry 
males. That spring I had a week end and 
used it to investigate. It was all too true. 
That Saturday she was playing the role of a 
medieval maid in a bad fix, and by the time 
she wound up in the hero’s arms I was 
definitely committed. And being a guy that 
wants the stars, I made plans to get that one. 
This year I’ve taken all my week ends to 
coincide with the stage appearances of my 
favorite leading lady.” 

He stopped and looked down at the river, 
and the line of his jaw cut a sharp silhouette 
against the moon and something about it 
made me feel as though I had known him 
forever and my throat ached with knowing 
it. He went on: 

“T asked Mrs. Gillis to arrange to bring 
the star into my orbit, but when she came 
she didn’t like to dance with me or swim with 
me or talk to me, and now I know that I 
was just being simple to believe that such a 
star would ever descend tomy level. Good-by, 
little bronze-hair.’’ He put out his hand. 

I didn’t take it. I said, ‘‘Not good-by.” 

“Strictly speaking, au revoir. I’ll see you 
again—on the stage, in just the right color 
and just the right light. You’ll be famous and 
I’ll boast to my friends that once I sat on a 
balcony in the moonlight with Andrea Hunt.” 

I thought my throat would burst or my 
heart or both. I couldn’t speak, so I put out 
my hand and touched him. 

“Little bronze-hair,” he said, ““you need a 
whole company of leading men. Having 
Romeo all to yourself for life isn’t enough.” 

At last I found my voice. ‘‘You’re right 
about Romeo. But it would be different with 
a tough guy like Belisarius.” 

“And any day you think that tough guy 
would leave his girl to a bunch of civilians, 
even to keep up his reputation for being kind 
to women ——” 

And the next minute I was in a vise that 
fitted perfectly, and long before it relaxed I 
knew that Belisarius could play the lead 
forever. THE END 


—EMERSON. 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 203 


























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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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205 | 


x HOW AMERICA LIVES x | 





Meet the Winnes, of Truckee Meadows. 


Bert, Ben and small son Lee are inseparable, a contrast to visitors’ experience. 


Their back yard is the Sierras; 


HE tall and courtly-looking gentleman with a row of pearl snaps down his their home, green, sweeping acres, 


shirt front, instead of ordinary buttons, turne e swite a gree ti . 
hirt front in te ido ordinary but ons turned th witch on a green metal but their dude-ranch guests 
box and said happily, ““Watch this. This new electric churn of ours can | 
mie . 7 : 5 . ° | 
turn out twenty pounds of butter in fifteen minutes! wait for another kind of freedom. 
His wife, who wore a plain white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and short blue 
jeans, began filling a pail with water. “That doesn’t include the washing,” she by ROGER BUTTERFIELD 
said. “I always wash my butter eight or ten times, until the water comes 
through absolutely clear. After that I put in the salt and run it through again. 


Before Ben bought me this churn, I used to start making butter at six o’clock 
in the morning, and it took me four or five hours to make a few pounds. Now 
I can make three times as much in less than an hour.” 

Buttermaking is not an unusual occupation for thousands of American 
families. But it did seem a bit unusual to find Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin J. Winne, 
owners and proprietors of one of Nevada’s fancier dude ranches, so busily 
engaged—and so thoroughly enthralled with it. The stuff they were churning 
was not for sale, however. The dairy where the electric churn turns out 20 
pounds of butter in fifteen minutes, the laundry with its daily wash of 40 to 50 
towels, and the canning and freezing (1000 quarts of strawberries put down 
last year) are all part of caring for the dozen or more paying guests at the Lazy 
six weeks— 








A Bar. most of whom were whiling away the exact amount of time 


which is the required residence for a Reno divorce. a ora | 
The Lazy A Bar ranch, which is the name of the Winnes’ layout, lies ten Last year 98 dudes paid the Winnes better than $30,000 
- < ; < , 7 m™ < A : : 5 - ~ | 
miles south of Reno in the fertile, well-watered Truckee Meadows. To reach and spent the six weeks required for a divorce in Reno. 





PHOTOGRAPHS BY LISETTE MODEL 











Ben Winne, prosperous hardware merchant in the Kast ten years ago, was cap- 
tivated by the outdoor life of Nevada while getting his own divorce. He established 
genuine residence and later brought out his second wife, Bert, and baby son Lee. 





Trading post (dude for “gift shoppe’’) was transplanted from their Kingston, N.Y., store. 
Bert’s varied duties include selling bangles to guests, doing daily laundry, canning and 
freezing forty different kinds of vegetables and fruits which they reise on the ranch. 


it you turn off Highway 395 onto a bumpy ranch road that heads 
straight west toward the Sierra Nevada mountains. After about a 
mile you come to a shady oasis of willows, elms and apple trees on 
both sides of what appears to be alittle ditch full of rushing water, but 
which bears the rather ambitious name of White Creek. You turn 
29 south again on a lane bordered with red-painted board fences and 
come to a cluster of low stone and redwood buildings which comprise 





Jor cs ae : . tar ear? Pwned ° .. : 7 . ; . 1 i i i 

sert Winne advises new arrivals to forget troubles and Everybody dines together in patio or recreation cabin. Six-year-old Lee takes a proprietary interest in ranch, 
regard stay as pleasant vacation. Before marriage she Swedish cook Ella’s pancakes are a breakfast specialty. rides his own horse, hunts and fishes with his father, 
was buyer in a store; planned to be a chicken farmer. Bert lends a hand with dishes when waitresses are busy. looks like his half brother, Bob Hutton of the movies. 








Guests craving excitement of night. life make 
round of Reno’s two acres of clubs, escorted 
by cowboys. Many guests bring their own cars. 


the ranch quarters. These include the “main house,” where the 
Winnes and their six-year-old son Lee and several guests have bed- 
rooms; a semicircle of duplex cabins for other guests; the “recreation 
cottage,’ which contains the main kitchen and dining room and opens 
out on the breakfast patio and swimming pool; corrals, stables, a 
small stone laundry building, a bunkhouse for the ranch hands, and 
a combination office and “‘trading post,” which is guest-ranch lan- 
guage for “gift shoppe.” 

The sound of water, always pleasant to hear in a dry climate, is 
never absent from the Winne ranch. A slowly revolving water wheel, 
painted red like the fences, feeds the irrigation system and sends 
little streams coursing through flumes and under wooden foot- 
bridges which connect several of the buildings with the main yard. 


Women usually outnumber men. The initiated size up new arrivals, edge away from a “‘bleeder” who tells everybody her troubles. Guests have cocktails together in late afternoon. 


Guests are cosmopolitan, from France, Japan, South 
Africa, besides U. S., often successful career women. 
They may ride, swim, ski, hunt, fish or just relax. 


And during the summer and early fall there is always plenty of splash- 
ing from the swimming pool. The scenery at all seasons is magnifi- 
cent. To the west the rugged Sierras, snow-capped even in midsum- 
mer, provide a gigantic backdrop of almost overpowering beauty; 
these are the mountains which form the boundary between Nevada 
and California, and only fifteen miles from the Winne ranch they 
hold among their peaks the deep blue waters of Lake Tahoe. To the 
east another low range of mountains, spotted all over with clumps 
of sagebrush, leads upward to the old mining town of Virginia City, 
home of the billion-dollar Comstock Lode. To the north, through 
the clear Nevada air, the varicolored lights of Reno sparkle at night 
like a counterful of jewels, while searchlight beams sweep the sky 


in a continuous gala of invitation. (Continued on Page 210) 


Many would-be divorcees bring their families to the 
ranch, want only a quiet place to eat, swim, put children 
to bed at night. They must stay six weeks for divorce. 





208 


. 


ENO 


THE BIGGEST iach Sais ey| Le Te, 


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ita Pod 


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Virginia Street’s pleasure palaces have electric eyes to count cus- 
tomers, but no locks because they never close. Even fires, with 
clouds of smoke, will not drive gamblers from their stools. 





To most Reno residents, gambling is a business like any 
other. They are used to it. They’ve had it for 18 years now. 
It’s more honest, they say, because it’s open and legal. 
Whatever the Renoite’s personal conviction—some ap- 
prove, some ignore, some say that what Reno needs is a 
reform government—it isn’t easy to deny that the more 
than $1,400,000 gambling poured into state tax coffers 
last year is a great help to scenically endowed but arid 
Nevada. In Reno, for instance, slums are almost totally 
lacking. Its regular populace of 38,000 lead healthy, 
busy lives, seldom visit the ‘‘honky-tonk’’ area, take 
Reno’s estimated 7 to 10 thousand daily transients— 
3,000,000 last year— in their stride. 





Din of slot machines is continuous; odds on hitting jack pot probably are 1000 to 1. 





Though in Reno marriage licenses are signed more frequently than divorce de- 
crees, Ben Winne has testified as a residence witness 217 times in four years. 





Marriage-license bureau sometimes is climax of “graduation day,” which marks 


end of visitor’s six-week stay. Divorce hearing lasts from three to fifteen minutes. 





t casinos offer such attractions as u ls over swank bars, and historic murals of old N bui iblers prefer crou s, chockablock m 


#7 nt +h = 7 
furm Oj the card may p 
~ Jf 


Girl dealers and “‘shills” often are working for divorces, encourage the winners, 


sympathize with losers. Most wom 


lver dollars. 


7 


yer cent of ta 


* HOW AMERICA LIVES « 





S 


Pack-trip riders, with dude wranglers (cowboys) in attendance, trek through superb desert and mountain country. They cook their steaks and hamburgers over open fires. 


(Continued from Page 207) Last winter, which was unusually severe, the 
Winnes could see the city’s lights as vividly as ever, but the only 
way they could get there was by trekking to the highway on snow- 
shoes. After one blizzard their ranch road was blocked by snow for six 
weeks. Ben got out a dog sled he had bought from Abercrombie and 
Fitch for just such an emergency, and with a trained sled dog in 
the traces he and Lee distributed baled hay to the floundering horses 
and cattle. 

The Winnes have quite an assortment of animals on their ranch, 
including a burro named Princess who used to act in motion pictures. 
Princess walks right through the kitchen door and begs titbits from 
Ella, the Swedish cook; she is very useful on mountain pack trips, 
and her long ears and sad expression have made her a pet of the family. 

3en Winne is a dark-eyed six-footer in his early sixties, with wind- 
bronzed skin and a trim waistline that looks even trimmer in his 
tight-fitting frontier pants. Even his haircut, a little longer than a 
city dude’s and graying with distinction, helps to give him the appear- 
ance of asomewhat self-conscious Westerner. Actually—and there will 
be more to tell of this later—Ben was born in Kingston, New York, 
and was a prosperous hardware merchant there until a few years ago. 

His wife, Bert, is a small, plump, pretty-faced woman in her late 
thirties, with round blue eyes and a complexion as smooth as the 
Guernsey cream that goes into her churn. She, too, sometimes dresses 
in high Western style, with fringed leather chaps and bright-colored 
shirts, but she spends most of her days in practical blue jeans. The 
Winnes form a good practical team for running a guest ranch—Bert 
really enjoys supervising the dairy and household chores, while Ben, 
with his long business training, handles the accounts and the impor- 
tant “contacts” with lawyers, who send them most of their customers. 

Little Lee, the third member of the family, is a miniature cowboy 
with big black eyes and straight dark hair that gives him an almost 
Indian look. He has his own horse and saddle and goes fishing with his 
father; this fall he is going to school for the first time, in a small but 
ultramodern schoolhouse where most of his classmates. will be 
ranchers’ children. 

The Winnes’ ranch has accommodations for eighteen paying 


guests, and during most of the year (Continued on Page 254) 





Lone riders find peace in solitude of desert, but must obey ranch rules and return by 
sunset. The more gregarious swim together in the Winnes’ outdoor pool; in the winter 


they go skiing. Parties visit the fabulous old ghost mining town of Virginia City. 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 








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212 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


... looks like silver 
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ALUMINUM 





© 1949 CAPCo. 





20 Club utensils available, including various sized covered 
saucepans, open fry pans, chicken fryers, Dutch ovens, roasters. 


Start your Set— 
‘22 


with this 10-in. Club Griddle 





November, 1949 


Nj 


By MARGARET DAVIDSON 


ee greatest advantage of a pressure cooker is the time it saves you. In- 
stead of 212°F. (the highest temperature reached in ordinary top-of- 
the-stove cooking), a pressure saucepan hits 228°F. at five pounds of 
pressure and 240°F. at 15 pounds of pressure. Hence its advantages and hence, 
too, your precautions. A tough cut of meat can be reduced to tenderness in 
about one third the time old-fashioned methods take. The Christmas pudding 
pictured was steamed under pressure in half the two and one half hours 
needed if cooked over boiling water. Custards are done in three minutes at 
15 pounds’ pressure. Most vegetables cook in less than 10 minutes under 
pressure. The baby’s bottles can be sterilized in 15 minutes at 15 pounds of 
pressure. As for precautions, a pressure pan won’t hurt you if treated right. 


. - - CHECK cooking time under pres- 
sure with an accurate bell-ringing de- 
vice, or use a clock large enough to 
show the minute marks distinctly. 

. « - USE cooking parchment, alumi- 
num foil or a sectional divider for 
separating vegetables cooked at the 
same time. 

. TEAM up vegetables with the 
same cooking time or adjust theii 
cooking time by the way you cut 
them. Diced sturdy vegetables, like 
potatoes, cook in the same time as 
whole tender ones. 

. .. COOK mature vegetables a min- 
ute longer than young, fresh ones. 
. . . BROWN pot roasts and stew meat: 
thoroughly because the color fade 


N electric mixer is an energy saver, however you use it, and its uses are 
many: It whips up quick breads, pancakes and waffles so fast you'll no 
longer reserve these for guests and week ends. Homemade mayonnaise 
turns out to be a quickie. You don’t have to dedicate a whole morning to 
making a layer cake. Mashed potatoes, omelets, soufflés, puréed vegetables and 
fruits, sherbets, icings and candy become short orders. And a job we used to 
loathe, mixing the coloring into margarine, gets done in practically no time. 
What we like best about a mixer, though, is its laborsaving side when it comes 
to such strenuous chores as making cakes, breads and cookies. The Christmas 
cookies pictured, heavy with fruit, were mixed in eight minutes flat. We 
remember how our arm muscles used to ache. Not now. The mixer does it. 


Dat 


If he likes griddle cakes, give him 
griddle cakes. But make them 
lighter, more evenly browned, with- 
out grease—without smoke on a 
Club Griddle. 


The Club Griddle is just one of 20 
thick, hammered and handsome 
Club utensils built to last a lifetime. 


Thick walls spread 
heat evenly; mois- 
ture-seal cover bastes 
back food juices. 





Remember, when you cook in Club 
you cook the ‘‘waterless’”’ way. This 





means Full-Flavor cooking, with 
vitamins and minerals kept in. And 
you can save up to 50 per cent on gas 
or electricity with Club’s low heat, 
top-of-stove method. | 

Millions of women already know 
Club. So start a set for. yourself, or 
for a friend for wedding day or birth- 
day. Remember, Club is sold at 
hardware, furniture and department 
stores and other dealers at prices 
about half what they originally were. 

Club Aluminum Products Co., 
Chicago 14, Illinois. 


CLUB ALUMINUM HAMMERCRAFT WATERLESS COOKWARE 


Also makers of Club Glass Coffee Makers and Club Coffee Dispensers 
Tune in "Club Time,”” ABC Network, Tuesday morning, and hear favorite h*nns of famous people 


DO: 

. .. KEEP your mixer on the counter, 
ready to use, not shut in a cabinet. 
... PROTECT it with a dustproof 
cover, homemade or store-bought. 
Keep attachments within arm’s reach. 
. .. LET shortening for cakes soften 
at room temperature before mixing to 
speed the job. 

. . . USE mixer for all steps in cake- 
making except for angel cake and 
spongecake. With these, use mixer for 
beating egg whites and blending in half 
the sugar, but fold in by hand remain- 
ing sugar and flour sifted together. 
... BEAT cooked, hot foods away 
from range in pans they’re in by re- 
moving mixer turntable (usually pos- 
sible) and protecting mixer base from 


hot container with pot holder. Or 
warm beater bowl with hot water, and 
turn cooked food into it. 

... USE this method for mashing 
potatoes, turnips, squash especially, 
first moving the beaters up and downin 
them to break them into large pieces. 
. .. REMOVE the motor and beaters 
from the stand (most mixers are de- 
signed so you can), and use these to 
whip mixtures on the range. Think 
of hollandaise you'll keep from cur- 
dling, elbow grease you'll save when 
you make seven-minute icing. 

... TRY this jelly icing: Put 2 cup 
tart jelly, 1 unbeaten egg white and 
1 teaspoon salt in top of double 
boiler over boiling water. As mixture 
cooks, beat at medium-high speed till 








under pressure. W hen little or no flour 
is used, the brownness lasts longer. 
. . » GIVE such meats a roasted flavor 
by sliding them under the broiler after 
they are cooked and while you make 
the gravy. 

. . . ALLOW longer time for thick, 
chunky meats and boned roasts than 
for thin, flat ones and those without 
bones. But for the latter choose the 
longer time in your cooking chart. 

. .. FiT a quart bowl or some rame- 
kins into the pan for custard. Or in a 
deep pan cook two layers of custards 
by putting a rack or lid between 
them. * 

. .. USE your pressure pan for can- 
ning, if it’s four-quart size or larger, 
placing pint jars on the rack in four 
cups of water. After all the air has 
been exhausted, cook at 10 pounds’ 
pressure, timing the process care- 
fully. Cool slowly by setting pan off 
range. 

... TAKE the pan off the range if 
you're called away, or you may have 
to wash your dinner off the ceiling. 
. .. KEEP the vent holes from clog- 
ging. Wash the rubber gaskets in 
sudsy water, and rinse and dry after 
use. These are safety measures. 


ATI 


jelly melts. Remove from heat, con- 
tinue beating till it holds its shape. 
. MAKE a delicious, sherbetlike 
dessert from frozen strawberries or 
raspberries. When thawed enough, 
cut frozen fruit into inch chunks. 
Beat at low speed int mixer bow! till 
mixture softens. At high speed, beat 
2 or 3 minutes. Chill in ice tray. 
... WHIP frozen applesauce this 
way and serve with any red fruit. 
. .. USE a flexible, rubber spatula to 
scrape ingredients into orbit of the 
beaters, also to turn batter into pans. 
. » « START yeast dough in mixer. But 
add last 2 or 3 cups of flour by hand. 
. . . USE juice attachment to ream cit- 
rus fruit. Strain directly into glasses. 
. . HELP beater blades clean them- 
selves by turning speed very low, and 
slowly lifting blades from batter. 
... KEEP mixer well oiled, uniess 
it’s permanently lubricated. Use right 
amount and kind. Oiling too much 
and too often is harmful. 
. .. CLEAN cord with a soapy cloth. 
Grease weakens rubber covering. 


DON‘T: 
. .. OVERBEAT. A mixer is so efficient 
it’s easy to do this. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL Dili 


URE THOKERY 


. .. FOLLOW the manufacturers’ in- 
structions to the dot. These vary only 
a little, but the slight differences are 
tricky. 

DON’T: 
.. . EVER fill the pan more than two 
thirds full or more than half full 
when you're cooking soup or starchy 
foods. 
--- LOcK the lid on the pan between 
usings. To let the air circulate and 
get rid of odors, and save space at the 
same time, store lid upside down on 
pan. 
. .. COOK applesauce, rhubarb, cran- 
berries, pearl barley or split peas in 
pressure pan. They sputter and may 
block the vent. If vent is blocked, the 
pressure may seem to be down when 
it isn’t, so that taking off the lid un- 
corks a scalding geyser. 
. +. USE only fat in the pan when 
trying to cook under pressure’ Water 
is needed to create steam pressure. 
. - . IMMERSE gauges in water. Cor- 
rosion may affect their accuracy. 
... TRY to force the lid off. Wait 
till the pressure has dropped to zero. 
... LAY the lid on the hot range. 
Direct heat will damage the sealing 
ring and safety plug. 


TWh (| 
ADH 


. . . BE alarmed if beater bowls won’t 
revolve or if there’s a layer of un- 
mixed ingredients at the bottom of 
bowl. Hunt for a screw under the 
turntable to raise or lower height. 
. .. OVERWORK mixer. When motor 
gets hot, give it a rest or check oil. 
... WRAP the cord around the mixer’s 
frame. It may discolor the finish. 
. . . USE metal spoons in bowls while 
mixing—they may damage beaters. 





PHOTOS BY STUART 





THE NEW 


Gold Rush of 49 


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~ Oey: 

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a 


Maybe you’ve noticed it already—the way women are 
hurrying to buy Golden Fels-Naptha Soap and Soap Chips. 


And no wonder! This 1949 Fels-Naptha brings them 


a brand-new washing experience. 


Actually, 1949 Fels-Naptha is the finest soap in the: history 
of Fels & Co. Every process in the Fels-Naptha formula 
has been tested and checked with the washing demands 

of today’s smart, young housekeeper. 


Every bar of Fels-Naptha—every box of non-sneeze 
Fels-Naptha Soap Chips is a masterpiece 
of modern soap making. 


If you haven’t tried the 1949 Fels-Naptha Soap or Soap Chips 
get some today. Get a big red and green box of 

Fels-Naptha Soap Chips for your washing machine 

or automatic washer. You'll really get a thrill at the way 
this grand, golden soap gets things fragrantly clean 

and sweet—and a bigger thrill when your 

dazzling white washes are hung on the line. 


Join the 1949 Gold Rush today— 
to the Golden Fels-Naptha Soap shelves 
in any grocery store. 


Eh), 


Do 


MADE IN PHILA 
BY FELS BCO. 





FOR EXTRA CLEANING ACTION USE 


Fels-Naptha Soap 


MILD, GOLDEN SOAP AND ACTIVE NAPTHA 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL November, 1949 


Sees ee 
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— 1 
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@ Comfortable and smooth-riding . . . and marvelously 
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y @ °e 
Isnt th iS th € kj nd ot 4 | l Plenty of room for six adults in its spacious all-steel body. 
@ Wonderful visibility—18 to 50% more glass than 
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f: : | d e@ Durable grained plastic seats are washable. 
yo U l a mM i y (€a y n € € S = e Smart functional styling—but no bulging fenders to dent. 
@ Extremely economical . . . fuel-stretching overdrive is 
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__—_ 


time, forgive the past, but he was sure she 
would stand no compromise in the future. 

It was nonsense. It was Nancibel against 
his whole career; not even her love, either, 
merely her respect. Who was she, he won- 
dered angrily, to overset his life like this? 
A servant, a village girl, not outstandingly 
pretty. She had no brains, either, and but a 
poor education. With his intelligence and his 
looks, he could do much better for himself. 
He must get over this infatuation. Monday 
he would be leaving Pendizack. He would 
never see her again, and in a year’s time, 
when his book was out, he would thank his 
stars that he had avoided this pitfall. 


HE had been striding along, hardly notic- 
ing his direction, when he became aware of 
voices. He was not alone upon the headland. 
He could hear a man’s voice telling some 
story. As he drew nearer words became audi- 
ble. The story seemed to be some kind of 
lecture on biology. 

“Tarsals,” said the voice, “and meta- 
tarsals. Is that clear?” 

There was no answer and the voice said: 

“Angie! Are you asleep?” 

“No,” replied another soft little voice, 
no... I’m not asleep. Who did you say 
met a tarsal?”’ 

The night rang with Gerry Siddal’s laugh- 
ter and Bruce strolled away. He had caught 
sight of a third person, some distance off. 
The place, he thought, was as populous as 
Piccadilly. What was going on? 

At the sound of his feet upon the rocks 
Mrs. Paley turned. “Oh,” she said pleas- 
antly, “have you come to join us?” 


Miss Ellis was sitting in the office. She 
had grown tired of her bedroom. Officially 
she was on strike, but she did not intend to 
leave Pendizack until she had found an- 
other job. 

Presently Mrs. Cove looked in and asked 
for Mrs. Siddal. 

“Out,” said Miss Ellis. 

“Are you in charge?” 

“No,” said Miss Ellis, with a titter. “I be- 
lieve I’m sacked.” : 

“What a place,” muttered Mrs. Cove, 
retreating. “First I’m robbed and then is 

“Robbed?” cried Miss Ellis, galvanized 
into interest. ““Oh, I’d better look into it. 
What have you lost?” 

Mrs. Cove gave the details in as few words 
as possible. “I saw it in my suitcase last 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


NEVER LOOK BACK 


(Continued from Page 39) 


night,” she said. “‘That was the last time I 
had it unlocked until five minutes ago. I 
always carry my keys. But it’s a cheap suit- 
case. Most keys would open it, I’m afraid.” 

“Had your room been done?” 

es sr 

“Hmph. And the room has never been 
empty since you saw your carving last night 
until you went:down to breakfast this morn- 
ing?” 

“That is so. It must have been taken this 
morning, within the last hour. I should like 
Nancibel to be questioned.” 

“Certainly, Mrs. Cove. I’ll call her.”” Miss 
Ellis went to the door into the kitchen pas- 
sage and yelled orders that Nancibel was to 
be sent immediately to the office. 

Nancibel appeared and stood by the office 
door. She was surprised, and showed it. 

“Now, Nancibel,’ began Miss Ellis, 
“please answer truthfully. Did you take 
anything out of Mrs. Cove’s room this morn- 
ing?” * 

“T took the slops, Miss Ellis.” 

“We don’t mean the slops. A valuable 
ornament has been stolen from Mrs. Cove’s 
room. You are the only person known to 
have entered that room. Can you tell us any- 
thing about it?” 

“No.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Quite sure.” 

Miss Ellis looked at Nancibel and smiled. 
““Because,”’ she said, “‘if you did yield to a 
sudden temptation it would be much better 
to confess to it. In that case, provided you 
give back what you took, I dare say Mrs. 
Cove will overlook the theft.” 

Nancibel did not reply. She turned and 
marched off to the kitchen, where Duff and 
Robin were finishing breakfast. “Will you 
tell Mrs. Siddal I’ve gone home?” she said. 
“T’m afraid I can’t come back till Miss Ellis 
has gone. Miss Ellis will explain why.” 

She went to the back door where her bag 
and outdoor shoes were kept. Robin and 
Duff, horror-struck, came out, entreating 
her to wait till their mother came home. 

“T can’t,” she said, changing her shoes. 
“Miss Ellis has as good as called mea thief. 
I don’t stand for that from anybody.” 

Voices were heard at the end of the pas- 
sage. Miss Ellis was unctuously reassuring 
Mrs. Cove. “But of course she shan’t leave 
the house without Why, Nancibel, what 
are you doing?” 

“T’m going home, Miss Ellis.” 





~ 


y 
i 


~~ 


W 


SS 


i * sauar le? 
**I just said you weren’t quite ready and he went away: 





“What’s in that bag?” put in Mrs. Cove 
sharply. 

“That’s where I put my overall. You’re 
welcome to search it.” She held it out and 
Mrs. Cove took it. 

Duff, unable to contain his indignation, 
stepped forward. “‘This is monstrous. We’ve 
known Nancibel all our lives ——’”’ 

“Ah,” exclaimed Mrs. Cove. “Here it is.’ 
She held up a small dark object. “Here is 


‘the piece I lost.” 


“That!” exclaimed Nancibel in astonish- 


ment. ‘““Why—that’s my great-grannie’s. I 


found it on the grass outside the house when 
I came to work this morning. I picked it up 
and put it in my bag. I forgot about it till 
this minute. I thought you said it was a val- 
uable ornament you'd lost.” 

“It’s very valuable. It’s black amber,” 
said Mrs. Cove. “Is it a habit of yours to 
pocket any little things you find lying 
about? Why didn’t you hand it in to the 
office?”’ 

“T meant to ask Mrs. Siddal, but I forgot. 
I thought it was my great-grannie’s. It is 
too. It’s got my Uncle Ned’s initials scratched 
on the bottom. I looked to see and you can 
look, too, if you like.” 

Here Robin emerged from his first exclam- 
atory surprise. ‘Then it was you,” he said 
fiercely to Mrs. Cove. “‘You did buy that 
poor old woman’s carving. You knew it was 
valuable and you only gave her five pounds 
ten.” 

Mrs. Cove ignored him. “It vanished from 
my suitcase and now I find it in your bag,” 
she said to Nancibel. “‘I’ve a good mind to 
send for the police.”’ 

“T shall fetch Sir Henry,” declared Robin. 
“He knows all about it.” He rushed off just 
as Nancibel burst into tears. 

“Tt was on the grass,” she sobbed. “I 
don’t know how it came there, but it was.” 

““Nobody’s going to believe that,” Miss 
Ellis proclaimed. ““You’ve been caught this 
time, my lady.” 


Durr advanced and took Nancibel by the 
arm. “Don’t cry,” he adjured her. “*Every- 
body will believe you. If you say it was on 
the grass, ‘then it was.” 

Sir Henry and Robin here appeared and 
Sir Henry asked Mrs. Cove if it was true 
that she had bought the piece from Mrs. 
Pearce. 

“T don’t see that it’s anyone’s business 
where I bought it,”’ said Mrs. Cove. “‘It cer- 
tainly belongs to me.” 

“T only ask because I was particularly 
anxious to look at that piece. I was very 
much disappointed when I heard that it had 
been sold. I was hoping you would allow me 
to see it.” 

“Why?” asked Mrs. Cove suspiciously. 

“T collect amber. If it’s really black amber 
it must be a find. I—I suppose you wouldn’t 
sell it?” 

There was a pause and Mrs. Cove looked 
thoughtful. 

“Suppose we go somewhere quieter,”’ sug- 
gested Sir Henry. 

A little doubtfully, Mrs. Cove agreed. She 
went with him and Robin into the lounge. 
Half eagerly, half reluctantly, she handed the 
piece to Sir Henry, who examined it. 

“You know, Mrs. Cove,” he said at last, 
“T really think that old lady ought to have 
this back. I should like to buy it and give it 
to her. What will you take?”’ 

“‘A thousand guineas.” 

“You think it’s worth that? Yet you 
bought it for five pounds ten. This old woman 
is almost destitute. She’s threatened with the 
workhouse. Do you really think it’s ——” 

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from me for people like that. I’ve not the 
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justified in looking after themselves.” 


215 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


““My wife would agree with you,” said Sir 
Henry. ‘But are you really taxed seventy- 
five per cent? Oh, well, that’s not the point. 
About this object; will you take ten pounds 
for it?” He held up the carved figure. 

“Ten pounds!” exclaimed Mrs. Cove. 
“You must think I’m feeble-minded. Give it 
back, please.” 

Sir Henry gave it back, saying, ‘‘ Well, I 
thought you probably wouldn’t. I’d have 
been stung. The thing isn’t amber. It’s only 


soapstone and I doubt if it’s worth a guinea.” 


“Mr. Siddal,”’ reported Fred, ‘‘sends his 
compliments and he’s not dressed yet.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” said Anna impa- 
tiently. “I must see somebody and there’s 
no one in the office. Either take me to him or 
tell him to put on a dressing gown and come 
to me.” 

Fred departed. After a considerable inter- 
val Mr. Siddal, in his dressing gown, came to 
her room. 

“It’s no use sending for me, Anna,” he 
protested. ‘I’m nothing in this hotel.” 

“You let me the rooms on Monday.” 

“Yes. And a nice hullabaloo there was 
about it too.” 

“T don’t wonder. You only did it to annoy 
Barbara. Well, all I want is to find somebody 
capable of giving her a message. She seems to 
be out. Will you tell her that I’m going away 
for a night or two, but will be back before 
the end of the week?” 

“Tf I remember. But you’d much better 
write her a note. May one ask where you’re 
going?” 

“Up the coast to St. Merricks. Polly’s got 
a house there for the summer and I promised 
I’dspend a couple of nights 
before I went back to 
London.” 

“Not Polly Palmer? I 
thought she was dead.” 

“My dear Dick! She’s 
not old.” 

“No. But most of her 
circle are dead, aren’t 
they? She’s got no busi- 
ness to survive them like this. I thought they 
all died on the coal boats coming home in 
1940.” 

““Some did. But the rest are still alive.’ 

“Then where are they? How do they live? 
They can’t go back, because their relations 
can’t send any remittances to them. Where 
do they live now?” 

“With Polly mostly. She has money.” 

Stillen 

“She had an awful lot of it to begin with, 
you remember. And she still has some left. 
You never hear of any of them because in 
this benighted country they can only hope 
to survive by keeping quiet.” 

“Poor Poll. I suppose she supports the 
whole crew. I must say for her, she was al- 
ways generous. And a very lovely girl... 
once. What’s she like now?” 

““What you’d expect.” 

“But why St. Merricks? Very little drink 
there, I should have thought, and no golli- 
wogs.” 

“*She’s finished with men, and she doesn’t 
drink much. I don’t know what she takes, 
but it has limited her interests.” 

“Poor Polly. At the best she was a sad 
little mess. I thought you’d dropped her ages 
ago.” . 

At this moment Fred rushed in with his 
eyes starting from his head. He told them a 
policeman was coming across the sand. 


He was coming across the sand because his 
bicycle had punctured just as he left Porth- 
merryn and, being obliged to walk, he came 
the quickest way, by the cliffs. His advance, 
observed by the inmates of Pendizack, 
caused widespread alarm. Bruce thought he 
must have come about that stolen car and 
slipped away to hide in the creek. Miss Ellis 
thought that the Siddals had sent him to 
turn her out, for she had had a scene with 
Mrs. Siddal that morning when she had ex- 
plained her intention to remain a full month 
at Pendizack, although she refused to do any 
more work. Canon Wraxton thought that 
his own eviction was impending and pre- 


| pared for battle. Fred thought Nancibel was 


There are two times in a 

man’s life when he should 
not speculate: when he can’t 
afford it and when he can. 


November, 1949 


going to be arrested for stealing the carved 
stone. He rushed to warn her. But Nancibel 
only said: 

“Rats. He wouldn’t dare. He’s my cousin.” 

She had been persuaded to abandon her 
threat of going home. She was a reasonable, 
kindhearted girl and quickly saw that the 
only person to suffer would be Mrs. Siddal. 
When the policeman rang the bell she went 
to the front door. 

“Morning, Sam,” she said. 

Sam Peters was a very young policeman 
and he had never served a summons before. 
He ignored her genial greeting and asked 
solemnly, ‘‘Is this the Pendizack Manor 
Hotel?” 


No, it’s St. Paul’s Cathedral. Have you 
lost your memory or what?” 

“We have to begin by asking that,” ex- 
plained Sam. “It’s merely a matter of form.” 

“T should hope so, considering you were 
born in Pendizack village. How’s auntie?” 

“Off the record,” said Sam, ‘‘ma’s got 
kidney trouble again. Is there a party re- 
siding here name of Gifford?” 

“That’s right. Sir Henry Gifford.” 

“It’s not him I want. It’s Lady Gifford. I 
got to see her.” 

“What about?” 

“Don’t be so nosy, Nancibel.” 

ee you can’t see her. She’s in bed 
still.” 

“When does she get up?” 

“Never.” 

““T got to see her if I wait here forever.” 

““Won’t the gentleman do?” 

“No. I got to hand her this personally.” 
He indicated an envelope which he held. 

“Come in,” said Nanci- 
bel. “I'll find Mrs. Siddal. 
I think she’s back.” 

Sam came in and sat on 
a chair in the hall. Nanci- 
bel went in search of Mrs. 
Siddal, who was counting 
the laundry with Gerry. 
She explained Sam’s er- 
rand. 

Mrs. Siddal went out to the hall to confer 
with Sam and then up to Lady Gifford’s 
room. 

“T can’t possibly see him,’’ declared Lady 
Gifford. 

“He won’t go till you do,”’ said Mrs. Sid- 
dal. ‘Shall I bring him up or will you come 
down?” 

“Mrs. Siddal, I can’t possibly. I’m much 
too ill.” 

“He'll sit in the hall till you get up.” 

“T shan’t be getting up today.” 

“T can’t have a policeman sitting in my 
hall indefinitely.” 

“Then tell him to go away. I absolutely 
refuse to see him.” 

Mrs. Siddal went downstairs and reported 
all this to Sam. But his instructions were to 
put the document in the lady’s own hands 
and he would not quit the house till he had 
done so. He remained on the chair in the hall 
and Nancibel brought him a cup of tea. 

The news spread over Pendizack that he 
had come for Lady Gifford. Bruce came back 
from the creek and Miss Ellis unlocked her 
door. But nobody told the canon, who grew 
tired of waiting for the assault and came 
down to confront the enemy. 

“T believe,” he said to Sam, “that I am 
the person you wish to see. Very well. Here 
Tamer 

Sam gaped and asked if he was Sir Henry 
Gifford. 

“Certainly not. I am Canon Wraxton. 
And I warn you that if you attempt to mo- 
lest me in any way I shall make a great deal 
of trouble for you. What’s that you're hold- 
ing? A summons?” 

“It’s not for you,” said Sam. “It’s for a 
lady.” 

“A lady? My daughter, I suppose. That’s 
the game, is it? They’re going to put it all 
onto her? Let me see it.” 

“Tt’s got to be put into her own hands,” 
said Sam, withholding it. 

“Not before I’ve seen it. I’m acting for 
her.” J 

“Then you’d better bring her here, sir. 
I’m waiting till I see her.” 


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217 


“She’s out. She’s gone to Porthmerryn.”’ 

“They said she was in bed:” 

“Oh, they did, did they? I ask you once 
again to let me see that document.” 

“Not till I see Lady Gifford.” 
Lady Gifford? What has she to do with 
it?” 

*She’s the lady it’s for.”’ 

“That’s impossible. Lady Gifford is not 
my daughter. What do you mean by all this 


| nonsense?” 


They were interrupted by Sir Henry, who 
had just come in from his walk and had been 
told, by Mrs. Siddal, of Sam’s presence ir 
the hall. ““I understand,” he said to Sam, 


| “that you have been instructed to see my 


wife. I am Sir Henry Gifford.” 
“The man’s a fool,” interrupted the canon. 


| “This has nothing to do with your wife, Sir 


2 


Henry. It’s my daughter he’s come to see. 
It’s part of a trick to get us out of here.” 

A momentary relief flashed across Sir 
Henry’s harassed face. But Sam dashed his 


hopes. The document was for Lady Gifford 


and nobody else. 


SHE’S upstairs in bed,” said Sir Henry 
heavily. “I’d better take you up.” 
“Then this,’’ exclaimed the canon, “ha 


| nothing whatever to do with me. Why was I 


| brought down?” 


Nobody could determine why he had been 
brought down and he was left to decide the 
matter for himself while Sir Henry took Sam 
upstairs. 

“T can’t,” cried Lady Gifford, as they 
trooped into her room. 

Sam clattered across to the bed and asked 
if she was Lady Gifford. 

““T refuse,” she said. “*I utterly refuse. My 
doctor ordered me ——’”’ 

“This,”’ said Sir Henry, “‘is Lady Gifford.” 

Sam offered the envelope, but she would 
not take it. So he laid it upon the counter- 


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Lady Gifford to her husband. SES = ss 4 the chair. 


*“Let me look at that summons.” 

““How do you know it is a summons?” 

“Of course it is. What else could it be?” 

She seized the paper and tore it up before 
he could stop her. 

*Eirene! You fool! If you behave like 
that you'll be sent to prison.” 

“No, I shan’t. Sir Giles will give me a 
certificate. He knows how ill I am, even if 
you won't believe it.”’ 

“That summons means you have to ap- 
pear before a certain court on a certain date. 
You'll have to be there.” 

“Not if I’m il.” 

“What is it about? Why are you sum- 
moned?”’ 

“T tell you, I don’t know what it’s all 
about.” 

‘“‘A policeman called to see you in London, 
after we'd left. They told us on the telephone. 
They must have got your address and 
sent the summons to be delivered here. Have 
you ever had a letter from the Treasury?”’ 

‘“‘No, I don’t think so. Why should I?” 

He turned away in exasperation. “It’s a 
waste of time talking to you. I'll go to the 
police station.” 

“No, no, Harry! Don’t do that. I remem- 
ber now. I did get a letter. Perhaps it was 
from the Treasury.” 

“And what did it say?” 

“T’ve forgotten . . . no, don’t go. It was to 
ask me to explain something or other.” 

““So what did you do?” 

“T tore it up.” 

‘Why did you not show it to me?” 

“T didn’t think it was important.”’ 

‘“‘What—roughly—was it about?” 

“About Mr. Perkins.” 

“Who is he?” 

“IT don’t know. He was a man I met at 
the hotel.” 

‘“‘What hotel?”’ 

“A hotel at Cannes.” 

“But you weren't staying in a hotel. You 
were with the Varens.” 

‘““Y-yes. Most of the time.” 

‘Did you, by any chance. give a check to 
this man Perkins?” 

“Yes. s 

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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Yess 

“What was the check for?” 

“T forget. I think... four hundred pounds.” 

“But don’t you know that’s a breach of 
the currency regulations? You promised 
me you wouldn’t ——” 

“T didn’t. I promised I wouldn’t take 
more than seventy-five pounds out and I 
didn’t. But one can’t stay at Cannes indefi- 
nitely for seventy-five pounds. Of course I 
needed more money.” 

“You told me, when you got back, that 
you’d managed it on seventy-five pounds.” 

“T suppose I forgot. Mr. Perkins was an 
Englishman. Everybody gave him checks.” 

“If you read the newspapers you’ll find 
that people who have done this sort of thing 
are heavily fined.” 

“Well, if 1 am fined, I can afford it. I don’t 
see why you are making all this fuss.” 


“Try be more than a fine if you go on like 
this. It will be prison. If this comes out and 
there is a public scandal, I shall have to re- 
sign. I’ve too much respect for the law to 
stay on the bench when my wife has so fla- 
grantly broken it.” 

“Oh? So it’s your career you’re really 
fussing about?” 

“T know you have always wanted me to 
resign, so that we might live in Guernsey.” 

“Yes, I have. I can’t see that there’s any- 
thing so very terrible about all this. If we 
could get off income tax, living in Guernsey, 
the fine would be nothing.” 

For a few minutes he could not reply. At 
last he said, “I shall never live with you 
again. There’s nothing in life you value more 
than your saucer of cream.” 

“Why shouldn’t I? I can afford cream. 
Why shouldn’t I go to live where the cream 
is?”’ 

“T won’t live with you any more. You’re 
not human.” 

Lady Gifford closed her eyes and lay back 
upon her pillows. Hard words break no 
bones, as both of them knew very well. He 
left her and went downstairs. 


The little Coves, though much restored, 
were still shattered by yesterday’s experi- 
ences. They sat on the terrace in deck chairs, 
with an invalidish air, and there was a tend- 
ency to make much of them. Public opinion 
had fastened all blame for the incident upon 
Hebe, who met black looks wherever she 
went. 

To efface herself until the storm of dis- 
approval should have blown over was a pre- 
caution which never occurred to Hebe. With 
each snub she grew more aggressive. She 
played selections from Sunny Hours on the 
lounge piano until Mrs. Siddal came and 
locked it. She took her cat into the dining 
room for lunch. Finally, finding Mrs. Le- 
Chene’s French window open and the room 
empty, she strolled in. An uncovered type- 
writer stood on the table, with a clean sheet 
of paper in it. She began to experiment. 


Onceupon a time ther was ahotel inhabited by 
devils dressed up to look like ladys and Gentle- 
men 


Anna came in and caught her. But for 
once there was no lecture. All Anna did was 
to smile in a queer sort of way and say, 
“Well! You’re a one, aren’t you?” 

Hebe nodded. 

“Do you realize you’ve set the whole 
place by the ears?” 

Hebe nodded again, with some pride. 

““Sit down and tell me all about it.’’ Anna 
took the cigarette box from the mantelpiece 
and proffered it. “Smoke?” 

“Oh, thanks!” said Hebe. 

They lighted their cigarettes and Anna 
dropped into a chair. “You'll go far,” she 
prophesied. “At your age I was meekly 
hemming handkerchiefs.” 

Hebe cautiously ate the end of her ciga- 
rette and tried to think of Anna hemming 
handkerchiefs. 

“You'll always be in hot water, you know. 
Always!”’ Anna continued. ‘‘But don’t 
worry. It’s worth it. Live your own life, and 
you’ll never regret it. Who were your real 
parents? Do you know?” 





November, 1949 





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Hebe obliged with all the details she could 
give, and Anna listened with flattering in- 
terest. 

“So they adopted you,” concluded Anna, 
“and now they want to turn you into a 
bread-and-butter miss. Why don’t you run 
away?” 

“T’ve often thought about it,” said Hebe. 

“They'll be furious, mind. But you might 
as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. I’m 
going up to St. Merricks this afternoon to 
stay with some friends. Like to come along?” 

“Oh, Mrs. LeChene!”’ 

“My name is Anna.” 

“Oh, Anna! It’s very kind of you.” 

“Not at all. I happen to like naughty girls. 
IT was one myself, once. Now go and find 
Bruce and tell him I want him.” 

Hebe ran off and found Bruce hanging 
gloomily about in the yard. He gave her the 
scowl which she now got from everybody. 
But he had to come with her when she gave 
him her message. 

“Oh, Bruce,” said Anna, when they 
reached her room, “will you bring the car 
round and pack yourself a bag? We’re going 
up to St. Merricks, to Mrs. Palmer, for a 
night or so. I’ve told them in the office.”’ 

Bruce looked at Hebe and did not know 
what to say. If she had not been there he 
might have refused to drive Anna up to 
St. Merricks, for he had been considering 
how to give her notice all the morning. 

“T felt an impulse to get out of here,” 
added Anna blandly. “A policeman sitting 
.n the hall this morning quite put me off my 
lunch.” 

That sent him off to get the car. 

“Now,” she said to Hebe, ‘“‘pop up to the 
top of the drive and hide among the bushes 
there. When he gets out to 
open the gate, and his back 
is turned, get in with me.” 

“Hadn’t I better pack & 


God gave us memories so 
that we might have roses 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 219 


“Don’t fuss. I’ll look after her. We’ll take 
her back on Friday.” : 

“But, Mrs. Palmer—a kid of that age— 
you know perfectly well that they’re ——” 

“Tt’s no affair of yours, is it? Come, 
Hebe!” 

Anna pushed open a green door in a tall 
white wall, took Hebe through it and shut it 
in his face. 


The garden went uphill in a succession of 
grass terraces with a flight of stone steps up 
the middle. At the top stood the house. On 
the bottom terrace two people were lying 
on the grass, sun-bathing. They lay on their 
faces and they wore slacks. They had curly 
hair and Hebe supposed they were girls until 
they sat up, revealing masculine torsos. 

“Oh, Anna,” said one of them, “have you 
got any cigarettes? We’ve run out.” 

“Only enough for myself,” said Anna. “‘Is 
Polly up at the house?”’ 

“T expect so.” 

Anna took Hebe up the steps to the house. 
They walked through a long window into a 
room full of people. Most of them wore slacks 
so that it was difficult to tell, in several cases, 
whether they were men or women. They did 
not seem to be particularly pleased to see 
Anna, but they stared at Hébe. Presently 
Polly, who had red hair and was unmistak- 
ably female, asked who she was. 

“This,” said Anna, pulling her forward, 
“is Hebe. She’s staying at my hotel and I 
brought her along because she’s in the dog- 
house over a slight case of murder.” 

This was received with some animation, 
and an old gentleman came forward and 
shook Hebe by the hand. Hebe made the 
little curtsy she had learned in America, but 
could not get her hand 
away until Anna _inter- 
vened and told him that 
Hebe was only there to be 


, “No. Don’t bother to ey ee eee the line at in 
pack anything. Come jut ——__ fant) =murderesses,” said 


as you are.” 

Hebe wore shorts and a pull-over. Her 
face was very dirty. This reversal of all visit- 
ing rules entranced her. She sped off to hide 
among the bushes by the top of the drive. 

How frightened they would be, she thought, 
when they found her gone! A search would 
be made. Everybody would be sorry. She 
would return a heroine, with Anna, and 
Anna’s prestige as a grownup to shield her 
from reproof. 

Presently she heard the car coming up the 
drive. Bruce got out. At the same time a 
door opened at the back and she saw Anna 
beckoning. In three seconds she was nes- 
tling on a heap of rugs at Anna’s feet. 

“Lie low,’’ whispered Anna. 

Bruce returned and drove them through. 
Then he got out again and shut the gate. 
After that they went on, their pace quicken- 
ing when they reached the highroad. 


Hese crouched among the rugs, unable to 
see out the window. After a while she fell 
asleep. She woke up to hear Anna talking. 

““Nobody’s forcing you to stay there if you 
don’t like it. You can get yourself a room at 
the inn.” 

“T will,” came the voice of Bruce from the 
front. ‘I don’t want ever to see any of that 
lot again. How you can ——” 

Anna saw that Hebe was awake and said 
quickly, ‘‘That’s enough. I’ve told you to 
please yourself.” 

Hebe made signs of inquiry, but Anna 
shook her head and motioned to her to re- 
main hidden. They seemed to be going very 
slowly down a long hill. Then they were in a 
town, winding through narrow streets. They 
then went up a hill and at last they stopped. 

“Here we are,” said Anna, getting out. 
“Leave the car here, and garage it later. Go 
and get yourself a room. Come along, Hebe.” 

Hebe skipped out and laughed when she 
saw the amazement of Bruce. So did Anna, 
who explained: s 

“T’ve kidnaped her. She’s a kindred spirit, 
I feel, and they don’t appreciate her properly 
at Pendizack.”’ Pets 

“Anna! You can’t dream of . . . a kid like 
her ee 


Polly. 

“Who did she murder?” asked several 
voices. And somebody gave Hebe a drink. 

“She’ll be no trouble,” declared Anna. 
“She can play with Nicolette.” 

“Nicolette’s not here. My in-laws have 
taken her. Listen, Anna, I’ve had a letter 
from the landlord.” 

The drink was like nothing Hebe had ever 
tasted. Her head spun after a couple of sips. 
Their voices became booming and indistinct 
so that she could not be quite sure of what 
she heard. 

But it seemed to her that Polly had 
used one of the words. There were three 
or four of them and she had seen them writ- 
ten up on walls but had never been able to 
find out what they meant—only that nobody 
ever used them, and that the people who 
wrote them up were not agreed as to spelling. 

Presently Polly used it again, quite un- 
mistakably, and then she used another. By 
the time she had finished describing her land- 
lord’s letter she had used them all and several 
which Hebe had never seen written. But no- 
body seemed to be surprised and presently 
someone asked again about the murder. 

“Three adenoidal brats, staying at the 
hotel,’”’ explained Anna. “‘She took them to 
the top of a cliff and pushed them into the 
sea. Unluckily some busybody came and 
fished them out again.”’ 

“Anna! You’re making this up.” 

“No,” said Hebe loudly. “It’s true. Their 
names are Blanche and Maud and Beatrix.” 

Somebody pushed her into a chair, saying, 
“Tell us about Blanche and Maud and 
Beatrix. Why did you do it?” 

“They wear combinations,” giggled Hebe, 
starting on a second drink. 

This went down well. 

“And their teeth stick out.” 

More laughter. 

“And they believe in fairies.” 

This was the best joke of all. There was a 
concerted screech. A wave of nausea went 
over Hebe. but she could not tel] if this was 
the drink or because she hated herself for 
jeering at the gentle and loyal Coves. She 
felt an impulse to sing, and did so, waving 
her glass. 




















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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Her voice was drowned in a roar of laugh- 
ter. Even the morose Polly was laughing. 

Hebe stopped singing and stared at her 
owlishly. “I don’t like you,” she said. 
“You’re awful. Youre a—a.. - harr idan. 
My friends, the Coves, are very nice.’ 

Soon after that she must have fallen asleep 
in the chair, for she lost the thread of what 
they were saying. But somebody kept pok- 
ing her and patting and stroking her, which 
she did not like, so at last she cried out vio- 
lently: 

“Oh, get away!” 

There was a sudden silence and then Anna 
said angrily, ‘Bennett, you old goat, leave 
the child alone. I told you 

“Why did you bring her?” interrupted 
Polly. “‘She’s pickled.” 

“Better put her outside for a bit,” said 
another voice, ‘with Bint and Eggie. She'll 
be safe with them.” 

Somebody picked her up and dragged her 
out into the fresh air and down to the hottom 
lawn where the voices of the sun bathers were 
raised in protest. 

“Polly says you’re to look after her,”’ 
Hebe’s escort. 

“How can Polly be so unkind? We’re not 
sitters in.” 

“T’m going to be sick,’’ said Hebe. And 
was, amid angry squeals from Bint and 
Eggie, who removed themselves and their 
mattresses onto a high terrace and left her 
lying, exhausted and miserable, on the grass. 

How long she lay there she did not know. 
But at last she was aroused by someone ex- 
claiming, “‘Oh, Hebe.” 

With difficulty she turned her head and 
opened her eyes. Bruce was bending over 
her. 

“TI was worried—are you all right?” 

“Oh, Bruce, take me home. I’m so sick 
and they don’t want. me, and there was a 
horrible old man fs 

“That’s all right. Don’t cry. I’ll take you 
right back. Can you walk?” 

ee Noxe 

He picked her up and carried her through 
the gate in the garden wall to the car. 





said 





Hebe’s absence at supper was remarked, 
but it was supposed that she must be sulking 
somewhere and nobody troubled to go in 
search of her. They had all finished and dis- 
persed before Bruce brought her back. He 
left her in the yard, in the car, and went to 
the scullery, where Nancibel was still wash- 
ing up. 

“‘Nancibel, I must speak to you.” 

“How often must I tell you that I don’t 
want to have anything more to do with 
you?” 

“This isn’t about us. It’s Hebe.” 

“Hebe? What’s she been up to now?” 
Nancibel asked. 

“I’ve got her in the car. I want to smuggle 
her into the house and put her to bed with- 
out anyone knowing. Come and look at her.” 

““What’s she been doing?’”’ 

“Well . . . she’s pickled, for one thing. 
Passed out.” 

“Hebe? How disgusting!” 

“It’s not her fault. That kid’s been in 
enough trouble for one day. You know what 
they’re like in this hole... Miss Ellis . . 
Mrs. Cove.” 

“Oh, well, all right. I’ll come.” 


As they went to the yard Bruce told her 
briefly what had happened. Between them 
they got the inert Hebe out of the car and up 
the back stairs and laid her upon her bed. 

Then Nancibel spoke: “I'll undress her 
and put her to bed. And you can go. Tomor- 
row I shall go to Sir Henry and tell him what 
you did, you and Mrs. LeChene. I’m giving 
you time to clear out. If you don’t want Sir 
Henry after you, you’d better clear out 
now.” 

“T can’t see that it was my fault. I didn’t 
know she was in the car.’ 

““There’s telephones, isn’t there? When 
you did find out you could have rung him 
up from there. Now go, and don’t let me see 
you again.” 

Bruce went. In the stable loft he packed 
his suitcase. Before he left Pendizack he 
wrote two letters. The first was to Anna: 


Your car is in the garage. You taking Hebe 
to that house finished me as far as you’re con- 
cerned. I hope I will never see you again. 

BRUCE. 


The letter to Nancibel was harder; he re- 
wrote it several times before he finished. 


Dear Nancibel: I’m going to do what you 
said and get a job as a bus driver. But not in 
these parts; you need not be afraid of seeing me 
about on the roads. Not for a long time anyway. 
When I think a bit more of myself, I shall ask 
you to think more of me, but not till then. 

I am almost sure I would have left her after 
today, and the way she took Hebe off, even if 
it had not been for you. It makes me sick. 

Nancibel, I love you and you must not be 
angry with me for saying so. You are the sweetest 
girl in the world and I am lucky to have met 
you, for it has changed my life, even if you will 
never look at me again. You will probably 
marry some nice chap, you have too much sense 
to pick a rotter. And you will make him very 
happy. But you won’t do more for him than 
you have done for me. 

There is one thing she knows about me that 
may come out. I pinched a car for fun. I meant 
to return it, but I got in a smash and a cyclist 
was killed. She knows about it, she got me out 
of a hole there. Sometimes, if she is annoyed, 
she talks as if she meant to give me away. I do 
not think she will, but if she does I would like 
you to have known first. 

Well, that is enough about me. God bless 
you, Nancibel, and give you a very happy life. 

Your loving, 
BRUCE. 
P. S. I enclose 5/ —and my sweet points for the 
feast. I'll think of you all. But don’t think of 
me unless you can think kindly. 


Gerry had not known that Duff and Robin 
meant to sleep upon the cliff. He was much 
put out to find them there when he took up 
the tea basket. Not that he was quite sure 
that he intended to remain himself for a 
thirdnightinsuccession. Affairs between him- 
self and Evangeline were going too far for 


November, 1949 


safety. He must not allow himself to become 
attached, and he ought to have remembered 
that before. 

If Evangeline had been pretty, he would 
have taken fright before. But he had begun 
by disliking her and had grown fond of her 
in a disinterested attempt to do the poor 
thing justice. She had stolen into his heart so 
imperceptibly that he did not know she was 
there until faced with the prospect of losing 
her. His mother, at supper, had casually 
thanked heaven that the Wraxtons were go- 
ing on Saturday, and the pang which he ex- 
perienced was his first intimation of danger. 
He could not bear the thought of never see- 
ing Evangeline again. 


So he toiled up the hill in a mood of melan- 
choly decision. While they drank their tea he 
would drop a hint or two about his position. 
And, for the rest of the week, he would avoid 
her. 

Before he reached the shelter, however, he 
was startled by strains of song; Duff’s bari- 
tone and Robin’s lusty tenor were raised in 
a round. All his melancholy evaporated in a 
gust of anger. How could he drop any hints © 
while those young brutes were roaring their 
heads off? Was he never to be allowed any 
intimacies of his own? 

Standing on the cliff path, he silently 
cursed his entire family. Nor was he inclined 
to be pleased with Mrs. Paley and Angie for 
having admitted these intruders. Angie had 
no business to be singing rounds with his 
brothers. 

The singers did not stop when they saw 
Gerry; they merely grinned and signed to 
him to join them. He put down the basket 
and stalked off to join Mrs. Paley, from 
whom he learned that his intolerable broth- 
ers were really intending to stay the night. 

“Then I shan’t stay,’’ announced Gerry 
sulkily. But he did stay. He sat down beside 

(Continued on Page 223) 


kK Kw Kw KKK OK KK KB KR Rae a eee 


Ask Any 


Woman 


s 
BY MARCELENE COX 


MINOR tragedy occurred in our family 

when our son stayed only about fifteen 

minutes in the stage where he could wear his 
father’s pants. 


The law of averages is at work when a 
man who didn’t graduate from high school 
marries a Phi Beta Kappa. 


Probably the chrysanthemum owes its suc- 
cess to not trying to smell like a rose. 


The Frenchman thinks, ‘‘A plump woman 
to live with.’”” The American thinks, ““A 
slender woman to go out with.” 


If you want to teach your daughter to 
cook, leave the kitchen. 


The parent of several children should fre- 
quently spend a day alone with each. It’s in 
the category of plucking one flower from a 
bouquet and inhaling it deeply. 


And they call it education! Oath required 
by certain district school boards in North 
Carolina: ‘‘I promise not to fall in love or be- 
come engaged or to secretly marry. I promise 
not to go with any young man except in so 
far as it is to stimulate Sunday-school work.” 


He who thinks environment is all should 
consider the water lily weaving its gold out 
of the muck of a pond. 


Baby’s hair: soft as the foam on new milk. 

Young critic: ““This is such a good book, 
mother, eyen a grownup could understand 
Thea 


“The reason I spent my money, mother, is 
because when I got it changed it overflowed.” 


A teen-ager frequently has as hard a time 
as asparagus: no sooner does he put out a 
shoot than it gets chopped off. 


' 
« or. & 


After having been told that writing and 
publishing a book is a long, hard process, a 
little girl responded with, “‘I wish I lived on 
a range where never a discouraging word is 
heard.” 


It’s all right for a woman to be a clinging 
vine—if she’s a morning-glory, not a bind- 
weed. 


Why is a pretty woman invariably con- 
sidered a mystery, a plain one a perfectly 
natural phenomenon? 


Parents should practice the “law of minor . 
concessions”; then when main issues come 
along it’s easier to say “no” or “yes’’ and 
hold to it. 


Some people could do a little true pioneer- 
ing by unhitching their automobiles from the 
curb and bedding them down overnight in 
the garage. 


A parent is no sooner through worrying 
about the scratches the children put on the 
furniture than he has to begin worrying about 
the ones they put on the car. 


It’s a very simple thing 
To live beyond your means. 
If you want to see the opera, 
Just exist five days on beans. 


Reply from a friend: “Sorry we can’t ac- 
cept your invitation to visit you, but the first 
of our six children i is ea to arrive any 
day now.’ 














Drying begins to show first 
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See how best to help correct it! 





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By your Nose and Mouth —tenseness and “down- 
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Beware of Pry Skin 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL November, 1949 


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(Continued from Page 220) 
Mrs. Paley and fumed for a little while. 
Then he said, “I’m in a hopeless position.” 

Mrs. Paley nodded. Bruce had sat on the 
very same spot, last night, and had used the 
very same words. He had told her a long 
story. So was Gerry going to tell her a long 
story. They could tell her no.aing which she 
had not guessed. 

“I suppose it began when I was born,” 
said Gerry mournfully. 

“Oh, my goodness,” said Mrs. Paley, “it 
began ages before that. It began when your 
father was born.” 

“Perhaps it did. You see, he ——”’ 

“I’m sure. But I don’t want to sit here all 
night. Let’s skip a bit. Are you quite sure 
that you want to marry Angie?” 


“How on earth did you guess? My trouble 
is that if I did, I couldn’t. I’d like to be mar- 
ried.” 

“T don’t wonder. But what has Angie got 
to do with that?” 

““I—I like her very much.” 

“Um-m?” 

“But philandering is no good.” 

“I don’t agree. I think a nice little philan- 
der would cheer you both up considerably. 
It will pass the time agreeably, and that’s 
all that anyone in a hopeless position can 
hope to do.” 

“But she mightn’t understand.” 

“Oh, I think she would. She’s in a toler- 
ably hopeless position herself, isn’t she?” 

“Tf I philander much longer,” explained 
Gerry, “I shall kiss her. And if I kiss her I 
shall marry her.” 

“TI thought you said you couldn’t.” 

“Well . . . I could, if I go to Kenya.” 

“Then, my goodness,” cried Mrs. Paley in 
exasperation, “what is all the fuss about?’ 

“I’m in a hopeless position.” 

“T can’t bear this,”’ protested Mrs. Paley. 
“T really can’t. You take Angie for a little 
stroll, and don’t come back until you’ve made 
up your mind. Take care of rabbit holes.” 

Gerry obeyed her. ““Come for a walk,” 
he said to Angie. 

Angie jumped up at once. 

“We'll come too,”’ said Robin. 

But Mrs. Paley joined them, announcing 
that she had news. Gerry and Angie escaped 
while the boys remained to listen. 

Robin leanéd a kindly ear to Mrs. Paley’s 
plans for the feast for the little Coves, and 
promised his help. ‘ 

A distant bellow shattered the dusk. 
“Sh-h!” said Duff. “‘Listen! What’s that?” 

*““A bull, somewhere,” said Robin. 


j 3 s 
*‘Isn’t it about time for that little list of Don’t 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


It came again, nearer. 

“No,” said Mrs. Paley. “It’s Canon 
Wraxton calling his daughter.” 

Presently the canon appeared, massive 
against the sky line, and Mrs. Paley in- 
formed him that Evangeline had gone for a 
walk with Gerry Siddal. 

“Then she'll find me waiting when she 
gets back,” said the canon, sitting down upon 
a rock. “I’ve had enough of Gerry Siddal.” 

“Would you like a cup of tea?” suggested 
Mrs. Paley. 

“No. I would not like a cup of tea.” 

There was a short silence and then the 
canon opened the attack. 

“T should like to know,” he said to Mrs. 
Paley, “why you are encouraging Evange- 
line to behave like this. She’s going to be ex- 
ceedingly sorry before I’ve done with her.” 

“T hope not,” said Mrs. Paley. “I hope 
she’ll marry Gerry and get away from you. 
You won’t be able to stop it, if that is 
what they want to do. Angie is of age.” 

“She’s not all there. I don’t want to lock 
her up, but I may have to.” 

“You can’t, Canon Wraxton. There is ab- 
solutely nothing more that you can do to 
Angie. She is free.” 

“She shall not marry him.” 

Mrs. Paley smiled and began to pack up 
the tea basket. “I think,” she said, “that I 
shall go to bed now.” 

The canon got up and kicked the rock 
upon which he had been sitting. ‘‘ Very well,” 
he said. “Very well, very well.’’ He gave the 
rock another kick. The impact must have 
hurt him considerably. But he continued 
to massacre his toes against the granite and 
to repeat “‘very well” for some minutes after 
Mrs. Paley and the boys had gone down to 
the shelter. When at last he went off in the 
direction of Pendizack he was walking very 
lame. 

“He wants to hurt somebody,” explained 
Mrs. Paley, ““so much that he enjoys hurting 
himself. Now, will you kindly tell me why 
Gerry should not marry Angie?” 

Robin began to explain, but the facts did 
the whole Siddal family so little credit that 
he faltered soon. Duff said sulkily that he, 
personally, could manage quite well without 
any more help from Gerry. 

“T can get jobs in the vacations. I’ve got 
a scholarship. And there is father’s law 
library. That’s worth five hundred pounds. 
Gerry seems to think we’d all be sunk unless 
he runs the whole show. I think he’d much 
better marry and boss his wife.”’ 

“Then suppose,” said Mrs. Paley, “‘you 
are just a little bit nice to him and Angie 


re 


ho Votes 


about it? It won’t cost you anything and it 
will mean a lot to them.” 

“Nice?” said Duff. 

“Kiss her, do you mean?” asked Robin. 

“T leave that entirely to you,” said Mrs. 
Paley, with a yawn. 


Something disturbed the gulls on Rosi- 
graille cliffs. There were a squawk and a 
flutter arid a chorus of cries, echoing over 
the water, before they settled on their ledges 
again. Angie, in Gerry’s arms, roused up and 
saw the moon hanging over a landward hill. 

“We must go back,” she said. “It’s fear- 
fully late.” 

“TI don’t want to go back,” murmured 
Gerry. ‘‘I’m happy. I’ve never been happy 
before. Let’s stay here.” 

“But we shall be happy again. We shall 
be happy for the rest of our lives. And if 
we stay here we shall get rheumatism.” 

“T don’t mind if I get rheumatism. I shan’t 
get it till tomorrow. And tomorrow we'll 
know it’s impossible. They’ll all be against 
us.” 

But they rose and made their way back 
along the cliffs toward the shelter. The moon 
rose higher and threw a sheet of silver over 
the gorse bushes. 

A voice whispered, ‘‘Here they are!” 
Two lumps of shadow, couched under a 
boulder, started up to greet them. 

“Sorry,” said Gerry. ‘““We didn’t mean 
to wake you.” 

“We weren’t asleep,” said Duff. “We 
stayed awake to congratulate you.” 

“What?” 

“It’s what we’ve always wanted in our 
family—a nice soprano. We’re very much 
obliged to you, Gerry.” 

““T say,” stammered Gerry. “I say... but 
how do you know?” 

“We watched you coming back.” 

Robin, meanwhile, had bestowed upon 
Evangeline a cordial hug which astonished 
her so much that she gave a loud squeak and 
waked Mrs. Paley, inside the shelter. 

“Isthat them?” called Mrs. Paley sleepily. 

Gerry hastened in and squatted by her 
mattress to tell her the news. 


Nancreet found Bruce’s letter on the 
kitchen table and read it while she made the 
early-morning tea. It upset her so much that 
she forgot the tea leaves and carried round 
pots of hot water to all the inmates of Pendi- 
zack. The tears were trickling down her 
cheeks as she set to work on the lounge. 

Even last night her anger against him had 
been diluted by pure grief, and now she was 
sure that she would never be able to forget 
him. Though she had known him for only 
four days, and though she had so much 
against him, he had caused her to feel more 
sharply and keenly than Brian, her first love, 
ever could. Brian was a nice boy, steady and 
sensible, and he knew how to kiss a person. 
Whereas Bruce had suddenly opened a win- 
dow upon some strange region in her heart of 
which she had not been aware before. She 
had felt that life and human beings are very 
important and that everybody is lonely, and 
that nobody really knows much about any- 
body else. 

In their mutual attraction, their mirth and 
their quarrel there was this sharp, strange 
sadness, and a perception of Bruce as some- 
body real, somebody three-dimensional and 
existing on his own, Now he had gone away 
and she would never see him again. 

A lot of bells began to ring at once. The 
Paleys, the Giffords, Canon Wraxton and 
Miss Ellis had all discovered that there was 
no tea in their teapots. For twenty minutes 
she had to run up and down stairs, rectifying 
this error and repeating that she was ever so 
sorry. By breakfasttime she had got so be- 
hindhand with the work that she was too 
busy to cry. She had to leave the lounge half 
done and rusn to the service room to help 
Fred. Through the kitchen door they could 
hear a nice shindy going on among the Sid- 
dals, who were all talking at once. Mrs. 
Siddal was saying that the girl was a nervous 
wreck, Gerry was saying he intended to live 
his own life, Duff was saying she sings like a 
bird, Robin was saying why couldn’t he 
leave school at once, and Mr. Siddal was 





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224 


saying that for all he knew his law library 
had been bombed. 

“No,” said Gerry. ‘Mr. Graffham wrote 
about it. Somebody wants to buy it. Couldn’t 
we find the letter?” 

Nancibel went to the kitchen to bring the 
Coves’ food and coffee to the serving hatch, 
where Fred would take them from her. At 
the kitchen door she collided with Mr. Siddal, 
who was flouncing out to his boot hole in a 
manifest rage. He was muttering, ‘I’ve had 
enough of it—quite enough of it.” 

Gerry, in the kitchen, was positively 
storming. ‘‘He wouldn’t even have to read 
the letter. If he’d give it to us, we’d deal 
with it.” 

“I don’t suppose he could find it,” said 
Mrs. Siddal. “‘ There are thousands of letters 
in the boot hole. He doesn’t even open them.” 

“Well, then, we must. This can’t go on.” 

The Coves’ tray was waiting on a side 
table. They were always down first. Nanci- 
bel took it to the hatch and went back for 
more food and again collided with Mr. Sid- 
dal. This time he was coming out of the boot 
hole, and he carried a drawer full of papers. 
He went toward the boiler room. 

“T’m sorry if I’m disrespectful,’ Gerry 
was saying. ‘““‘But we must do something. 
There may be important letters—business 
letters. It’s time we insisted ——” 

Nancibel took the Paleys’ tray and set off 
for the serving room. Mr. Siddal was coming 
out of the boiler room with an empty drawer. 
If he had thrown all those papers on the 
boiler fire, she reflected, he would put it out. 

She flew through the bedroom work and 
came at last to the Gifford attics, where she 
found Hebe, looking very bilious. “‘ Not want 
any breakfast?’ she cried. ‘Children that 
don’t want breakfast want salts.” 

“What I want,” said Hebe, “‘is to die. 
Then everybody would be sorry.” 

“Not so sorry as you think. They’d get 
over it after a while and you’d still be dead.” 

“Does everybody know . . . about yester- 
day?” 

“Not a soul, only me and—and Bruce. 
And we'll hold our tongues.” 

“Was I drunk?” 

“Yes. And it’s nothing to boast about. 
We'd better hurry up and forget it. There’s 
something ever so nice going to happen on 
Friday.” 

As she made the beds Nancibel described 
the plans for the feast. But Hebe received 
the news without enthusiasm. 

“T shan’t go,” she said. 

““Whyever not?”’ 

“Everybody is horrid to me.” 

“Not the Coves. They’ll be terribly dis- 
appointed. It’s you they want to ask more 
than anybody.” 

““Why should I go to a picnic I shall hate 
just to please the Coves?”’ 

“Because you'd be a nasty little toad if 
you didn’t. There’s not much anybody can 
do for them, poor little souls; but you’re the 
one that can do most, because you’re the 
same age, see? I don’t expect they ever had 
any good times till they met you.” 

“T’m supposed to have tried to murder 
them.” 

“Oh, rats. Nobody thinks that. Now you 
take a big dose of salts, Hebe, and wash your 
face, and you'll feel a lot better.”’ 

“T haven’t got any.” 

“T’ll find you some.” Nancibel ran off and 
borrowed some fruit salts from Mrs. Paley. 


Wauen she came back Hebe was looking 
brighter. “I think,’ she said, as Nancibel 
measured the salts into a glass, ‘‘that a se- 
cret society ought to be started in order to 
give aid to the Coves.”’ 

“The best aid you can give,” said Nanci- 
bel, ‘is to go to their feast and make it a 
success. Here. Drink up!”’ 

“Don’t you think it ought to be fancy 
dress?” 

“Depends on what they think. It’s their 
party.” 

Nancibel turned away and went to make 
the twins’ beds. When all the rooms were 
done she snatched a moment to slip out to 
the stables. He had left his loft very neat. 
His sheets and pillowcase were carefully 
folded ready for the laundry. Perhaps he had 


guessed she would come for them and 
wanted to save her trouble. She sat down on 
the floor and buried her face in the sheets. 


Not for years had Mr. Siddal exerted him- 
self so continuously. Within half an hour he 
had carried every paper out of his room an 
stuffed it into the top of the coke boiler. He 
did it while his family were at breakfast. 
Up and down the passage he crept, and at 
the eighth trip discovered that the fire had 
gone out. The mass of paper had choked the 
draft and quenched the flame. 

This was an unexpected misfortune. To 
take the papers out and relight the fire would 
be a crushing labor. But it would be nothing 
to the exertions threatened by Gerry—the 
sorting, the answering, the decision. After 
some poking and swearing Mr. Siddal went 
back to the boot hole for some shavings in a 
box under his bed. 


A REEK of expensive cigarette smoke met 
his nostrils and he found Anna waiting for 
him, a very much agitated Anna. At the 
sight of her some measure of spirit returned 
to him. For his little window was an excellent 
spy hole. People forgot that a room lay be- 
hind it. Bruce and Nancibel had forgotten 
when they carried Hebe into the house the 
night before. 

“Anna! I thought you’d gone to Polly’s.” 

“So I did. I’ve come back. I’m in a spot of 
bother.” 

He grinned. ‘‘ We're all in a spot of bother. 
There’s a great hullabaloo going on here. 
We’ve mislaid one of the children.” 

“Hebe?” 

“Is that the girl with the cat? I believe 
it’s the girl with the cat.” 

“This is appalling.” Anna flung her ciga- 
rette on the floor and ground it with her 
heel. “I’m afraid they’ll think I’m to blame. 
You see... I took Hebe with me yesterday.” 

“What? To Polly’s?” 

“Yes. I—I was sorry for the child; every- 
one here has a down on her.” 

“You'll have an awkward time with Sir 
Henry. But if you’ve brought her back ——’”’ 

“But I haven’t.” 

Mr. Siddal was not very helpful, as she 
told her story. She wanted his help so badly 
that she was obliged to tell him everything. 
Hebe, Bruce and the car had been missed at 
seven o’clock, when Anna had remembered 
her_protégée. She had not been seriously 
alarmed, for she had concluded that Bruce 
must have driven Hebe back to Pendizack, 
but she had not relished the indignation 
which would be waiting for her on her own 
return, should the child’s condition have 
been discovered. So she dismissed her taxi 
at the top of the drive and slipped down to 
discover how the land lay. On her dressing 
table, when she reached her room, she had 
found the note from Bruce. 

“It was very short, Dick. I can’t show it 
to you, because I tore it up. Well... I was 
so angry. It just said he’s gone and isn’t 
coming back. Nothing about Hebe.” 

“Do you think any of Polly’s guests could 
enlighten you?”’ 

“How can I be sure? They all pretended 
they didn’t know. Of course, I thought she’: 
gone with Bruce. But you know what Polly’ 
friends are. You can’t trust any of them.” 

“Quite so. And you still haven’t told me 
what possessed you to take her there.” 

“It was just an impulse. I meant to keep 
an eye on her.” 

“Your impulses fascinate me. You wanted 
to shock Bruce, I suppose?” 

Anna tittered a little. ““Well . . . perhaps 
there was that element in it.” 

“You like shock tactics, don’t you?”’ 

“T’ve no time to go into all that. I’ve done 
my duty. I’ve told you. Now you can tell the 
Giffords anything you like. I’m off.” 

“You mean you’re clearing out? Where 
shall you go?”’ 

“T don’t think I’ll tell you. I shan’t be in 
any hurry to show up until I’m sure there’s 
going to be no fuss about that child.” 

“Very wise. But if she’s been murdered it 
may be years before they dig her up in 
Polly’s garden. Still . . . the hue and cry will 
die down. You skip off and as soon as you’ve 
gone I’ll tell Sir Henry what you’ve done.” 









q 


“But, Dick, I did nothing. The child 
stowed away in my luggage carrier. I didn’t 
know she was there till we got to Polly’s.” 

“You didn’t mention that.” 

“Didn’t I? I’ve only just remembered it. 
I sent her back at once in the car with Bruce. 

he didn’t hand her over, Sir Henry had 

tter hunt for him.” 
| “Tt’s all very confusing. Suppose I get it 
wrong? Perhaps, after all, I’d better say 
nothing at all. Have you paid and all that?” 

“No. I'll write a check now. I’ll date it 
yesterday and you can say I gave it you be- 
fore I went to St. Merricks.” She fished in 
her bag for a checkbook and fountain pen. 
“Here’s the check. Try to remember to give 
it to Barbara. Good-by. It’s been nice to 
meet again, Dick.” 

She took herself off, meaning to get out by 
the back door and slip round the house to 
her room. But the back door was no longer 
accessible. Fred was standing in front of it. 
Luckily his back was turned, or he would 
have seen Anna. 
| “Every scrap of this must be taken out 
| and put in the bins!” Miss Ellis was saying. 
“The idea! Shoving all that junk on top of 
the fire. No wonder it’s out.” 

Cautiously Anna tiptoed up the passage 
and through the baize door into the hall. 
. Fortune favored her and she reached her 
room without meeting anybody. 

Her packing took very little time. She put 
an insultingly large tip upon the dressing 
table for Nancibel and slipped out to the 
garage with her typewriter and her suitcases. 
| She climbed into the car, and pressed the 
starter. Nothing happened, not even when 
she got out and cranked the engine. 

“Can I help?” asked 
Duff. He was going up to 
his loft to play his phono- 


spection and reported 

that there was no petrol in the tank. Anna’s 
:omments on this mishap startled him nearly 
as much as Polly had startled Hebe, for pretty 
much the same reasons. 

“So what?’ she finished, inclined to 
laugh, in spite of her exasperation, at his 
shocked expression. “Tell me what I’m to do. 
Bruce has walked out on me and I’ve got to 
get to London.” 

Duff said there might be a can of petrol in 
the potting shed from which he could give 
her enough to get her up to the village. He 
led her toward the kitchen garden. A tawny 
head was just visible through the apple 
boughs. Duff shouted, ‘Hebe! What are 
you doing here? You aren’t allowed in the 
kitchen garden.” 

“T’m picking lavender,” yelled the distant 
Hebe. “‘ Your mother gave me leave.” 

“Then she’s back!”’ gasped Anna. 

“Back? She’s never been away.” 

“Your father told me she was lost or some- 
thing.” 


“On, no. She was sick in the night, that’s 
all. Woke everybody up being sick in the 
night.” 

“Oh, I see.”” Anaa reflected for a while and 
then said, ‘The old sod! Well, don’t let’s 
worry about this petrol. I needn’t really go 
today.” 


Gerry and Evangeline were desperately iti 
love. The need for affection, all the frustra- 
tion of two lifetimes, had merged into a 


Each was, in sober truth, the whole world to 
the other. Happiness had transformed them. 
Gerry’s spots were rapidly fading and Evan- 

eline had blossomed into a comeliness which 
a almost beauty. Her cheeks were pink, 
her eyes sparkled and her hair shone. 





The obstacles, which had seemed so for- 
midable when they plighted their troth on 
Rosigraille cliffs, were vanishing. Duff and 
Robin supported them, and Mrs. Siddal’s 
opposition, though bitter, had been so 
quietly stated as to seem negligible. As for 
the canon. the biggest bogey of all, he 


mutual torrent of rejoicing and liberation. 


225 


seemed to have retreated from the battle. 
They had plucked up their courage and 
sought him, immediately after breakfast, but 
he was locked up in his room and would not 
answer them. A note for Evangeline, which 
eae left in the office, explained his atti- 
tude: 


I leave this house on Saturday. If you want to 
come with me you must send this fellow about 
his business. If you don’t you can stay behind. 
Marry him, if he is fool enough. I shall alter 
my will. You would have got the lot as you 
were the only one of my children to deserve it. 
But not now. Not a penny. 


“But how can he leave?” exclaimed 
Evangeline, when she had read the note. 
“Who will drive the car? He can’t. His 
license was taken away.” 

““That’s his headache,” said Gerry joy- 
fully. ‘“I say! This is a letup. It’s practically 
his consent and no fireworks.” 


Witt hearts immensely lightened, the 
soon found themselves talking of the ae 
Evangeline was energetic and practical. It 
would be, she said, several months before 
they could marry, and in the meantime she 
would get herself a job. She had discussed 
the problem with Mrs. Paley, who had told 
her of a nice agency in London. 

“Tt won’t do for me to stay after Satur- 
day,” she decided. “‘Mrs. Paley will lend me 
money. I'll go to London and get a jobasa 
cook. Anybody who can cook can get a job. 
I’ll sell my diamond ring. That will keep me 
till I’ve got a job and give me money to re- 
pay Mrs. Paley what I borrow.” 

“But can you cook?” 
asked Gerry. 


“Oh, yes. I’m quite a 


graph, and had heard Anna # The See a ween per- good cook.” 
. - : severance an o ostinacy is “< 
eee inside the Ear age- that one comes from a strong pe oa Bry eee 
aS oe on’t know,” she will and the other from a wou ta e it etter: 
said. “Do you understand — .trong won't. ANON. Let’s go and find her, 
cars?” suggested Angie, ““and see 
He made a brief in- es = lif there is anything we 


can do for her.” 

They marched cheerfully into the kitchen, 
where they found Miss Ellis, Nancibel and 
Fred gathered round Mrs. Siddal, who was 
lying on the floor with an ashen face and 
closed eyes. 

“Fainted,” explained Miss Ellis., 

“Went down like a sack of coals,” said 
Fred. ‘I was in the scullery and I heard a 
peculiar noise but I never thought to go and 
see. Sounded more like a sack of coals.”’ 

“Heart, most likely,” said Miss Ellis. 
I always thought she was a bad color.” 

Mrs. Siddal opened her eyes. “‘I have 
fainted,”’ she informed them, with a certain 
triumph. 

While restoratives were applied she pon- 
dered upon this achievement with satisfac- 
tion. For it was a proof that Gerry’s engage- 
ment had really been the last straw. It had 
broken her down and finished her. 

“T shall go to bed,” she told them. 

“You'll certainly go to bed,” said Gerry, 
who was feeling her pulse, “‘for the rest of 
the day.” 

“There will be no lunch, and no. tea and 
no dinner,” she continued. ‘‘What you will 
all do I don’t know. You’d better get Miss 
Wraxton to cook for yous’ 

This was meant to spread alarm and dis- 
may. But Gerry did not seem to understand. 
He was nodding in a reassuring way. 

“Yes,” “he said. “Angie shall cook.” 

“And [can show her where everything 
is,” put int Nancibel._ ; 

Gerry put an arm round his mother and. 
helped her to her feet. He propelled her up- 
stairs to fr bedroom. She sat down upon her 
bed and delivered a broadside. 

“I’m going to give up the hotel. It’s too 
much for me. I can’t go on. I did it for Duff 
and Robin. But I can’t educate them with- 
out help. So if you want to get married, it’s 
no use my going on. Somebody will have to 
keep me and your father. I’ve kept you all 
long enough.”’ 

“You take a good long rest,’’ Gerry as- 
sured her, “‘and you'll feel quite different. 
Angie will stay as long as you like and do all 
the cooking. We’ll manage beautifully.” 

































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She said no more, but went to bed, de- 
termined to stay there until they had 
learned their lesson. 


The plans for the feast matured rapidly 
under the belated but vehement patronage 
of Hebe. Her suggestion of fancy dress, dis- 
couraged at first by Mrs. Paley and Angie, 
was received with so much enthusiasm by 
the Coves that the adults had to give way. 
She devised costumes for everybody and 
was much put out when she learned that 
Nancibel and Fred intended to appear as 
Carmen and a toreador, because she had 
planned that all the grown-up people were 
to be characters from Edward Lear. She 
drew up a program, a copy of which was to 
be handed to every guest when he received 
his invitation card. 

During dinner she informed Sir Henry 
that he was to be dressed as My Aged Uncle 
Arly. “‘I’ll make a cricket,” she said, “‘to 
stick on your nose. And a ticket to stick in 
your hat. Your boots ought to be too tight; 
it says at the end of every verse: ‘And his 
boots were far too tight.’ But they needn’t. It 
would be so awkward, climbing the cliff. 
You must just pretend they’re too tight. 
Walk lame.” 

“What are you talking about?” com- 
plained Sir Henry. “‘ Who is Uncle Arly?” 

“A Lear character. 
Everyone has to be a 
Lear character. All 
the grownups. Mrs. 
Paley is going as the 
Quangle Wangle. Angie 
has made her a mar- 
velous hat, perfectly 
huge, with a lot of little animals dancing on 
top. Nobody knows what the rest of the 
Quangle Wangle looked like, because the 
picture only shows his hat. Gerry and Angie 
are Mr. and Mrs. Discobolos. Duff is the 
Pobble Who Has No Toes. Robin has made 
himself a lovely nose with an electric torch 
in it. He’s the Dong with the Luminous 
Nose.” 

Sir Henry learned all this with growing 
dismay. He had heard the children discuss- 
ing the feast, but he had been so much pre- 
occupied with his own troubles that he had 
not paid much attention. His contribution to 
the funds had been generous and he felt that 
no more should be required. 


Many people at Pendizact thought this, 
and were now regretting their impetuous 
benevolence. When first told of it, they had 
offered money or sweet points, supposing 
that such a plan could concern only the chil- 
dren. Fred and Nancibel might be included, 
since the lower orders are believed to have a 
childish turn of mind, but no adult patron 
of the feast intended to sit on damp grass, 
drinking lemonade, in the middle of the 
night. 

Mrs. Paley had been the first convert. She 
had realized that she must go to the feast— 
that patronage was not enough. For the 
whole scheme was intended to give pleasure 
to the Coves, and they wanted guests rather 
than sweet points. To refuse their hospitality 
would be insensitive and ungracious. She 
said as much to Gerry and Angie. She said it 
to Duff, who was flatly refusing to dress up 
as a Pobble. She convinced them all that 
they must turn up, just as the little Giffords 
were now endeavoring to convince Sir Henry. 

“But you must come,” cried Hebe. 
“Everybody has got to come.” 

“You don’t understand,” said Caroline. 
She leaned toward her father and said in a 
whisper, “It’s a forgiveness party. Hebe is 
trying to make up for what she did.” 

Sir Henry nodded. “All right. I don’t 
promise to stay very long, but I’ll show up 
for a bit.” 


“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty,” 
counted Blanche, as she stacked the invita- 
tion cards. 

“But there are twenty-three going to the 
feast,” said Maud. 

“Three are us. Now let’s settle who gets 
which.” 

Each card had been decorated by the 
Coves, who could draw and paint beauti- 


Pay no attention to what critics 
say. There has never been set upa 
statue in honor of a critic. 


November, 1949 


fully. They had been busy all day. Beatrix 
spread them on her bed, and the three sisters 
knelt round it, arguing whether it would 
be polite to give Maud’s design of snails to 
Mr. Siddal. Eventually they gave him holly- 
hocks and allotted the snails to Robin. For 
Nancibel they set aside their favorite card, 
with a border of dandelion clocks, exqui 
sitely done in pen and ink by Blanche, while 
Mrs. Paley was to have their rival favorite, 
which had a pattern of shells. 


Rassirs for Mrs. Siddal, the spider’s web 
for Duff, fir cones for Gerry and bracken 
crooks for Angie. What about Angie’s 
father?” 

“Give him the sea anemone I blotted,” 
suggested Maud. 

““No,”’ decided Blanche. ‘‘That’s the 
worst one. We don’t want to give the worst 
to somebody we don’t like. Let’s give him the 
owls. I wonder what he will dress up as.” 

“He could change clothes with Fred,” 
said Maud. “Then Fred could go as a clergy- 
man and the canon could go as a waiter. Oh, 
I do hope poor Lady Gifford will be well 
enough to go. We mustn’t forget to put her 
card on her breakfast tray.” 

Their own costumes had been easily set- 
tled. Hebe and Caroline had lent them two 
cotton kimono dressing gowns in which 
Blanche and Beatrix 
were to appear as 
geisha. Maud had col- 
lected Hebe’s slacks, 
curtain earrings, asash, 
a red handkerchief 
and a plastic pencil case 
which looked like a 
pistol. No pirate could ask for more. 

“Let’s go to bed,” said Beatrix. “Let’s go 
to sleep and make tomorrow come quickly.” 

But Blanche objected that now was just 
as good as tomorrow. And after the feast was 
over they would have it to remember for 
always. 

“This time tomorrow,” she said, ‘“‘we 
shall be up on the headland feasting and 
reveling. Now we are here, thinking about 
it. Afterward we shall be in other places, 
thinking about it. So it will sort of happen 
for a long time in a lot of places.” 

They went to the window and hung out, 
looking at the solid mass of Pendizack Head, 
standing out above the sea. They were still 
hanging out the window when their mother 
came. Something ominous about her ap- 
proaching footsteps warned them of trouble. 
A premonitory shiver went through all three. 
They turned when they heard the door open. 
She was exceedingly angry, a fact not easily 
apparent to a casual observer (since it made 
little difference in her expression), but always 
discernible to her children. 

“Come here,” she said, sitting down on 
her bed. 

They came and stood in a trembling row. 

“Somebody in this room,” she said, “‘is a 
thief. Somebody took my keys, while I was 
in my bath, and stole my black amber, and 
threw it out the window. Which of you is it?” 

Anybody could have seen which it was. 
The blank astonishment of Maud and 
Beatrix could not have been assumed. 
Mrs. Cove shot out a steely hand and 
seized Blanche by the shoulder. 

“Why did you do it?” 

“T—I don’t know,” whispered Blanche. 

“Who put you up to it?” 

“Nobody.” 

“Don’t tell lies.” 

“Nobody else knew. I... just didn’t want 
us to have it.” 

“You know what happens when you tell 
lies?” ; 

A gasp went up from them all. Maud had 
once told a lie and her head had been shaved 
as a punishment. Degraded and grotesque, 
she had been obliged to go about, in the 
streets and into shops, with a dreadful little 
white head like an egg. They had all cried 
themselves sick, day and night, until the 
fluffy down began to appear again. 

“No,” cried Blanche. “I’m not telling lies. 
Nobody knew.” 

“Somebody must have known. You are 
telling lies. Put a bath towel in the middle 

(Continued on Page 229) 


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aeulan Hobide 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


IN 
) 
~) 







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34 teaspoon almond extract 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


age. taaléo “Us Venu beat! 





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atti 


November, 1949 


TT an 





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Tune in STARS OVER HOLLYWOOD — CBS every Saturday 





‘ (Continued from Page 226) 
of the room and put a chair on it. Put an- 
other towel round your shoulders.” 
Mrs. Cove rose and went to a drawer for 
a small safety razor which she used regu- 


ply upon her own upper lip. 


Beatrix and Maud broke into wails of 
protest. “Oh, mother! Please—please—the 
feast; she can’t go like that to the feast.” 

“There'll be no feast for any of you,” said 
Mrs. Cove, ‘‘unless Blanche tells the truth.” 

The wails rose to shrieks. “I am telling 
the truth! I am!” howled Blanche. 

Mrs. Cove took no notice. She took a soap 
dish from the washing stand and marched 
to the bathroom to get hot water. The Coves 
wept hopelessly until Maud, with the cour- 
age of the desperate, jumped up and locked 
the door. A sudden silence fell upon the room. 

“She shan’t do it,” said Maud. “We'll lock 
her out.” 

“She'll break down the door,” whispered 
Beatrix. 

“She can’t, by herself. And she won’t dare 
tell anyone. It’s wicked. They’d stop her.” 

“She’s our mother,” said Blanche. 

“We shall starve to death,” observed 
Beatrix. 

“No. They’ll find out. When we don’t 
come to the feast they’ll come and look for 
us. They will save us.” 

Beatrix sighed an assent. Blanche felt too 
faint to say more. They waited, shivering 
and still sobbing a little, until their mother 
came back. To her knocks and calls not even 
Maud had the courage to reply. They let the 
locked door deliver their ultimatum. She 
hammered and threatened for some moments 
until a fresh voice inter- 
rupted her. Fa ae 

“Whatever’s the mat- 
ter, Mrs. Cove? Locked 
you out, havethey? Well!” 

It was Miss Ellis. Their 
mother stopped hammer- 
ing and asked if there 
was such a thing as a screw 
driver in the house. eee 

“T don’t know. Not very 
likely, I should think. Fancy your girls play- 
ing you such a trick! Bet those Giffords put 
them up to it. If I were in your shoes, Mrs. 
Cove, I’d leave. Take them away before they 
learn worse. Even if I had to pay for the 
rooms.” 

“Thank you, Miss Ellis. I’m quite able 
to manage my own children.” 

“Doesn’t look like it. And if you knew as 
much as I do, you wouldn’t even pay for the 
rooms. They wouldn’t dare make you pay.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Come in my room for a minute. You 
really should know.” 

Footsteps receded, a door closed. 

“They’ve gone to Miss Ellis’ room,” sur- 
mised Maud. 

Blanche, who had-been lying on the floor, 
stirred and sat up. “It’s no use,” she said 
feebly. “‘We can’t lock mother out of her 
own room. We can’t do anything except 
offer it up.” 

“Oh, no!” cried Maud and Beatrix. 

“Then Jesus will decide.” 

“T’d rather He didn’t,” said Maud. “We 
offered up the stray kitten, but He didn’t 
make her let us keep it.” 

“He was very sensible,”’ Beatrix reminded 
her. ““How could we have fed it? He made 
the next-door people take pity on it, and it 
iad a much nicer home.” 


ease and 


“Tr He’d been even more sensible He’d 
have let us keep it and sent us food for it.” 
“We couldn’t have brought it here. Per- 
haps He knew we were coming here. What 
would have happened to it?”’ 
“Maud!” cried Blanche. 
trust Jesus?” 

“Not to give me anything I want. He 
only cares about Kingdom Come, which 
won't be for millions of years. If I want any- 
thing very much I just particularly don’t 
offer it up.” 

“If we offer it up, nothing bad can hap- 
pen. Nothing He wants can be bad. That 
clergyman said so, on Good Friday.” 

“I dare say. But something very nasty 
can happen, all the same,” muttered Maud. 


“Don’t you 


True politeness is perfect 


simply consists in treating 
others just as you love to be 
treated yourself. 

—LORD CHESTERFIELD. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


They said no more. Maud was quite right. 
Their previous attempts to offer things up 
had never saved them from disaster, though 
Blanche had insisted that this was because 
they had never achieved complete indiffer- 
ence to their own wishes. She could not do so 
now. She could not escape from the hope 
that Kingdom Come might not require her 
head to be shaved. 


Bur after twenty minutes of suspense even 
Maud began to falter. The desperate naugh- 
tiness of their conduct became increasingly 
apparent to all of them. At last they heard 
their mother coming back. She tried the 
door, found it still locked, and called to 
Blanche. Her voice was changed; it was 
worried and uncertain. 

“Don’t be so silly. Open the door, I want 
to talk to you.” 

Blanche tried to get up, but Maud held 
her down. 

“If you'll stop this nonsense, perhaps I’ll 
let you off this once.” 

“Don’t! Don’t! It’s a trap,” cried Maud, 
struggling with Blanche. 

“Rubbish!” replied the anxious voice out- 
side the door. “If I let you off it’s because 
I have other things to think of. I may have 
to go away—to London—I may have to 
leave you here—in that case.” 

Blanche threw Maud aside and rose to her 
feet. “Will you solemnly promise to let 
Maud and Bee go to the feast?” she called. 
“Tf you do, it doesn’t matter about me.’”’ 

“The feast?”? Mrs Cove repeated. ‘Yes, 
I suppose so... . I said I’d let you all off, 
if you’ll come to your senses.” 

ee Blanche turned to the 
others. ‘Offer it up! Offer 
it up!” she exhorted them. 
“There’s no other help. If 
Jesus wants us to escape 
we shall; if not, not. But I 
must open the door.” 

Beatrix and Maud, clos- 
ing their eyes, began to 
offer it up. Blanche un- 
locked the door. All three 
children stood rigid, with tightly shut eyes, 
as their mother came in. 


freedom. It 


It was half past nine by the old cherry- 
wood clock in the Thomas kitchen when 
Nancibel wearily pushed open the door. A 
blast from the radio greeted her, and her 
mother’s voice, asking wherever she had 
been. All the rest of the family had gone to 
bed. 

“T thought this was your half day,” said 
Mrs. Thomas. “I thought Millie Stephens 
was going to give you a perm.” 

“T canceled it. Mrs. Siddal took faint so 
I stopped on. Look, mum, the big kettle’s 
on. I got so hot and sticky down in Pendi- 
zack kitchen tonight. Can’t I have a nice 
wash down here, comfortable, in front of 
the fire before I go to bed?” 

“O.K.,” said Mrs. Thomas, clearing the 
tea things. 

She went into the back kitchen to get a 
basin, soap and a towel. Nancibel launched 
into a spirited account of the day’s doings. 
She told of Gerry Siddal’s engagement, the 
burned letters in the boiler, Mrs. Siddal’s 
collapse, Miss Wraxton’s competence as a 
cook, and her own fear lest she should go bats 
if she stayed at Pendizack much longer. 

“Tt’s getting me down,” she declared as 
she pulled off her clothes. “Really it is. 
Every morning I have to drag myself there, 
and I can’t get out quick enough at night. 
Of course Ellis is the worst. Know what she’s 
saying now?” She paused to pin her curls 
on the top of her head. ‘“‘She’s going round 
telling the visitors that the hotel is insani- 
tary. Says the government says it’s got to 
be closed.” 

“Old cat!”” Mrs. Thomas put the basin 
on a chair in front of the range and filled it 
from the big kettle. 

“Tf I could catch her at it I’d go straight 
to Mrs. Siddal, I really would, though I hate 
taletelling.” 

“How do you know she’s saying it?”’ 

“Fred was collecting the tea tray on the 
terrace and he heard her talking to Mr. 
Paley. So along comes Fred to the scullery 





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to be as far away from 





230 


and says, ‘Heard the news? This place has 
got to be shut down. Mr. Bevin’s written to 
Mr. Siddal.’”’ 

“Mr. Bevin!” cried Mrs. Thomas. 

“He’s in the government, isn’t he?”’ 

“Foreign Minister, you silly girl. Got 
quite enough on his mind arguing with the 
Russians. No, it’s Bevan, more likely.” 

“T wouldn’t know,” said Nancibel. “‘ Bevin 
and Bevan—I always mix them up.” 

“But what’s wrong with Pendizack?” 
asked Mrs. Thomas. “Could it be the well, 
d’you think?” 

“T’m sure I hope not. They’d never have 
the cash to bring the company water all the 
way down from Tregoylan. I told Fred to 
keep his mouth shut and not to repeat such a 
story. But it shows you the sort of spiteful 
thing I mean. Going on all the time. I don’t 
want to let Mrs. Siddal down, but I can’t 
stand much more of it.” 

“Want me to dry your back?”’ 

“Tf you would. I’m not the only one to 
feel they can’t stand much more of it. We 
had quite an argument in the kitchen about 
this picnic tomorrow. The children want it 
up on the point, but Gerry, he says we can’t 
lug all that food and drink up there, why not 
have it on the rocks just outside the garden 
gate? So then Miss 
Wraxton said just 
what I’ve been say- 
ing. She said it’s got 


this hotel as we can 
get. Nobody could 
hope to enjoy him- 
self anywhere near 
this place, she said. 
And Mrs. Paley said 
the same. Honestly, 
mum, that place may 
not be insanitary, 
but it’s something a 
lot worse. Nobody 
could be happy in- 
side a mile of it.” 

Nancibel stood up, 
relaxed and refreshed. 
She yawned and 
stretched her arms 
above her head. 

Mrs. Thomas made 
asound of agreement, 
but her attention had 
wandered. She took 
the basin into the 
back kitchen while 
Nancibel put on an old coat and collected 
her clothes. 

“That chauffeur” began Mrs. Thomas, 
coming back. 

“Oh, he’s gone,” said Nancibel quickly. 
“He’s left that job to get himself a better 
one.” 

“Well, I call that a bit impulsive, leaving 
a good job like that! Will he ever come back, 
d’you suppose?”’ 

“He might,’’ conceded Nancibel, flushing. 
She went up the steep little staircase, to the 
bed which she shared with her sisters. 


“Long ago, in youth, he squandered,” 
whispered Sir Henry to himself. “Long ago, in 
youth, he squandered all his goods away and 
wandered i 





He was obliged to refer to the piece of 
paper in his hand. Caroline had given it to 
him with instructions to learn the verses, 
there set out, before nightfall. In a grand 
finale to the feast, all Edward Lear charac- 
ters were to recite their own poems. She had 
warned him that his was rather a sad piece, 
but he did not think so. The Aged Uncle Arly 
did not seem to have made such a bad thing 
of his life. 


Like the ancient Medes and Persians, 
Always by his own exertions 

He subsisted on those hills ;— 
Whiles, by teaching children spelling,— 
Or at times by merely yelling,— 
Or al intervals by selling 

Propter’s Nicodemus Pills. 


He could have wished that his own life 
had been half as sensibly spent. But it had 


Ke EK KE KEK & 


Harry 


By Elizabeth McFarland 


Winter on the sill has hung 
Frostiness of lace. 

Hurry, while we still are young, 
Let me find your face. 


All the birds wheel in a far 
Flurry toward the South. 

I must hurry where you are; 
I must feel your mouth. 


Touch and shelter you I must— 
Know you to the bone. 

Lest the spring’s first warming gust 
Find me still alone. 


awe ke kek kek KK 


November, 1949 


all gone to pieces twelve years ago, in a sum- 
mer like this, at a little seaside village very 
like Pendizack. 

They had had a young nurse who came to 
them when Caroline was born—a fair, fresh- 
faced girl whose name he couldn’t remember. , 
She had not stayed with them for long. But % 
she had popped up in his memory at some 
time during the last day or two. For they 
had taken her and the baby with them for a 
summer holiday to a little seaside hotel. 
Eirene was still recovering from her confine- 
ment. All day they lay sun-bathing on the 
rocks, occasionally going down to the warm 
sea for a languid swim. | 


Ir had been delightful. For he was still | 
deeply in love with Eirene, after eighteen 
months of marriage, in spite of certain trials 
to his temper. Her sufferings during preg- 
nancy and childbirth had been enough to 
justify, in his eyes, an egotism and a childish 
self-indulgence which would surely dis- 
appear, now that she was getting well again. 

Day after day they lay on the rocks. And 
day after day the young nurse, in a starched 
uniform, sat by the perambulator on the 
beach. He could not remember how he first 
came to wonder why Nanny never went 
swimming. At last 
he asked Eirene why 
it was. Eirene replied, 
a shade too hastily, 
that Nanny did not 
care for bathing. 

He might have be- 
lieved that to the end 
of his days if he had 
not subsequently 
overheard a fragment 
of conversation on 
the next balcony to 
theirs at the hotel. 
Mrs. Gifford, he 
learned, was as hard 
as nails with that 
nice little Nanny of 
hers; she never gave 
the girl any time off 
to go swimming with 
the other maids. She 
could not even sit 
beside her own per- 
ambulator for half an 
hour and it was espe- 
cially hard, because 
Nanny Gifford was 
a champion swim- 
mer. Mrs. Gifford knew that perfectly well. 

Plucking up his courage, he tackled Eirene. 
He reproached her for lying to him and he 
reproached her for inhumanity to Nanny. It 
was their first real quarrel. And, in a way, it 
was their last quarrel, for it was the only 
occasion upon which he had insisted upon | 
having his own way. During the rest of the — 
holiday he sat beside Caroline for an hour 
every day while Nanny went swimming. It | 
was in August. Sometime before Christmas 
he supposed that Eirene must have forgiven 
him. for he could remember a very pleasant 
Christmas Eve, when, in amity, they had 
filled Caroline’s first stocking. But there had 
been weeks and months when he had been 
obliged to live, eat and sleep with a drooping 
flower. She did not reproach him. She said 
very little. She simply failed to pick up her 
strength again and her mother said all that 
was necessary. 

After that he had been in no hurry to as- 
sert himself again. She did as she pleased. 
He found it easier to let her do as she pleased 
when he ceased to love her, which he very 
soon did. 

He remembered all this, as he strayed 
round the gardens of Pendizack, conning his 
poem. And he wondered if he could have 
taught Eirene to love him by standing up 
to her. He had grown cold and hard, instead @ 9 
of helping her to cure her faults. And now, “77 — 
when she was manifestly very ill, he pur- — 
posed to leave her. She would never under- 
stand why. 

At teatime he took up her tray and found 
her in a mournful mood, lamenting because 
her wretched health had ruined his life. She 
often said this. He put the tray down on her 
knees and sat on the bed beside her. 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL ret 


“Your health would be nothing, only a 
minor misfortune,” he said, “if we cared for 
each other.” 

“You would love me if I wasn’t ill. No 
woman can hope to keep a man if she’s ill.’” 

“But you don’t love me.’’ 

“Harry! You know perfectly well that 
I’m devoted to you.” 

“You don’t show it. If you could give me 
one example of your devotion to me, I’d— 
well, I’d feel differently. I really don’t thin 
I ought to let you bring up the children. You 
aren’t fit to.” 

That did startle her a little. She said 
sharply, “Don’t talk nonsense! I’m quite 
able to bring up the children. I’ve never let 
my bad health prevent that. I take more care 
of them than many mothers who have never 
had a day’s illness in their lives.” 

“You aren’t fit. I won’t have them brought 
up without any loyalties. I won’t have them 
turned into scum . . . it’s a scum that every 
nation throws up, that simply drifts from 
place to place in search of a full trough. 
They’re not rats. I won’t have them turned 
into rats.’’ Against his will he had raised his 
voice. It was the old yelling. 


Errene lowered hers and spoke very gen- 
tly. “I wish,” she said, “that they would re- 
member not to send me raspberry jam. They 
know I can’t eat it. You might have looked, 
Harry, before you brought the tray up. If 
you really mean to go away and leave me, I 
won’t divorce you. I shall hope you'll be 
sorry and come back. I shall always be wait- 
ing for you. But you won’t see the children 
till you do.” 

There was a tap at the bedroom door. 
Hebe looked in. 

He waved her away with, ‘‘Not just now, 
Hebe. Run along.” 

““No—wait,” cried Eirene, holding out her 
jam dish. “‘Take this down, darling, and ask 
for jelly instead.” 

Hebe approached the bed and presented 
to Sir Henry a small object like a grass- 
hopper, made of wool and wire, and a pillbox 
with a label saying: PROPTER’S NICODEMUS 
PILLS. 

“IT made them this afternoon,” she said. 
“And Caro is making your railway ticket. 
Have you learned your part?” 

“What part?’ asked Eirene. 

“For the feast,” explained Hebe. ‘The 
Coves’ feast. Didn’t you get your invitation 
card on your breakfast tray?” 

“That card? Oh, yes. How could anyone 
suppose I’d be well enough for that sort of 
thing?” 

“Everybody is invited,’’ explained Hebe. 
“T expect they thought it would be rude not 
to send you a card, when we are all going.” 

“What do you mean? You are all going? 
When did I give you leave to go?” 

Hebe looked dismayed.‘* We never thought 
you’d mind our going.” 

“T certainly mind. I thought I’d told you 
not to play with those little Coves.”’ 

“But, mother : 

Sir Henry interposed: “It’s my fault, 
Eirene. I gave them leave. I had no idea 
you’d object. And now it has all gone so far, 
I think you must let them go.” 

Eirene gave him a cool stare. He realized 
she meant to pay him out for having threat- 
ened to take the children away. But she 
spoke playfully: 

“Darling! I know you think I spoil them 
and that you are the only person who is 
really fit to bring them up. But you’re quite 
wrong. It’s you who can deny them nothing. 
I’m a great deal stricter, really.” 

“But mother, we must go! We must go!” 
cried Hebe. 

“No must about it, my precious. I abso- 
lutely forbid it. It’s too late an hour for the 
twins. And none of our chicks have very 
good digestions. They’ll only make them- 
selves sick, gobbling a lot of trash in the 
middle of the night.” 

“Tt isn’t trash. It’s lovely things: lobster 
salad and chicken and ices.”’ 

“Most indigestible.” 

“T suppose,”’ screamed Hebe furiously, 
“‘vou’d rather we ate tapeworms.” 

The altercation came to an abrupt end, in 
a simultaneous gasp from Hebe and Lady 


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Gifford. Sir Henry, turning to reprove Hebe 
for such an unpleasant idea, was appalled by 
the expression on her face—the blanched 
terror and exultation of a child who has gone 
too far and knows it. He looked at his wife. 

Eirene did not ask what Hebe meant. She 
was the more terrified of the two. She had 
the jam dish in her hand and was holding it 
up as if to ward Hebe off. She licked her lips, 
tried to say something, and put the dish 
down. Leaning back against her pillows, she 
closed her eyes. 

“You'd better go,” he said sternly to Hebe. 

But Hebe, though shaking, stood her 
ground. “Are we going to the feast?” she 
asked. 

“Yes,”’ he said, anxious to end the scene. 
“Yes. They can go, can’t they, Eirene?” 

Eirene opened her eyes for a moment to 
give Hebe a look of pure hatred. She said 
faintly, ““Go if you like. But get out.” 

Hebe got out with a rush. 

“T don’t think I want any more tea,” 
whispered Eirene. ““These scenes are so bad 
for me. Will you take the tray down, darling, 
and I’ll just relax completely.” 

He hardly heard her. He stood at the bot- 
tom of the bed, beating a tattoo on the bed- 
rail. ‘“What—what did she mean?” he asked. 

“Hebe? How should I know? Some vul- 
garity she has picked up. That’s what comes 
of playing with horrid children. Do take the 
tray.” 

He took the tray. At the top of the stairs 
he nearly fell over Hebe, crouched there, 
waiting for him. 

She said, ‘‘You’d better send me back to 
the orphanage. I’m not your child and I’ve 
turned out badly. I’d better go away.” 

“We're responsible for 
you,” he said drearily. 

“You can’t want me 
after what I said.” > 

“Tt wasn’t a nice thing 
to say. How ——”’ But he 
stopped, feeling that he 
could not question her. 

“T heard Edmee, that 
was Mrs. Wilmott’s maid, talking to another 
maid.” 

“Oh ... in Massachusetts?” 

“Yes. Edmee said that was how people 
kept thin. She said Mrs. Wilmott was mad 
at mother about it and said she was crazy— 
she put on an awful lot, you know, in Amer- 
ica. She was getting fat. And then suddenly 
she got terribly thin. Edmee said ——” 

“Tt was vulgar gossip,” he told her. 
“Nothing in it. There couldn’t be.” 

Hebe nodded. 

“Did you say anything to the others?” 

“Oh, no—I never told anyone. Only to- 
day—I was so furious.” 

“Forget about it.” 


A profound hush enveloped Pendizack 
Manor Hotel. The procession had formed on 
the terrace and found its way, singing, up 
the drive to the cliff path. The shouts and 
music died away and the silence rolled up 
like a mist. 

Mrs. Siddal, lying on her bed, felt it first 
of all as a relief. The noise made by the chil- 
dren, shouting from one room to another, 
had been intolerable. She was glad when they 
all rushed downstairs. 


Sue was fully dressed, for she was not ill, 
only tired, and she might be entreated at 
any time to take up the reins of government 
again. Some catastrophe would certainly 
occur which would bring them to their knees. 
But she would not go down while Evangeline 
Wraxton was in the house. 

She dozed until a short, shrill scream 
jerked her into wakefulness. It was only a 
gull, swooping past the window, but it left 
her with a thumping heart and a presage of 
fear. An overpowering need came upon her 
to get up, to see human faces and to hear 
voices. Her pride fell before it. She jumped 
up and hurried into the passage. A door 
opened. Her panic subsided. For the first 
time in her life she felt glad to see Miss Ellis. 

“Oh!” said Miss Ellis. “‘I thought every- 
one was gone.” 

“So did I,”’ said Mrs. Siddal. ‘‘Where is 
everybody?” 


A boy has a natural genius 
for combining business 
with pleasure. 

—CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 


November, 1949 


“Gone to the feast.” 

Of course that explained everything. She 
had forgotten the feast, though Robin had 
brought her invitation card that morning, 
and she had sent her love to the little Coves 
and her regrets that she was not well enough 
to come. 

“Been a lot of trouble downstairs,”” Miss 
Ellis told her. ‘You'll be upset when you get 
down and see. Fred has broken two vege- 
table dishes. And the way Miss Wraxton is 
using up the sugar —— Are you feeling 
better?” 

“Yes, thank you. Has everybody gone? 
Aren’t you going, Miss Ellis?” 

“Me? To this picnic affair? No, I’m not.” 

“Mrs. Siddal!” 

Miss Ellis and Mrs. Siddal turned. Mrs. 
Cove had come out of her attic. 

“I’m glad you’re about again,” she said. 
“Can you see that my ration book is put on 
my table tomorrow morning? I have to go 
to London and I want to get my ration book 
back before I leave.” 

“Going to London?” exclaimed Mrs. Sid- 
dal. “‘Are you all going? I didn’t realize 4% 

“No,” said Miss Ellis. ‘‘She’s leaving the 
children. Aren’t you, Mrs. Cove?’” 





Mrs. cove looked at Miss Ellis. Some- 
thing seemed to be passing between them, 
but they neither moved nor spoke. Mrs. 
Siddal left them and made her way down- 
stairs to the kitchen. 

Never had such chaos been seen before in 
her kitchen, for the feasters had gone off 
without clearing up or washing the dishes. 
She went to the dresser and found a basket 
containing four bottles of hock, evidently 
packed for the feast and 
left behind. A foolish ex- 
travagance, she thought. 
Then a sharp feeling came 
to her. She was sorry that 
they should have forgotten 
this basket. She went out 
on the terrace to see if any 
of them were still on the 
sands. She might wave to them to come 
back and fetch it. : 

Nobody was on the sands. The tide was 
up, and they must have gone by the drive to 
the cliff path. But she lingered a moment, 
for the air out there was sweet. 

Somebody came round the corner of the 
house. It was Dick Siddal. “‘Why, Barbara,” 
he said, ‘‘are you better?” 

“Yes.” 

His appearance surprised her, for he was 
neatly dressed, almost spruce. But he looked 
ill and he was breathing heavily. 

““Where are you going?” she asked. 

“Oh, strolling . . . strolling.”” He looked 
round him uneasily and added, ‘Thought 
I’d take a turn on the sands, but the tide is 
up. I started up the drive,” he panted, ““but 
my ticker isn’t too good, Barbara. I was done 
before I’d got to the first turn.” 

“Well, it must be years since you’ve 
climbed that hill. Look, Dick, the picnickers 
have left their wine behind. I wish we could 
send somebody after them—but there’s no 
body left but Mrs. Cove and Miss Ellis ana 
Anna and Lady Gifford. They’re no use.” 

“Paley and Wraxton are still here,’’ he 
said. “‘Wraxton is writing letters in the 
lounge. He’s writing about his will. He told 
me so. Means to disinherit his daughter. 
Perhaps you’d better not ask him. But Paley 
is looking out of his bedroom window.” 

“T might as well ask Hebe’s cat to help 
me.” 

Mrs. Siddal hurried back to the kitchen. 
Taking the basket from the dresser, she 
found it unexpectedly heavy, and faltered 
in a half-formed plan to take it up to Pendi- 
zack Point herself. They would send back 
for it when the omission was discovered. 
Gerry would be sent. It was always Gerry 
who ran errands for the rest. 

She lifted the basket again, feeling its . 
weight. A compromise had occurred to her. 
She could take it a little way, up the dgive 
to the beginning of the cliff path, and meet 
Gerry. 

» ‘Bother you!” she said to the basket of 
wine. 
(Continued on Page 234) 








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clutching her kimono, which was too large 
and long. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, 
“you are invited to partake of a cold colla- 
tion and to imbibe some delicious hock 
kindly provided for us by our most honored 
guest, Sir Henry Gifford.” 

All gathered round the cloth where Evan- 
geline and Robin were pouring the wine into 
glasses. 

“Are the children to have any?” asked 
Gerry. 

“We all need it,” said Duff firmly. ‘Here 
you are, Nancibel!” 

But Nancibel protested that she was Band 
of Hope. 

“This is nonalcoholic,” he assured her. 
“Taste it and see.” 

She took a sip and was sure that he was 
stringing her along. But secretly she was 
feeling so sad about Bruce that she welcomed 
a stimulant and, after serving lobster salad, 
she finished her glass. 

A pleasant elation was sweeping over the 
party. Gerry was telling a story and laughing 
loudly at it. ““She said, ‘Who met a tarsal?’ 
You did. Didn’t you, Angie?” 

“You’d think,” said Angie to Mrs. Paley, 
“that he’d get tired of that joke.” 

“He'll never get tired of it,” said Mrs. 
Paley. ‘‘Make up your mind to that, Angie. 


The creation ordered by Empress 

Eugénie to be worn at a ball given 
at the Tuileries was designed by 
Eugénie herself. It was made of a 
thousand yards of gauze, and em- 
broidered in threads so fine the art- 
ists had to wear magnifying glasses. 
The gauze was woven on specially 
constructed machinery. The gown 
was made with fifteen skirts, one 
over another, each with thirty-five 
yards of gauze. The other four hun- 
dred yards were used in flounces on 
the two outer skirts. These could be 
drawn through a small bracelet, and 
two of the underskirts through a 
finger ring. It took four women six 
months to embroider the flounces. 
The finished gown cost $55,000 and 
the Empress wore it once. 


You’ll have to live with that joke all your 
life.” 

“What joke?” asked Mrs. Siddal, leaning 
Tound Mrs. Paley. It was the first time she 
had spoken to the girl. 

Evangeline decided to take it as an olive 
branch. “Gerry was telling me,” she began, 
“about tarsals and metatarsals.” 

Robin, on the other side of the picnic 
cloth, nudged Duff. “Girls are getting to- 
gether,”’ he muttered. 

Fred struck up The Lily of Laguna, which 
Mrs. Paley had named as her favorite tune. 
It was not, and she had meant to ask for 
Pale Hands I Loved, but had got muddled. 
The air was taken up with gusto by the 
whole company. 

“This is a lovely picnic.” 

“This is a grand picnic.” 

“T’ve got a wishbone. I’ve got a wishbone. 
Mrs. Paley, would you like a wish with my 
bone?” 

“No, Hebe. You wish your own wish.” 

“Well . . . I wish the Coves could be your 
children, and you wish it, too, and we pull, 
and wishever gets the wish end ——” 

“Tt’s no use wishing for something impos- 
sible.” 

““She’s the Lilee of La... gu... na. 

The Coves were too happy to sing, too 
happy to eat. Gravely they circled round 
offering food and drink to their guests. Now, 
after a glance at the program, Blanche Cove 
stepped forward. 

“We want to thank you all for coming,” 
she said, ‘‘and to say how glad we are to see 
you so happy. We know you did it to please 
us, but we can see you are really enjoying 
i 

“Hear! Hear!” 

“Thank you, Blanche!” 

“A lovely speech!” 

““A lovely feast!” 

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Everybody sang. Everybody shouted. 
They made such a noise that for a few sec- 
onds they hardly noticed the other noise 
which was going on, until all sounds were 
swallowed up in one shattering, ear-splitting, 
jarring roar which threw them to the ground 
in darkness and terror. To some it seemed 
that the noise went on for a long time; while 
others maintained, afterward, that it was 
all over very quickly. Nor could they be sure 
that they had not flung themselves down. 
But there they were lying, in a choking cloud 
of dust, while the noise subsided in a dimin- 
ishing arpeggio of falling stones. . . skipping 
pebbles . . . the murmur of waves. 

A faint clamor began to rise among the 
boulders—coughing, sobbing, cries and ques- 
tions—as they groped about in the dusty 
haze. All were too much stunned to exclaim 
loudly until-a child’s voice rose in a piercing 
shriek: f 

“Oh! It’s the atom bomb! It’s the’ atom 
bomb!” 

“What is it?” 

“What happened ?”’ 

“Angie! Where are you? Are you all 
right?” 

“Here, Gerry.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Paley.’ 

“T’m here, Maud—holding you. Where’s 
Blanche? Where’s Beatrix?” 

“T’ve got the twins. Are you all right, 
ducks? It’s Nancibel—she’s got you.” 

““Where’s Caroline?”’ 

“Daddy ——” 

“Tt’s dust.” 


November, 1949 4 


“It’s the atom bomb.” 

“Be quiet, everybody. Sir Henry wants to 
call names.” 

Sir Henry called their names, one by one, 
as the dust began to clear. All answered. 

But they could not understand it and still 
half believed that some kind of enemy had 


attacked them. For they were accustomed to @)— 


associate such violent events with an act of 
man rather than of God. Stunned and terri- 
fied, they huddled together in a thinning 
haze of dust until they saw a gleam of moon- 
light on the sea, and placid waves falling 
upon a beach; a familiar sight, which might 
have reassured them, had it been a beach 
that they had ever seen before. 

Gerry and Sir Henry were the first to 
guess. But they said nothing. In silence they 
watched the pall of dust subside. As the 
truth leaped from mind to mind a moaning 
sigh went through the group. They drew 
closer together, as if still clinging to that 
frail, that transient unity which had so 
strangely assembled and preserved them. 
Nobody spoke until one of the Gifford twins, 
raising his head from the bosom of Nancibel, 
looked out upon the scene below and asked 
wonderingly: 

“Who did it?” 

There was a shout from the hill behind. 
Little figures appeared on the sky line. Peo- 
ple were running down from the village and 
from the farms. 

“We had better go up to the village,”’ said 
Gerry. ‘““To the vicarage. Father Bott will 
take us in.” 

They moved off in a straggling procession, 
taking up once more the burden of their six= 
teen separate lives. 


WORKING SCHOOLGIRL 


(Continued from Page 63) 


growing it longer because “then my strength 
will go to my hair, and I’ll lose some weight.”’ 
A photographer visiting town told her, “ You 
could be a real beauty if you’d lose fifteen 
pounds.”’ When she talks about the movies, 
or Sees a boy she likes, her brawn eyes light 
up and her cheeks, which have a fine natural 
color, seem just a little pinker. Few of her 


classmates know her by name, but, whenthey . 
‘Mrs. Delong, “‘isthat she’s very willing and - 


see her, remark, ‘“Oh, yes—but she doesn’t 
do anything.” 
Muriel doesn’t do anything extra in school 


simply because she can’t. The cooking-and- © 


sewing club she wanted to join meets after 
school when she’s working. And noontimes, 
when she could dance in the gym, she walks 
back to the Delongs’ for dinner—fifteen 
minutes each way, and forty-five minutes - 
for a full meal of meat, potatoes and vege- 
tables—because she rarely- can afford to 
treat herself to a 25-cent hot lunch (like 
baked beans, brown bread, salad and milk) , 


in the school cafeteria. Actually she needs a © 


heavier meal anyway because she drinks 


only a cup of tea for breakfast (“I used to.’ 


eat eggs when mum was around to make me,: 
and sometimes now if Mrs. Delong wakes up 
before I leave’’). School gets out at 3:30, and 
by 4 Muriekis back home, in her blue jeans 
(the rear pockets say “Pug” for Muriel and 
“Bumpy” han ex-boy friend), and ready 
to begin the afternoon chores—usually iron- 
ing, dusting and helping prepare supper. 
Mrs. Delong supervises when she’s home, 
but when she went to Bangor for two days 
Muriel handled the cooking—and the chil- 
dren—without a single mishap. Saturday is 
big cleaning day and Muriel dreads it. By 
4 o'clock she’s so tired she could drop— 
but her job has one bright spot which makes 
all the drudgery, and more, worth it to her. 

For she loves children, and the Delongs 
have three of them: Charlie, who’s seven 
and likely to stick his underwear out 
the upstairs window, or chase all over the 
house with Muriel flying behind him; Lis- 
beth, five, and already a tomboy—‘‘She 
puts on a clean dress and one minute later 
she’s sitting in a mud puddle,”’ says Muriel 
with resignation; and Danny, three, who’s 
just learned what fun it can be to hide 
Muriel’s red leather wallet. Danny hates to 
go to sleep nights, can walk so quietly that 


Muriel has no idea he’s downstairs until he 
suddenly pops at her from behind a chair, 
shrieking with laughter. One time Charlie 
told Muriel to ‘‘shut up,” and she washed 
his mouth with soap. Another time Danny 


climbed out of bed once too often, and re- 


ceived a light spanking. But usually Muriel’s 
word means as much as their mother’s. 
“The thing I ke best about her,,’ says 


patient. I can always depend on her.” 


Muriel, for her part, thinks the Delongs 


are “grand people.”’ They treat her just like 
a member of the family. SHe eats all her 
meals with them, spends more time on the 
phone than the rest of the family combined, 
may entertain boys and girls in the children’s 
playroom when the Delongs are home (no 
boys when they’re out), but rarely does. 
When she invited three girls over for Cokes 
and bought them herself, Mr. Delong in- 
sisted on refunding the money. Mrs. Delong 
regulates her hours—10:30 on week nights, 
12 ongFriday and Saturday—but Muriel has 
never been late: “Everything is going sx 
good over there that it would bother. me i: 
they had to say something to me.”’ Her room 
upstairs is furnished in maple, with:a big 
white desk covered with schoolbooks (which 
she rarely opens), and bright red-and-blue- 
checked curtains at the window—the first 
room Muriel has ever had all to herself. 
When her mother visited her for the first 
time, Muriel couldn’t wait to give her a 
grand tour of the seven-room house, and 
especially the living room with its bright 
yellow walls, green slip covers and gay print 
draperies—‘‘all my favorite colors, and just 
so nice,”’ she says happily. . 

Although she lives for the day she and 
Mrs. Brewer will have a little house where 
“you can just sit down and do nothing if 
you want to,” Muriel’s life is more pleasant 
now in material ways than ever before. She 
was two when her father, after a short ill- 
ness, “up and died,” leaving her mother 
with no money, no job—and four small 
children. Mrs. Brewer held the family to- 
gether by cleaning other women’s homes, 
doing laundry at night, taking over back- 
breaking man’s work in the potato fields 
during spring seed cutting and fall harvest. 
The family moved from one ramshackle old 


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237 


house to another, paying $12-$14 a month 
in rent, lugging water from a neighbor’s well 
down the road. Then, when Muriel was 
thirteen, Mrs. Brewer took her 160 miles 
south to Bangor, where she did more house- 
work and Muriel earned $10 a week baby- 
sitting evenings and all day Saturday. Three 
years later, in July, 1948, they came back 
to Presque Isle. Looking back now, Muriel 
says, We had bad times, but mum brought 
us through just fine.” 

Today Muriel’s twenty-two-year-old 
brother, Buddy, an ex-Navy gunner, is in 
New York ‘‘probably’’ studying to be a 
male nurse—he rarely writes home, so no one 
knows for sure. Christine, who’s twenty-five, is 
doing housework in Boston. A second sister, 
June, nineteen, grew up with her grand- 
parents and with the help of an uncle, is in 
her sophomore year at Aroostook Normal 
School in Presque Isle. June is the only one 
who has finished high school. Both Buddy 
and Chris left as soon as they were sixteen. 

“Buddy and Chris aren’t doing as good as 
they could have if they’d stayed in school,” 
Muriel says firmly. But she gets depressed at 
the size of her salary when she sees one friend 
making $5 weekly for similar work, another 
collecting $10 cooking and cleaning for an 
invalid. Her $2.50 just about stretches to 
cover 50 cents for one movie, 40 cents for 
bowling, two or three Cokes and ham- 
burgers (which she ‘‘just loves’’) and the $1 
she tries to save each week for new clothing. 
Spending sprees—like one last fall after her 
potato-picking job—are rare. Then she 
bought a red plaid wool dress for $5.99; a 
swirling black taffeta skirt for $7; and her 


B Egotism consists in having a good 
opinion of yourself. Personality 
consists in haying a valid reason 
for the opinion—and keeping it to 
yourself. 


special pride—a pink taffeta blouse—for 
$5.95. But usually she buys few clothes. Six 
cardigans and three wool skirts, with a heavy 
green wool coat, see her through most of the 
school year, and Mrs. Brewer gave her three 
new cottons last summer when she had only 
two dresses to wear. 

Muriel worries, also, because she has no 
definite time off from her job. Whenever the 
Delongs are home she may go out, but she 
rarely knows ahead. Although Mrs. Delong 
has told her, ‘“If something big comes along, 
we'll get a baby-sitter,’”” Muriel has never 
taken advantage because “‘I’d hate to ask 
her to do a thing like that.” 

Teen-age social life in Presque Isle centers 
around one movie theater, one bowling alley 
(twelve alleys, 20 cents a string, and a ‘‘swell 
place to meet fellows’’) and the town Rec- 
reation Center which, with its tennis tables, 
huge fireplace and large dance floor, is an 
ideal place for informal dances and casual 
get-togethers. The center is open to all local 
children, free of charge, but usually the same 
group of boys and girls congregates there. 
Muriel went once, but stayed only a few 
moments—no one spoke to her and she felt 
like a “‘sore toe.” She feels equally left out 
at Mackin’s Drug Store, most popular teen- 
age hangout—‘‘I only speak to the girls who 
go there if they speak to me first. If one is 
alone, why, she’ll speak, but when they’re 
together, they don’t even see someone like 
me.”’ So Muriel and her friends go out of 
their way to a small hamburger stand largely 
patronized by older people—‘“‘but we like 
it,’’ Muriel says defiantly. 

Few boys and girls entertain at home, 
although one girl held a now “famous” party 
when her parents weren’t home. Ten boys 
climbed onto the same rocking chair at the 
same time and scratched paint off the wood- 
work by rocking hard against it; another 
boy smashed in a lamp shade with his fist 
because he ‘‘felt good.”’ Later, a third boy 
entertained the crowd by putting catchup 
on a paper napkin and eating it. But Muriel 
has never been to a boy-girl party—‘“‘I don’t 
know what goes on, and I’ve never cared to 
inquire,” she says. 


cup milk 
tablespoon unflavored h teaspoon oo 
gelatin \ DE 
4 cup cold vers : oer eodarts sugar 
3 ees yolks Bee Honey ee baked pie shell 
34, cup Ber aed pumpkin _ Beat egg yolks 
PE + in cold water f Doe salt, and cinna- 
Soak gelatin 1 honey. til thick, stirring 
and combine wi bl . il dissolved. 
: of dou : and-con- 
Fold the 


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Beat eee W 
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umpkin mixture. 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


When Muriel took a personality test at 
school, she answered the question, “Can 
you both love and hate the people close to 
you?”’ with a big “‘‘yes.”” That, she says, is 
how she feels about her sister June, who dis- 
approves of her seeing movies on Sunday— 
“T work all week and if I mind my own 
business on Sunday, it’s none of her con- 
cern,” Muriel says flatly. June wouldn’t 
speak to her for a week after she dated a boy 
rumored to have got another girl in 
trouble, but Muriel’s answer to that was 
simply, “Everyone makes mistakes, and 
that’s just one of his. As long as I behave 
myself with him, that’s all that matters.” 

Both June and Mrs. Brewer, however, 
feel that in her choice of friends Muriel could 
stand better guidance. Presque Isle, like 
most small towns, has a “‘good”’ and a“‘bad”’ 
section in which to live. Professional families 
live up on the Highlands—known in school as 
“Snob Hill’””—in eight- to ten-room houses 
with a flower-and-vegetable garden out 
back, and one or two cars in the garage. 
They are “comfortably off,’’ but not neces- 
sarily wealthy, and most of their children 
go off to college, or to white-collar jobs 
downtown. 

Down across the railroad tracks, and at 
the other pole socially, is lower Chapman 
Street, a gray, muddy street where weather- 
beaten frame houses sometimes rent for as 
little as $15 monthly. Some of these have no 
plumbing; in others, families are so large 
that the kitchen, with a studio couch sitting 
next to the wood stove, doubles for the 
living room which has to be converted into 
another bedroom. The men who live on 
lower Chapman Street are the farm labor- 
ers, hired hands and seasonal potato pickers. 
They may earn as high as $80 weekly during 
spring planting and fall harvest, or roughly 
$45 weekly for potato-house work in the 
winter. But often they have weeks with no 
work at all. The street is known in high 
school, and around town, as “‘the slums.” 

Muriel’s best friend comes from Chapman 
Street. Their mothers are close friends, and 
the girls played dolls together when they 
were young. She, too, worked her way 
through high school taking care of children 
four hours a day after school, working as a 
salesgirl on Saturdays—for a total of $9 a 
week. Now she’s a full-time salesgirl, has 
been engaged twice, but says she’s in no 
hurry to get married. Once when there was 
nothing better to do. she and Muriel bor- 
rowed her dad’s ’26 Chevvy to drive up to 
Lover’s Lane (a dirt road across a farmer’s 
field north of town) and flashed a fog light 
on the parked cars. There was great hilarity 
when their attentions forced acar to move on. 

“‘She’s a good girl,” Mrs. Brewer is quick 
to say, “but her father drinks and her 
brothers are supposed to be wild. Right or 
wrong, she suffers from it. I want Muriel to 


November, 1949 


chum around with a girl who has nice friends 
and can introduce her to the kind of boys she 
should be dating.” 

“Sure,” June chimes in. ‘‘Lots of boys at 
normal school would like to date Muriel, but 
they don’t like her crowd of friends.” 

Muriel sits through these discussions, quiet 
and implacable, ever mindful of her moth- 
er’s warning “‘not to sass me or I’ll knock 
you flat.’’ Because she is frank and honest, 
and doesn’t stop to consider the consequences 
before she speaks, Muriel once told her 
mother to “‘shut up,”’ and was rewarded with 
a backhand slap across the face. Now she 
tries to hold her tongue. When her mother’s 
nose starts to get red, that means she’s about 
to cry, and Muriel just gets up and leaves. “‘I 
can’t stand seeing people cry,’’ she says. “And 
besides, I like the friends I’ve got now.” 

But she did stop seeing one girl after Mrs. 
Brewer pointed out that she was “fast and 
wild, and had an illegitimate baby at home 
she was trying to pass off as her mother’s”’; 
and on most matters, Muriel feels firmly that 
““Mum’s always right when you get down to 
it, but I have to find out the hard way. And 
since I’ve been earning my own living, I feel 
I should be able to make my own decisions.” 

Muriel had a big decision to make about 
marriage this year. She considers most boys 
““a nuisance—they always tease you’’—with 
one notable exception. Four years ago, when 
she was thirteen and living in Bangor, she 
started going steady with a slim, dark-haired 
boy named Bumpy. Every Saturday night 
Bumpy, who’s two years older, arrived 
promptly at 6:30, a box of chocolates under 
his arm. He and Muriel saw an early movie, 
arrived home by 9:30 in time for a game of 
rummy with Mrs. Brewer, whom Bumpy 
called “‘Mum.”’ (“‘She’s just as jolly as a kid 
my age with the fellows,’’ Muriel says 
proudly.) Bumpy always kissed Muriel good 
night, but neither of them was interested in 
necking. And eighteen months later, when 
Bumpy enlisted in the Navy, he wrote her at 
least once, and sometimes twice a day; sent 
her a wooden plaque to hang in her room 
(“To my sweetheart from your sailor’’) and 
a tiny, heart-shaped, mother-of-pearl locket 
with his picture inside, leaning against a 
Navy bulkhead. While her marks are C’s to- 
day “because I can’t concentrate, and keep 
forgetting to do my homework,” Muriel 
earned B’s and an occasional A in those days. 
And she wrote Bumpy every night just be- 
fore she went to bed. 

Muriel was shocked, then, eighteen months 
later, to receive a letter from Bumpy saying 
he’d just been married. She wept and wept; 
was furious when June said with a smile, 
“Oh, you’re so young.” But in February, 
1949, Bumpy showed up in Presque Isle to 
explain. “I’m not really married,”’ he said. 
“That was just a joke all us Navy guys 

(Continued on Page 241) 


“I thought you people went underground.” 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Mealtime Adventures mse 


FOR NOVEMBER: How to make fluffy hard sauce... pizza sandwiches 
..- Baked Alaska... and Sub Gum Chop Suey. 


famous places as French Lick, Marshall Field’s 
Cloud Room, and The Pump Room at Chicago’s 
Ambassador East, serve Meapow GoLp—another 
proof of its quality! 





process cheese, it seems to melt a little better. The 
Meadow Gold people produce quite a fine variety of 
cheeses—Brick, American, Limburger, Swiss and 
cheese spreads. And when you try them, you'll find, 

I have, that their excellent bouquet and flavor 
please even the most critical lovers of cheese. 





Here’s a snack 
that “‘scores” after 


F —= ———— \ football games! 
Lete Count Ou r Blessinds Bas to = social asset to 


your offspring? Next time 
there’s a football game, in- 





= 





It’s been said that November’s a month when we all vite them to bring home 
have something to be thankful for—if it’s only the their gang—and dates— 
fact that we weren't born turkeys! Actually, of course, for an after-the-game par- 
we Americans have many blessings to count, includ- ty snack. And capture the 
ing our bountiful food. And for that Day on which hearts of the whole young 
thanks are given at your house, please let me con- crew with this hearty, 
tribute this small, but important, suggestion: easy-to-fix thriller: 
Do you relish a rich, heart-warming cup of real-hot 
P 
Flaffy Hard Sauce—for your Open-tace “Pizza™ Sandwiches chocolate? Then I know you ll be aatasl the day you 
ie tesirineg Mince Pic * (Recipe makes 16 Sandwiches) discover Cuox! This instant hot ehacalats requires 
isda Mieme eb Dee te eit no extra sugar, no extra milk: just ordinary hot water. 
Butter A Select Egg, 8 small English muffins 2 small cans anchovies For CHox is originally made oe complete hot 
2 cups confectioner’s : pee a Sifaroeromatacs EE Eeniniaol chocolate, using a rich recipe which calls for cocoa, 
sugar sp. vanilla extrac 1 ee ae = : . Tm 
2 lb. Meadow Gold Brick Dash of red pepper pure chocolate, sugar and whole milk. Then the water 
Th hl b Add volk d 2 Cheese Pinch of black pepper 
oroughly cream butter. Add egg yolk and mix Be clase asia Onan only is removed = a powder*is made. You simply 
well. Add sugar in small amounts and cream after = : Rell Baek oP heh 
each addition. Add vanilla extract and fold in stiffly An hour or so before the gang arrives, dice equal parts put the hot water back an resto!—the best cup 
beaten egg white until thoroughly blended. of tomatoes and cheese and mince the garlic. Com- of hot chocolate you ever tasted! Try CHox, hm? 
bine with olive oil, adding red pepper, salt and black Your food store has it. 


: . - pepper. Mix and put into refrigerator to marinate. 
I cr feeling that eS you try When ready to serve, split muffins and brown halves 
serving and cooking with MEADOW slowly under broiler until tough and dry. Remove 

; . ' i i y i > 

GoLp Butter. you ll count it from oe Open anchovies and place two oes of It 
: é . anchovy on each half muffin, then heap with the 

among the truly good things in cheese-tomato mixture. Sprinkle lightly with crushed 

your life! After all, nothing quite 


Oregano. Place in broiler until cheese melts, then 
gives the same richness and flavor 


Ever make Baked Alaska? 
sas easy asitisimpressive. Try it this way: 


Beat whites of 4 Meadow Gold Eggs into a meringue, 
adding 42 cup granulated sugar and | tsp. vanilla 
extract while beating. Cut sponge cake so it’s an inch 
wider and longer than a quart brick of Meadow Gold 


remove and serve immediately. 





as butter—and I believe you ll I prefer Meapow Gotp Brick Process CHEESE for Whitehouse Ice Cream. Place on cutting board; top 
find Meapow Go tp the finest ye = oer u Bana ino with ice cream brick and meringue. Bake in 450°F. 
these sandw iches for two reasons. It has just the oven 5 min. or until delicately browned. Serve imme- 


butter you ever bought. Such | proper amount of sharpness; and, because it’s a diately. Makes 8 portions. 


How About a Good Home-Made Chop Suey Dinner... Tonight ? 


These nippy November nights are just the time for delicious, meaty 
homemade Chop Suey! And Id like to give you a wonderful recipe 
for the most savory Chop Suey I’ve ever tasted. One word of advice: 
Do be sure to use LaChoy Chinese Foods where I’ve called for them. 
They're American- cooked in a spotless modern kitchen. And I’ve 
found that you can always depend on them for flavor and quality. 


Sub Gum Chop Suey or Chow Mein 


(Cooking time: 15 min. Yield: 4 large portions) 
14 cup Meadow Gold Butter 2 cups celery (cut in l-inch pieces, 
2 cups (1 lb.) lean pork, cut in thin strips then into thin strips, lengthwise) 
1 cup onions, cut fine 1144 cups hot water 
1 teaspoon salt lean LaChoy Mixed Chinese Vezge- 
1/16 teaspoon pepper tables (drained well) 
FOR FLAVORING AND THICKENING 
2 tablespoons cold water 2 teaspoons LaChoy Soy Sauce 
2 tablespoons cornstarch 1 teaspoon sugar 


Note: Add 1 tablespoon LaChoy Brown Sauce if Chop Suey is desired. 


Melt butter in hot skillet. Add meat, stir and sear quickly (without browning 
or burning). add onions and fry for five minutes. Add celery, salt, pepper and 
hot water. Cover and cook for five minutes. Add drained LaChoy Mixed Chinese 
Vegetables. Mix thoroughly and heat to boiling point. Combine and add 
flavoring and thickening ingredients. Stir lightly and cook for one minute. 
Serve piping hot with LaChoy Noodles for Chow Mein or cooked converted 
rice for Chop Suey. Flavor individual servings to taste with LaChoy Soy Sauce. 


Would you like a free book of Chinese recipes like this one? 


Just write today to Dept. J-7, LaChoy Food Products Division, Beatrice 
Foods Co., Archbold, Ohio. Your copy will be sent at once. 


Just space left to tell you—the new “pack” of sparkly, ruby- 
red VEGAMATO is now on food store shelves. Seven garden-fresh 
vegetable juices—plus lemon—blended in one spicy cocktail. Try it 
—for the best meal-starter your family ever tasted! 





© 1949, Beatrice Foods Co. 


: : 5 emer ele ce. ec i ! 
Something different for dinner. Sub Gum Chop Suey is easy to make, economical, too! 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


— SE a ee Te on me 
Se at 
rt t” x 


Be sure the turkey you serve is the best you can get. 
Know, when making your choice, the reputation of the 
seller... and the “pedigree” of the pet you pick for your roasting pan. 

Depend on A&P. Its standards for quality birds are praised by leading 
turkey breeders. They know from first-hand experience that the best of 
the flocks turn up tagged with A&P’s famous Pilgrim Brand... birds 
guaranteed young, plump, meaty and tender. 

Whenever a meal must be tops... you'll be wise to rely on A&P for 
the big, important things... like meats and poultry. For, while every- 





thing A&P sells is guaranteed for quality, extra special precautions are 
taken to maintain very high standards for the goodness of these . . . because 
you must never be disappointed. No, never! 


HELP US TO HELP YOU! 


We want to satisfy you with our service. If you’ve experienced anything 


% \ you think can be improved in your neighborhood A&P... if you’ve any 

~ % Y suggestions for bettering the way we do things...please write us. 

~ ~\ CUSTOMER RELATIONS DEPARTMENT, A&P Food Stores, Graybar 
> \ Building, New York 17, N. Y. 





eer Fae 


November, 1949 










Your A&P is like a Country Fair in 
Indian Summer . . . abundant with the 
prize things of the Fal] Harvest. Fruits 
and vegetables . . . as near to farm- 
freshness as possible . . . new-crop 
nuts and all the other seasonal 
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No matter what you buy at your 

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you are completely satisfied with it. 
When anything fails to please 
you—your A&P will cheerfully 
refund your money. 





€) 


f 


(Continued from Page 238) 
played on our girls.”” Muriel finally believed 
him, and they decided to become engaged. 
Mrs. Brewer was opposed—‘‘You’re too 
p young; the life you have to lead by yourself 
~ is only until you get married, and don’t make 
that date too soon’’—but decided to let 
Muriel manage her own affairs. She won- 
dered if Bumpy really had been married, but 
felt that was up to Muriel to find out if she 
really wanted to know. 

The engagement lasted only four months. 
The next time Muriel saw Bumpy, he was 
not the lighthearted, fun-loving boy she’d 
known. He swore and drank in front of her 
(“I’ve never cared for a boy who would do 
these things with a girl,” she says firmly), ig- 
nored her attempts at conversation, and 
when they went out for the evening took his 
drink to the pinball machines, where Muriel 
feels “‘no nice girl would ever be seen.’’ After 
Muriel walked out in 
a rage, they hid the 
news of their rift 
from Bumpy’smother 
forthe rest of Muriel’s 
four-day visit at his 
home by leaving the 
house together eve- 
nings, separating to go 
see their respective 
friends, and meeting 
again to come home 
together. 


Pestsovapl 
for a Love ee 


By Eleanor Alletta Chaffee 


241 


Presque Isle girls say the local boys act “‘so 
young and childish” that they prefer boys 
from Caribou, thirteen miles north. These 
boys ask for dates in advance, spend money 
on movies and Cokes, and aren’t averse to 
coming in to meet a girl’s parents. But a 
Presque Isle boy: ‘‘ You’re walking down the 
street with a girl chum,” one girl said, ‘“‘and 
two fellows come by in a car. They say, 
‘Come on for a ride,’ and you hop in. You 
drive out to some deserted road, spend a 
couple hours necking, and then the fellows 
drop you at your driveway. They think they 
don’t have to entertain us or even be polite.” 


Waite the school has no statistics on the 
number of unmarried girls who leave because 
of pregnancy, at least three single girls are 
reputed to have babies at home. Another girl 
“looked fat’’ during spring exams, left town 
during the summer and returned to school 
three weeks late. She 
has never admitted 
she had a child, and 
still goéS*steady with 
thesameboy—‘‘A fine 
job of covering up,” 
one teacher said. 
Few high-school 
boys or girls drink, al- 
though a group of six- 
teen- and seventeen- 
year-olds who quit 
school last year say 


Yet as soon as Mu- 
riel had gone back to 
Presque Isle, Bumpy 
changed his mind. 
“You're the only girl 
I care for,”’ he wrote, 
“and you can show 
this letter to anyone, 
even the President of 
the U.S. if you want 
to.”” But Muriel has 
never written Bumpy 
again—not even to 
thank him for his lat- 
est gift, a pink pillow- 


Never say “forever” to me, for saying 
it 

Marks the beginning of time, also an 
end. 

It leaves me piecing a puzzle, bit by 
bit: 

A passionate mouth that whispers 
only “friend.” 

I have heard men say “‘forever,”’ and 
then die; 

Mothers have said it and outlived 
their sons. 

It is a fox word, hateful, cruel and sly; 

It shapes the way a broken spirit 


they hit the beer hard 
onweek ends. Because 
county law forbids 
drinking beer in a pub- 
lic place, the boys 
take their beer—and 
their girls—to se- 
cluded back roads or 
the parking places 
outside of Ginn’s and 
the Pine Tree, two 
country dance halls 
open in summer and 
fall. Police say they 
overlook drinking un- 








case with a bright red ayes: 
fringe, inscribed, 
“Love unending, hacia 


warm and true, sweet- 
heart mine, this 
brings to you.”” While 
she still feels that 
“we'll probably get 
back together—we’re 
almost inseparable,” 
on the other hand she 
worries that perhaps 
Bumpy really is mar- 
ried. Her feelings on 
divorce are firm—‘‘If 
a man will divorce 
one, he’ll divorce an- 
other’’—and even Bumpy, she says, can’t 
*hange that. 

Muriel has just as definite opinions on sex, 
but admits she may change her mind as she 
gets older. When she’s married she would like 
separate bedrooms, although she says—with 
trepidation—that ‘‘there’s an awful lot of 
mush in the first two years of marriage.’’ She 
adores children, but wants none of her own 
because she’s deathly afraid of pregnancy; 
looks apprehensive when Mrs. Brewer says, 
“You'll get over that after you’ve had your 
first child.”’ On dates she rarely lets boys kiss 
her good night, says frankly, “I’m just like 
an iceberg. I like to see a movie, have a Coke 
and go straight home.’’ Once when a boy 
tried to kiss her, she slapped his face, and he 
remarked, surprisingly, ‘‘I like a girl with 
spirit.”’ She still goes out with him occasion- 
ally. There is a tall, blond boy she would like 

» to date—‘‘He gives me a funny feeling in my 
» neck’”’—but he goes with someone else. 


glass, 
bone, 


grass. 


Romance, to Muriel now, is something 
out of her favorite magazines—Real Love, 
True Love, Modern Romances—or the torrid 
screen romances of her favorite movie star, 
Lana Turner. She says she’s not interested in 
marriage until she’s at least twenty-six—“‘I 
want to enjoy my life before settling down. 
And I’m not going to marry a Presque 
Isle boy, either,” she adds quickly. For 


Let us make fun of what the world 
Ever since Helen looked into her 
Seeing the flesh cling closer to the 
The early frost lie brittle on the 
Never say “forever’’: it is the bone 


That sorrow’s teeth are sharpened 
on like stone. 


less there’s a “ public 
disturbance—we have 
more trouble from 
older folks than teen- 
agers.”’ Because the 
dance halls are about 
thirteen miles outside 
of town over rough, 
narrow roads, Mrs. 
Brewer has asked Mu- 
riel not to go. But Mu- 
riel says she wouldn’t 
anyway because she’s 
never learned to 
dance—‘‘ There never 
seems to be anyone to 
teach me.”’ 

The fact that Muriel has such a limited so- 
cial life worries Mrs. Brewer. “‘“That’s why 
we need a home,”’ she says, “so Muriel could 
entertain and I could help her. She should 
have parties and get a good crowd of friends.”’ 
Muriel thinks this would be fun, too, but de- 
nies not having a good time right now. She 
still looks back happily on the “‘biggest time”’ 
in her life, when she had lunch last year at 
Boston’s rich Copley Plaza Hotel with a 
friend. She can’t remember what she had to 
eat, because “there was so much to see that 
we just looked and looked.”’ 

When—at last—she graduates next June, 
Muriel wants first of all to spend eight months 
in Bangor learning to be a beautician. Mrs. 
Brewer, who earns $30 a week, has saved $65 
toward the $500 tuition and says with deter- 
mination, ‘‘I’ll find the rest somehow if 
Muriel really wants to go.”’ Other times, when 
her work is hard and she feels low, Muriel 
thinks perhaps she should become a nun. She 
isn’t Catholic now, and rarely attends church, 
but ‘‘nuns caught my eye when I was a little 
girl. They give their life to do good to oth- 
ers; and they get a chance to work with chil- 
dren.” She started to read the Bible, finished 
Genesis in a week, but hasn’t read much 
since. ‘“You know,” she says hesitantly, “‘I 
hope the Bible will show me what life is all 
about. Then I’ll know for sure what I really 
want to do.” THE END 








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(ONVERSATION 


PIECE 


By RUTH MIELS TEAGUE 


My enthusiasm for Chinese food increases with every new dish I try, 
and it seems to me that the number of people who share this enthu- 
siasm has grown tremendously in recent years. Perhaps it’s because 
today there are more Chinese restaurants of superlative epicurean 
standards than ever before; or perhaps many people who thought 
Chinese food meant chop suey and chow mein, period, have learned 
better. Whatever the cause, I’m all for the result. It gives me an 
excuse to concoct now and then a menu of wonderful Chinese dishes. 
No one in the world has a subtler way with food than a good Chi- 


nese chef. The ingredients are delicate, the (Continued on Page 244) 


Delicious as they look— 
chilled, minted pears with 


centers of shredded coconut. 


This dinner menu is planned 
to keep your last-minute cook- 


ing problems at a minimum. 









Row 





a 


<iee 






PHOTOS BY STUART 


All these dishes are authentically Chinese, delicate in ingredients and exquisite in their combination of flavors. Add the dessert and the meal.is complete, 














LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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5 BALANCED — with pure-pork 
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On toasted bun halves, lay 

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permint (or other) flavoring, few 
drops red coloring e Boil to “hard- 
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water e Dip washed and skewered 
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for lunch? Please him 
with a baked bean SPAMwich—juicy slices 
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COLD OR HOT 
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JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 242) 
combination of flavors exquisite, and the re- 
sult so light that you can eat practically any 
amount without the slightest twinge of re- 
gret, then or later. Perhaps that is why a Chi- 
nese banquet runs to such an incredible 
number of dishes. In the menu I’m going to 
give you, every dish will be typically Chinese 
(except the dessert—they don’t go in for des- 
serts, but if they did, it would be something 
like this), but the number of dishes is reduced 
to American proportions. 

We'll omit soup and begin our meal with 
egg roll. The outside of the egg roll is a very 
thin delicate dough, and the filling is finely 
chopped vegetables combined with a small 
quantity of shredded sea food, meat or 
chicken. You can be as inventive as you like 
about what meat or fish you use in egg-roll 
filling, but this recipe will call for canned 
tuna fish, which makes a delicious and highly 
flavored filling and is available everywhere. 
The rolls are fried to a crisp golden brown 
and each one is cut into four or five pieces. 
We'll serve Chinese mustard and plum sauce 
with the rolls, and of course there must be 
soya sauce. 

The main part of the meal will consist of 
three dishes: sweet-and-pungent roast duck, 
shrimp with Chinese vegetables, and pork 
and lettuce-fried rice. The duck is cut from 
the bones into large bite-size pieces and com- 
bined with green peppers, pineapple, carrots 
and a wonderful sauce. It’s served on a bed 
of finely shredded Chinese cabbage—celery 
cabbage—and the top is sprinkled with fried 
English-walnut meats broken into pieces. 
The delicate shrimp with 
Chinese vegetables will be 


November, 1949 


cate brown, and transfer to paper towels or 
brown paper to drain. Don’t let them get too 
brown this time, as they get another frying 
later on. 

This much can be done early in the day, 
because the rolls should be thoroughly chilled 
before they get their final frying. Just before 
serving, put them again in very hot fat and 
fry them until they are deep golden brown 
all over. Cut each roll into 4 or 5 pieces and 
serve. 

Chinese mustard is made by mixing water 
and dry mustard to a paste. I like to add a 
little turmeric, both for its taste and for its 
yellow color. Plum sauce can be bought in 
Chinese markets and many fancy grocery 
stores. If you can’t get it you can make a very 
palatable substitute by mashing some canned 
greengage plums and adding a little sugar 
and chopped pimiento. 


I understand Henry Low is responsible for 
introducing egg roll into the Chinese cuisine. 
His recipe is an adaptation of a very old 
Chinese dish which was served with a dough 
covering; my recipe is an adaptation of his. 


SW EET-AND-PUNGENT 
ROAST DUCK 


Get a duck weighing between 5 and 6 pounds, 
wash thoroughly, dry and rub inside and out 
with salt. Sprinkle with | tablespoon mono- 
sodium glutamate. Drain juice from 1 No. 
21% can sliced pineapple and pour this into 
cavity of duck. Put duck in a pan that has a 
rack to keep it off the bottom and tilt the 
duck so that the pineapple juice won’t run 

out. Of course it will run 





the perfect contrast to the 


fairly rich duck dish, and Nowoman sleeps so soundly 
that the twang of a guitar 


the rice will complement 
both. 

The dessert will be 
minted pears with centers 
of shredded fresh coconut, 


will not bring 
dow. 


out later when you turn 
the-bird, but by that time 
the delicate pineapple 
flavor will have permeated 
the meat. Put a little water 
in bottom of pan, cover 


tightly and bring quickly 


her to the win- 
—SPANISH PROVERB. 





slivers of candied ginger, 
and coconut cream as a sauce. Words—at 
least my words—can’t describe how good 
this dessert tastes; you'll simply have to eat 
it to find out, and I assure you that will be 
a pleasant experience. And of course there’s 
nothing wrong with the way it looks either. 
Some almond and fortune cookies would be 
a nice additional touch. If you don’t have 
access to a Chinese market where both of 
these can be bought, you can settle for the 
almond cookies you can buy in a bakery. 
Now I'll step on to recipes, which will 
serve six or eight. 


EGG ROLL 


For the dough, mix together 114 cups flour, 
34 cup rice flour, 2 eggs, 2144 cups water and 
1 teaspoon salt. Rice flour is available in 
Chinese markets. If you can’t get it, substi- 
tute ordinary flour. Beat the batter with ro- 
tary beater until smooth. Heat an 8- or 9-inch 
skillet and grease it well with salad oil. Pour 
in a little of the batter, lift the skillet and 
shake and tilt it to distribute the batter 
evenly over the bottom. These pancakes 
should be just as thin as you can make them. 
Cook until underside is delicately browned, 
turn and cook other side the same way. Each 
pancake will make a roll, so continue cooking 
until enough have been made. I allow | roll 
for each person, but I always make 2 or 3 
extras for seconds. Lay the pancakes out 
separately on a breadboard or table covered 
with paper. 

To make the filling, drain the oil from a 
7-ounce can of tuna fish and mash the fish 
to a pulp with a fork. Add 1 cup bean sprouts, 
34 cup finely chopped water chestnuts, 
14 cup finely chopped bamboo shoots, 14 cup 
finely chopped scallions, 3 tablespoons 
chopped pimiento, 3 tablespoons chopped 
green pepper, | teaspoon sugar, | teaspoon 
monosodium glutamate or Chinese seasoning 
powder, and salt and pepper to taste. Mix all 
ingredients thoroughly. 

Put 4 or 5 teaspoons of the filling in a line 
across a pancake and roll into a cylinder. 
Brush some of the uncooked batter on the 
the underside of the final flap of the pancake 
to seal it tight to the roll. When all rolls are 
made, fry them in fairly deep fat until a deli- 


to the boiling point, then 
lower heat and simmer un- 
til tender—about 20 minutes to the pound, 
Add a little water from time to time. The 
bottom of the pan should never be dry, be- 
cause the duck must steam constantly. When 
cooking time is about three fourths over, 
turn the duck and baste frequently un- 
til done. Place duck, breast side down, in 
a shallow pan and put it in a preheated 
oven—500° F. When the bony side of the 
duck begins to brown’, turn on the broiler 
and let it brown thoroughly. Now turn the 
duck breast side up and brown this side thor- 
oughly, first in the hot oven, then under the 
broiler. This process is to remove as much of 
the grease as possible and to make the skin 
crisp. Remove duck from pan and when it’s 
cool enough to handle, take meat from bones 
and cut it into large bite-size pieces. 

Add bones to the broth and pineapple 
juice left in pan in which the duck was 
steamed, add some water, cover and cook for 
about 45 minutes. [If you have a pressure 
cooker, use it for this purpose and cook, at 
15 pounds pressure, for 15 minutes. We just 
want to get all the good flavor out of the 
bones. Strain broth into a bowl. There should 
be about 314 cups in all, and water may be 
added if needed. Put bowl in cold water and 
then in refrigerator so that all grease will rise 
to the top and can be removed. 

The cooking of the duck can be a day- 
before job and the cutting of the pineapple, 
carrots and green peppers can be done then 
too. Cut the sliced pineapple into chunks, 
clean 2 large or 3 small green peppers and 
cut the long way into slices a little more than 
V inch wide and about 21% inches long. With 
a sharp knife notch the slices and shape them 
to resemble green leaves. Peel 4 or 5 bright 
orange carrots, cut them into 2 44-inch lengths 
and slice the long way. Shape these slices to 
resemble leaves. Needless to say, this fancy 
leaf-cutting business is entirely for pretty, 
so if you don’t want to bother, just don’t. 
Cover carrots and green peppers with ice 
cubes and store in refrigerator. 

Now to the final preparation. Put the 
pieces of duck in a slow oven—300° F.—to 
heat. Empty broth, from which grease has 
been removed, into a heavy saucepan or 

(Continued on Page 246) 












When the childre 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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246 


/ HERES 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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FAVORITE 


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SO DELICIOUS AND So DIGESTIBLE 


First make tender, flaky piecrust this 

easy, sure way: Mix 2 cups sifted all- 

purpose flour and 1 teaspoon salt 

Measure 34 cup Spry. 
Step 1 for Tenderness—cut in % of 
the Spry till fine as meal. 


Step 2 for Flakiness—cut in rect of 
Spry to size of large peas. 


Sprinkle 4 tablespoons cold water over 
mixture. Mix thoroughly with fork 
Pani ae particles cling together and 
orm a dough. . . . Roll 14-of dor 

. i459 . : : sh 
% inch thick; line 4 9-inch pie ae 


Now put 6 cups pared, thinly sliced 


with mixture of 1 cup sugar, 1 tea- 
Spoon cunnamon, YW teaspoon salt, 1 
teaspoon lemon juice. Dot with 1 
tablespoon butter, Trim undercrust 
even with edge of pan, moisten edge 
With water. Whip 14 cup heavy cream 
until slightly thick and pour over 
apples... . Roll remaining dough for 
top crust; perforate decoratively as 
pictured and lay over apples. Trim 
pastry 14 inch beyond pan, tuck it 

under bottom crust, press edge with 
fork, For a glaze, brush top with 
slightly beaten egg white, sprinkle with 


SPRY 







(Continued from Page 244) 

skillet, add 2 cloves garlic, finely minced, and 
| tablespoon soya sauce and bring to a boil. 
Add carrots, and cook for 2 minutes. Put in 
the pineapple and green pepper, cook 2 min- 
utes and then taste for seasoning. If it isn’t 
salty enough add more soya sauce, but do it 
cautiously. These dishes should never be so 
salty that soya sauce can’t be used at the 
table to suit individual tastes. Stir in 2 table- 
spoons cornstarch which has been mixed to a 
paste with a little water and continue stirring 
until sauce is thick and bubbling. 

Put a good layer of finely shredded Chinese 
cabbage—celery cabbage—in the bottom of a 
serving dish or casserole. Add the pieces of 
duck, which should be piping hot, and pour 
the sauce over all. Top with 14 cup broken 
English-walnut meats which have been fried 
until crisp. The heat of the duck and sauce 
will cook the Chinese cabbage enough to wilt 
it without robbing it of all its crisp texture. 
Oh, what a dish! 


SHRIMP WITH 
CHINESE VEGETABLES 


Get 2 pounds raw shrimp, fresh or frozen, or 
1/4 pounds precooked frozen shrimp. If your 
shrimp are fresh, wash them thoroughly 
through several waters and remove shells 
and veins. Wash again in cold water and 
spread on cloth or paper towels to drain. 

We'll need 4 cups of good strong chicken 
broth, homemade or 
eanned, for this dish. 
If canned broth is used, 


November, 1949 


boiling point. Cover and cook 3 minutes. 
Now put in the broccoli and pea pods, cover 
and cook 2 minutes longer. Add 2 table- 
spoons cornstarch mixed with 14 cup liquid 
drained from mushrooms, and cook, stirring 
constantly, until sauce has thickened, and at 
the very last add the tomatoes. 

(If you’re using shelled peas instead of pea 
pods, let them cook until partly tender in 
chicken broth and put the peas in pot when 
chicken broth is added.) 


PORK AND 
LETTUCE-FRIED RICE 


The day before the party, wash 2 cups long- 
grained rice through 5 or 6 cold-water baths 
and cook by your favorite method. Here is my 
favorite: Sprinkle the rice into a large pot of 
rapidly boiling salted water and cook until 
tender. Strain in a colander and pour boiling 
water through rice to remove loose starch. 
When thoroughly drained, spread it on a 
cooky sheet lined with a towel and put it to 
dry in a low oven—about 200°F.—for about 
15 minutes. 

It’s convenient that the rice should be 
cooked the day before, but it is also nec- 
essary. You can’t make this dish success- 
fully with freshly cooked rice. 

The rice can be fried at a convenient time 
before guests arrive and kept hot in a chafing 
dish or over a pan of boiling water on the 
range. Heat 4 tablespoons salad oil in a large 
skillet, add | clove gar- 
lic, finely minced, and 
Y% pound lean raw pork 


pep it up with chicken- 
bouillon powder or 
cubes, and be sure to 
add | tablespoon mono 
sodium glutamate, 
whichever you use. 

Vil start out with 
the vegetables that are 
easy to find and talk 
about the more recher- 
ché ones later. Actu- 
ally, which vegetables 
you use and in what 
proportions is a pretty 
elastic business. The 
important thing is to 
have a nice variety and 


If age is strictly honest with 
youth, it has to tell it things that 
are not altogether good for youth 
to take to heart. The experience of 
the years is largely made up of 
vanished dreams, deluded hopes and 
frustrated ambitions. But it is the 
very dreams, hopes and ambitions 
of youth that accomplish so many 
things that age in its wisdom knows 
to be impossible. Where would the 
world be if wisdom ruled youth and 
power rested in age? 
THOMAS F. WOODLOCK: 
Thinking it Over 
(D. X. McMullen Co.) 


cul into tiny slivers. 
Cook 5 minutes, add 
rice, some freshly 
ground black pepper 
and 3 tablespoons soya 
sauce, and cook 10 
minutes, turning often 
with a pancake turner. 
Stir in 2 well-beaten 
eggs, cook | minute, 
remove from fire and 
keep hot. Coarsely 
shred | small head Bos- 
ton lettuce, and just 
before serving add this 
to rice and toss with 
two forks until well 


be sure that no vegetable is overcooked and 
that each retains its own identity in taste and 
texture. Coarsely chop | large Spanish onion. 
Peel 4 tomatoes, cut them into chunks and 
discard seedy pulp. Drain the liquid from 
whole canned button mushrooms and reserve 
liquid. I’m not saying how many mushrooms, 
because that’s up to you and how splurgy you 
feel—1 cup is plenty and less is perfectly 
O.K. Cut broccoli into slender strips about 
21% inches long. Chinese broccoli, available in 
Chinese markets, is best for this dish, but the 
ordinary variety is perfectly good. Get 1 


pods—these three names all mean the same 


mixed. Taste for seasoning, and if more 
salt is needed add a little more soya sauce. 


ieee F. When the bony side of the 
vk begins to brown, turn on the broiler 
1 let it brown thoroughly. Now turn the 
-k breast side up and brown this side thor- 
hly, first in the hot oven, then under the 
iler. This process is to remove as much of 
| grease as possible and to make the skin 
P. Remove duck from pan and when it’s 
Jj enough to handle, take meat from bones 


qd cut it into large bite-size pieces. 


/Add b to the broth i 
pound Chinese peas—snow peas—edible pea} chee 80 eee ee eee 


ice left in pan in which the duck was 


pamed, add some water, cover and cook for 


sugar. Bake in hot oven (425° F.) 


delicious vegetable. Wash the pods, string as 
40-50 min. 


gout 45 minutes. If you have a pressure 
you would string beans and leave them) y P 


apples in pastry-lined pan. Sprinkle 
joker, use it for this purpose and cook, at 





whole. If you can’t get snow peas—and prob- 
ably you can’t unless you have access to a 
Chinese market—substitute ordinary shelled 
peas, fresh or frozen. Now the inevitable 
water chestnuts and bamboo shoots which 
are so important to the perfection of a dish 
of this sort. Fortunately most fancy grocery 
stores as well as the Chinese markets stock 
these, too, so you shouldn’t have much 
difficulty finding them. You've already used 
some water chestnuts and bamboo shoots 
for the egg roll, and what is left in the cans 
will be plenty for the shrimp dish. Slice the 
water chestnuts into thin disks. Cut the 
bamboo shoots the long way into somewhat 
triangular strips, then cut across into thin 
three-corner-shaped slices. If you can’t get 
bamboo shoots, substitute large fresh mush- 
rooms, sliced lengthwise. Almonds, cut into 
slivers and fried until crisp, make a good 
substitute for water chestnuts. 

For the cooking of the shrimp and Chinese 
vegetables, preheat an iron pot or other 
heavy pot, add some salad oil, 2 cloves garlic, 
finely minced, and the shrimp, and cook 2 
minutes, stirring most of the time. Add onion, 
water chestnuts, mushrooms, bamboo shoots 
and chicken broth, which has been heated to 


/ pounds pressure, for 15 minutes. We just 
ant to get all the good flavor out of the 
nes. Strain broth into a bowl. There should 
about 314 cups in all, and water may be 
ded if needed. Put bowl in cold water and 
en in refrigerator so that all grease will rise 
r COCONUT CREAM 


I’ve given the recipe for coconut cream two 
times before, but they were long ago and 
maybe I have some new readers—I certainly 
hope so. Peel the meat of 2 coconuts and put 
it through the finest blade of food grinder 
twice. Pour over it two thirds its quantity of 
hot skim milk and let stand 20 minutes. 
Dampen a firm white cloth, put about a cup 
of the cream mixture in it at a time and 
squeeze the cream into a bowl. Squeeze hard 
to get every bit of the liquid out. What re- 
mains in the cloth will be tasteless and as dry 
as sawdust, because all of the rich coconut 
flavor will go into the cream. Coconut cream 
is creamy in taste but not in thickness—it’s 
not much thicker than whole milk. Make the 
day before and store in refrigerator. 

If you have one of those mixers with a 
little knife in the bottom that revolves at a 

(Continued on Page 249) 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


ue v 
we i 
ios 





ee ee 
Lars Te Packed by 


head Pia 


Rich in fron: 


Aeosatde iron Content 2 
5 MSigrams Per MH. ms 





“Wy suisse S100 


XY rENicx & FORD, Lid. Int: ye 


When the children help make Christmas cookies they’ll store up memories that will add to the joy of Christmas all their lives 








Sena for Brer Rabbit’s new and original 
cookie patterns. Just snip them out with 
the scissors and you’re all set to make a 
wonderful, variety of delicious molasses 
cookies—for Christmas tree ornaments, 
greeting cards, and gifts! 

And remember—there’s never a dull 
dessert any time when you’ve molasses 
cookies on hand to serve with puddings, 
fruit, ice cream or jellied desserts. 


For fine flavor in your cookies, nothing 
matches real New Orleans molasses... 
and that means Brer Rabbit Molasses. 


RICH IN IRON .. . Next to liver, Brer 
Rabbit New Orleans Molasses is richer 


© 1949 Penick & Ford, Ltd., Ir 


FUN, 









in iron than any other food we have. And 
iron 1s needed for good red blood! 


Brer Rabbit's Molasses Cut-Out Cookies 


Y2 cup shortening 2% cups sifted 

Y2 cup sugar all-purpose flour 

% cup Brer Rabbit 3 tsps. baking powder 
Molasses* Ya tsp. salt 

legg 1% tsps. allspice 


Slowly melt shortening; cool. Add sugar, molasses 
and egg; beat well. Sift together flour, baking powder, 
salt and allspice; add to first mixture; mix well. Roll 
in waxed paper; chill. Roll dough evenly 14” thick 
on greased and lightly floured baking sheet. Cut in 
desired shapes. Lift excess dough from around cook- 
ies. Decorate with candies pressed into dough. Bake 
in moderately hot oven, 375° F., 10 to 12 minutes. 
Remove from baking sheet while warm. Cool on rack. 


*Two FLavors: Gold Label—light, mild-flavored 
Green Label—dark, full-flavored 


Make these Artist-designed a 
MOLASSES COOKIES at home ate 


FREE! aN 


Patterns are original artist’s designs printed clearly on 
washable, durable vegetable parchment, with complete, 
easy directions for using patterns and decorating cookies 
for tree decorations, greeting cards, and gifts; recipe 
included. Also new 50-page cook book containing 124 
recipes; washable cover; fully illustrated. Mail coupon. 


BRER RABBIT, New Orleans 7, La., Dept. L2. 


Please send me FREE 39 Cut-Out Cookie patterns 
and your cook book “Brer Rabbit’s New Orleans 
Molasses Recipes” as described above. 


Name 
(Please print name and address) 


Address. 





Zone. 
(Offer good in U.S.A., Alaska and Canada only) 


LADIES’ LLOME JOURNAL November, 194° 


ws 








Bis girl considers herself lucky to own Revere Ware! For these ‘‘Kitchen 
Jewels’’ are each truly a masterpiece of gleaming, silvery loveliness. 

And it’s so practical! Saves time, cuts down fuel costs, reduces kitchen 
odors and cleans like a dream. Most important of all, Revere “waterless 
cooking’’ preserves precious vitamins and makes the simplest dishes taste 
like a gourmet’s delight! Practically indestructible, too—as it’s made of 
Copper-Clad Stainless Steel and won’t rust. So gift your wife with that 
treasure for life... Revere Ware! Choose from the complete line of sauce 
pans, double boilers, sauce pots, bail handle kettles, skillets, percolators, 
dripolators, tea kettles. 













Add beauty and charm to your kitchen 
by displaying your Revere Ware on this 
handsome, Stainless Steel, De Luxe Utensil 
Rack shown above. Ever so handy, it’s a 
time- and temper-saver, too! Shows off fe 
your Revere skillets and sauce pans beauti- , & oo 
fully. Double rack holds covers securely sa mua e 


as illustrated, or makes a convenient shelf 4 fick of the finger is all that is needed to open 
or close the whistle cap on this 2-qt. chrome- 









ey 
. ad 
Soe 








BRIGHT NEW STAR... THE 4-QUART REVERE WARE PRESSURE COOKER to show off your china ora gay pot of ivy. plated solid copper Whistling Tea Kettle. 
1. Made of Stainless Steel, Copper-Clad, a masterpiece of sparkling beauty. Like all good things, Revere Ware is imitated. So always 
iS; look for the trademark on the thick, copper bottom. 


2. New metal-weight gauge automatically maintains right pressure. 


3. New long-life, tight-sealing gasket and cool, evenly balanced handles. REVERE COPPER AND BRASS INCORPORATED 


Cook book with each Cooker. Rome Manufacturing Company Division « Rome, N. Y. 


(Continued from Page 246) 

terrific speed and chops things to a mushys.use 
it instead of the food grinder. Cut the coco- 
nut into small chunks, put them in the mixer 
with the hot milk, let stand 20 minutes and 
buzz. Then squeeze the pulp in the cloth. 

To serve the dessert, put pears on a plat- 
ter cut side up, fill centers with the grated 
coconut and garnish gen- 
erously with slivers of 
candied ginger. Serve the 
coconut cream in a sepa- 
rate bowl. 


$ 


thinking. 


Our opinions become fixed 
at the point where we stop 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


‘Carnation Makes Fudge 


before the party begins. The dessert can be 
arranged on the platter, waiting in the re- 
frigerator for its entrance cue. So what have 
we left? The problem child, shrimp with 
Chinese vegetables. If you have suitable 
equipment you may want to cook this at the 
table. It would look very pretty with the 
bowls of vegetables arranged around the cook- 
ing unit. The shrimp could 
be fried before they are 
brought to the table, and 
one or two people would 
be happy to take over 


; —RENAN. the rest of the job while 
Service. The problem you attended to other 
with Chinese food for 2 ees §=6 things. Or you and one 


party is that so many of 

the dishes require last-minute cooking if they 
are to be perfect. With this menu, however, 
our problems are few. The egg rolls are fin- 
ished beforehand, except for the final frying, 
whichtakes about3 minutes after the fat is hot. 
The sweet-and-pungent duck can be ready 
in the serving dish if you have an electrically 
heated tray or table for it to stand on. Or it 
can be assembled at the last minute if the 
serving dish and all the ingredients except the 
celery cabbage are hot. The pork and lettuce- 
fried rice is a cinch because it can be finished 


THANKS FOR 


of your friends could 
retire to the kitchen for a quick go at the 
range. These suggestions assume that you 
don’t have a helper; but even if you do, I 
think you’ll want to be in hovering distance 
of operations. Food such as this deserves your 
most tender care, and since the last-minute 
business runs to only ten or fifteen minutes 
it’s worth the effort. When your guests taste 
it they'll be in a mood to overlook any short 
absences it may have required; in fact, they’ll 
probably not be aware of anything but the 
food and your skill that produced it. 


EVERYTHING 


(Continued from Page 68) 


The right treatment. A butternut is dark 
green at the harvesting time. Dark green 
and fuzzy and sticky and as mean a nut as 
you will find in a month of Sundays. But 
spread them out on the attic floor, single 
file, as it were, not piled up at all, and leave 
them there. After months of sticking around 
in an attic those nuts will turn black or very 
dark brown and the skin will get dry and 
brittle. And here’s where the anvil, an old 
flatiron and the heaviest hammer you can 
find come in. Using these utensils in the 
proper way, you can crack those reluctant 
shells; and if you’re really good at it, you 
will get the meats out whole or in halves, 
and you won't regret one minute of the 
time and the bruised fingers which are the 
butternut lover’s experience. 

For most of us nowadays a more amiable 
nut, the walnut, with as many uses as there 
arénuts on the nut tree, is my choice. And 
this is just the time we want them most, and 
want a lot of them too. For walnuts belong 
to Thanksgiving. Walnuts and raisins. I re- 
member no Thanksgiving dinner was com- 
plete that didn’t wind up with a dish filled 
with plump clusters of raisins and walnuts 
in the shell. You grabbed a nutcracker and 
attended to the rest of the matter yourself. 

Fruitcakes are right now in the making 
and they are—or should be—as full of nuts 
as peas in a pod. Raisins, too, and spices and 
all that I don’t need to remind you of. With 
Thanksgiving almost here and Christmas 
with its cakes and candies and all on the 
way, it’s no wonder I've let myself go on the 
subject of nuts. 


Now to other things. If nothing else should 
mark this meal, one item marks it as def- 
initely what it is—Thanksgiving dinner. 
Give you three guesses. It’s turkey! This 
time I am not going into or up and down the 
subject of roasting a turkey. We've done 
that so many times. But lest you think a 
turkey is too big or too expensive a proposi- 
tion for you, I am giving you a dividend of 
four good ways to use up any turkey that 
may be left. And here they are. 


TURKEY DIVAN 


While there are still some nice-looking 
slices left on the turkey, use some for this 
“Wish and save the rest for club sandwiches. 
PT or turkey Divan, you need a shallow cas- 
“serole or ovenproof platter. Prepare | bunch 
broccoli for cooking—cutting in slices length- 
wise. Cook. drain and arrange in a layer in 
the casserole. Season with salt and pepper. 
Cover broccoli with sliced turkey. Then 
cover the whole with 3 cups rich well sea- 
soned cream sauce, to which you ve added 14 
cup grated Parmesan cheese. Sprinkle about 


\4 cup more Parmesan cheese on top and put 
under broiler not too near heat. When sauce 
bubbles and is brown, it’s ready. Serves 6. 


CLUB SANDWICHES 


For each sandwich, make 3 pieces of toast 
and butter them. On one slice put a lettuce 
leaf, 2 slices crisp bacon, a slice or two of 
tomato spread with mayonnaise. Add second 
slice of toast and cover with sliced turkey 
and a little mayonnaise. Top with third 
slice. Cut sandwich on the bias. 


TURKEY HASH WITH POACHED EGGS 


Chop the scrappy pieces of turkey medium 
fine. Combine with an equal amount of 
chopped cold boiled potatoes. It stands to 
reason you will use more potato if you have 
less turkey. Mix and season with salt and 
pepper. Brown mixture well in a skillet with 
butter or margarine like any hash. Add 
about 14 cup cream to | quart hash—re- 
season to taste—cook until cream is ab- 
sorbed. Serve topped with poached eggs. 
TURKEY SOUP 

When you have nothing left but the wish- 
bone, then is the time to make soup. Break 
the bones apart. If you have any giblets and 
broth left, add these to the bones. Save any 
bits of dressing or gravy until later. Add 2 
quarts water. Simmer, covered, for | hour. 
Now add a handful of celery leaves, 2 or 3 
onions, chopped, 14 cup chopped parsley, 
14 salt, % pepper. 
Simmer, another Strain. 
Skim off the fat and reheat—remove bits ot 
turkey from bone and add any scraps of 
dressing or gravy. Add more seasoning if 
needed, and when nearly ready to serve, 
cook 3 ounces fine noodles and add to soup. 
Sprinkle with chopped parsley for serving. 


teaspoons teaspoon 


covered, hour. 


You may be interested. Now that the 
turkey question is settled, let us proceed 
with the dinner. What to begin with is always 
a question. Some of you will settle for 
tomato juice or grapefruit, some may stick 
to oyster soup. But for those who have 
canapés and appetizers on their minds for 
this great day, here are two that I recom- 
mend highly. The first is shrimp balls. I'll 
never forget when I was very young I went 
to a party and was served what seemed to 
me a very peculiar dish. It still does. Taking 
precautions not to eat until I knew more, I 
asked my hostess what it was. The hostess 
said, ‘Why, it’s shrimp wiggle.” At this 
point I have no comment; and I guess if 
Dean Acheson can get away with that, J can. 


SHRIMP BALLS 


Simmer 1 pound shrimp in boiling water 
for 20 minutes, adding salt, 1 onion, 2 slices 


_ and no longer 


RAISIN ROLL: Y ¢ 








Velvet Fudge 


3 squares (3 oz u 
+) UNSweetened ch 
S cups oar ocolate 


2 tablespoons corn syrup es 


Cut chocolate over Sugar into 2 
Milk. Place over medium heat, stirri 
melts. Bring to boili 
occasionally, 
when a small amount of 
into cold water, 
ter and let cool 
is 110° F. or Pp 


an i ; 
faley oboe qin eee te hold in 


dd vanilla and beat until thick 


When firm, cut in Squares. Makes 1% pounds 


VARIATIONS: Just before turning beaten candy 


into buttered pan add 
one of the f, ae 
NUT FUDGE: % to 1 cy, e ollowing: 


P broken nut meats 
COCONUT FuDGE: Ya cup shredded coconut. 


‘UP raisins a 
Form fudge in 


ind > cup nut meats. 
to roll, chill and slice. 









quart saucep 


ng; cover and cook 2 mi 
to 234° F. or until soft ball forms c 

mixture is dropped 
Remove from heat. Aad ee 
without stirring until mixture 


glossy. Spread in buttered pan. 


2. 


Says 


chain of fine candy stores. 


Chatterton. “Thanks to C 
easier way to make luscio 
with water removed—tha 


to whip, so you can use 


with water, Carnation 


TWO GENERATIONS OF 
“CARNATION BABIES” 


Babies.” Ask your doct 


baby...it’s the milk eve 
doctor knows. 


FREE—‘‘Velvet Blend Book’’ 


1 cup Carnation Milk, undiluted 
3 tablespoons butter 


1 teaspoon vanilla 


* Add corn syrup and Carnation 
til sugar dissolves and chocolate 
nutes. Uncover and cook, stirrin 


EVAPORATED 


Senne 
e 







ie yi 
i oe + VITAMIN 2 INE EVApoRaATEO \ 
Se I. 
a 


ee 


19 


Super-Smooth, Super- Creamy!" 


MRS. ROLAND CHATTERTON 
— formerly Home Economist for 
New York City’s most famous 


“You can’t make smoother, 
creamier fudge—no matter 
what you use!” says Mrs. 


ar- 


nation, this recipe requires 
next to no beating—is the 


us, 


melt-in-your-mouth fudge.” 


Just good country milk 


t’s 


Carnation Evaporated Milk. 
Undiluted, it is rich enough 


it 


instead of cream in cooking. 
Even when diluted 50-50 


is 


still richer than your State 
standard for bottled milk! 





“Carnation is perfect for 
infant feeding, too,” says 
Mrs. Chatterton. “Both my 
healthy daughters, as well 
as myself, were Carnation 


or 


about Carnation for your 


i] 


of 


many other delicious money-saving 
recipes. Carnation Company, Dept. 
L-119, Los Angeles 36, California, 


2 


“from Contented Cows” 


mealtime 







icious 


























Fritos Dress"& 


d 
itoS, crushe 
3 C.Frite onion 








ad 





yy, tbsp- salt 
f tbsp- black peppe® 
4 





n 

; os an are 

celery * illet wnt 

«| the butter es oe gS, 

in t “orn, season & qpist 
Add the ¢ For a more iv 


ell. 
d heat We ae 
little $' se 

: tA cups: {deal for s 


peppe® 
ten er. 
Fritos, 49 
i a 
dressing, 
bird. Makes abou 


fing all fowls. 






© 1969 THE FET CO 


“Delicious” is the word for Fritos... 
crunchy-fresh from the bag, or in 
tempting recipes like these! Yes, 
Fritos are always ready to eat and 
enjoy... they’re golden-crisp bits of 
sun-ripened corn, delicately salted 
to your taste. That f¥mous Fritos 
flavor means good eating at any 
time... with snacks and appetizers 
...tempting beverages, salads or 
soups. Get Fritos today... Amer- 
ica’s favorite! 


THE FRITO COMPANY 
DALLAS, TEXAS 


Enjoy Fritos in 145 IEG oH 


or anytime 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


lemon and a few sprigs of parsley for season- 
ing. Drain, cool, shell and take out the vein, 
which is black. Chill. Chop the shrimp very 
fine. Add 3 tablespoons cream cheese, 1] 
tablespoon chili sauce, | teaspoon Worcester- 
shire sauce, 2 teaspoons horse-radish, 4 cup 
finely diced celery, 2 tablespoons finely 
diced green pepper, 1 hard-cooked egg, 
chopped, 1 tablespoon grated onion, | 
tablespoon finely chopped parsley, 34 tea- 
spoon salt, a dash of pepper and a dash of 
cayenne. Mix well. Roll into small balls the 
size of a quarter. Roll the balls lightly in 
chopped parsley. Chill until serving time. 
Makes 2 dozen. 


To provide company and do right by the 
little fellows, here’s the know-how for arti- 
choke canapés, which you will find much to 
your liking, I think: 


ARTICHOKE CANAPES 


Drain an |l-ounce can artichoke bottoms 
and marinate them in French dressing for an 
hour. Drain, and spread with a 3-ounce 
package cream cheese that has been mois- 
tened with 2 tablespoons cream and seasoned 


with 1% teaspoon paprika. Over the cheese 
spread a thin layer of black caviar, seasoned 
with a little minced onion, and over that lay 
a thin slice of lemon cut like a cross. Garnish 


with a sliver of pimiento. Makes 12 canapés. 


What a prune and an orange can do. 
Maybe you haven’t eaten that marvelous, 
luxurious and out-of-this-sphere thing called 
a stuffed orange. They usually come in glass 
and are in the de luxe class of groceries. But 
you can make them yourself, and I’ll tell you 
how. You’ll be surprised how simple it is, and 
the surprise will carry right over the table to 
everyone who eats them. 

The pleasures of life are intended to be 
enjoyed—not enjoined. Don’t forget that. 
It’s our golden thought for this moment in 
time. 


ORANGES STUFFED WITH PRUNES 


Wash 8 small-sized thick-skinned navel 
oranges. Slice a small piece from the tops and 
carefully scoop or cut out the pulp, being 
careful not to puncture the rind. Cover the 
oranges with boiling water and cook, cov- 
ered, until just tender. Drain upside down 
and cool. Cook and pit 40 large prunes. 
Stuff each with 4 teaspoon coarsely chopped 
blanched almonds. Fill the hollow centers of 
the oranges with the stuffed prunes. If your 
oranges are small, plan on about 5 prunes for 
each. Place the oranges in a baking dish. It 
may be necessary to slice a little off the 
bottoms of the oranges to make them sit up 
straight, but do not cut through to the center. 
Boil 3 cups sugar, 3 cups water and 114 cups 
light corn sirup together about 10 minutes. 
Pour the boiling sirup over the oranges. 
Cover the dish and bake in a moderate oven, 
350° F., 1 hour. Uncover and bake 4% hour 
longer, basting occasionally. Pack in ster- 
ilized jars, cover with the hot sirup and seal 
the jars. Cool and store in refrigerator. The 
oranges can be sliced in half crosswise for 
garnish. 


Glazes and glazing. Of glazing there is no 
end. When a girl is hard up to get a different 
swish on a job, she turns to the faithful 
glaze, and lo and behold, the food looks 
better—tastes better. 

Sweet potatoes always have been one of 
the most susceptible foods on earth when it 
comes to glazing. But be careful. Sirups and 
brown sugar and butter—they burn if you 
don’t watch out. Turn whatever you glaze 
and turn it often. Use a griddlecake turner so 
you won't have a high ratio of breakage. But 
turn. It helps in the glazing too. 


GLAZED SWEET POTATOES 
AND PINEAPPLE 


Cook 3 pounds sweet potatoes in boiling 
salted water until almost tender. Drain, peel 
and slice the potatoes. Drain one 9-ounce 
can crushed pineapple. Mix 114 cups sugar, 
V cup butter or margarine and )4 cup pine- 
apple sirup, drained from the pineapple, in a 
frying pan. Simmer 10 to 15 minutes unti 
thick. Add the potato slices and baste with 









November, 1949 


Any time's 
a good time 
for WAFFLES 


made with OUFFS { 


ane ea M « 
SY orning 


Crisp, tender waffles made with 
Duff’s start the day right! 







vl 
~ LZ, 


“Cz Noon 


~~ 
7 ~“ 
“WS 






Delicious and satisfying with 
syrup or honey. No fuss at all! 


C Night 


With creamed chicken or chip- 
ped beef. .a quick, easy meal ! 













at) ORB Muay > 


oo 
WS” Guaranteed by © 
Good Housekeeping 
tor wt 


yam tea NY ey 


- « - and luncheons .. . 
buffets * snacks ° bridge 


SET) Me hela 
beautiful, useful, 
amazingly inexpen- 
sive. For you or 
for gifts... 
PY ae tt ta] Cy ae 


write for free 
eta ted 
“The Art of Fine 
Serving” 


HASKELITE mre. 


CORP. 
Dept. LH, Grand Rapids 2, Mich. 





LADIES’ (ME JOURNAL 253 































































the sirup until well glazed. Take out tJ 
sweet-potato slices and add 14 cup crush 
pineapple to glaze left in the pan. Heat a 
pour over glazed potato slices. Serves 6. 


Salad from the cider mill. How often yo 
correspondent has made annual fall p 
grimages to the old cider mill. The smell 
McIntosh and early Fall Pippins was ever 
where, and the jolly shirt-sleeved keeper 
the mill was pressin’ out the juice. The ju®§ 
and kegs were filled and taken to dark, co¢ 
dirt-bottomed cellars! Gone with most bea 
tiful memories. Only the memories remaii 
For this salad, the makings should rightfu ws 
come from such a mill or such a cellar. . 


















Now, in only five minutes, you 
can have all the good, hot beef 
gravy you want—rich with old- 
fashioned roasting pan flavor! 


JELLIED CIDER-APPLE SALAD 


Dissolve 1 package lemon-flavored gelat 
in 2 cups hot apple cider. Add 14 teaspo 
salt and 11% tablespoons lemon juice. Ck 
until slightly thickened. Fold in 34 cup dic 
celery. Wash 2 large red-skinned apples, cd 
and shred on the coarse side of the grater 
skin and all. There should be about 2 cujy 
Fold into the gelatin mixture and pour ir 
a l-quart ring mold, or individual mol 
Chill until firm. Unmold and garnish w 
water cress. Serve with horse-radish dressi 


Just open a can of Franco- 
American Beef Gravy, heat, 
and serve. Nothing to add. 


Grand poured over meat, 
potatoes, hot biscuits—all sorts 
of things. 


Delicious, nourishing—and 
thrifty, too! Try it! Keep a few 
cans always handy, 


Franco - American 


BEEF GRAVY 


e Adds taste and glamor <a> 


to economy foods 


HORSE-RADISH DRESSING 


Make a boiled dressing as follows: 
together 1 teaspoon dry mustard, 2 t 
spoons sugar, 2 tablespoons flour, a few gr 
cayenne pepper and 34 teaspoon salt. Ca 
bine 3 egg yolks, slightly beaten, and 14 ¢ 
milk. Blend with dry ingredients. Place o 
boiling water, add 2 tablespoons butter 
margarine, and while stirring constantly 4 
44 cup milk and 14 cup vinegar alternate 









e Enriches slim meals 
Ee a Pee ey 


The gem cannot be polished with™ 
out friction, nor man perfected 
without trials. —CONFUCIUS. 


[SSL Le ea ee 
Cook until thickened and then chill. To 


cup boiled dressing add | cup sour cream, 
teaspoons prepared horse-radish, a pinch 
salt and 2 tablespoons sugar. Mix well ar 
serve with the jellied-apple salad. 


e@ Livers up leftovers 


e Grand on bread for 
children’s snacks 


Didn’t I tell you? Why, about walnuts, 
course. Here I am again. As I begin, so 
me end. But here we are with a dessert tha™ 
anybody’s good news, and there are walnt 
all over the place. (When you get ready 
crack those butternuts, give me a buzz, v 
you?) 

WALNUT TORTE 


Chop 1 pound shelled walnuts (2 cui 
chopped). Mix with 2g cup cracker crungy® 
and 14 teaspoon salt. Beat 6 egg yolks wi 
thick and lemon-colored. Gradually add S 
cup sugar and beat well. Mix in 4 ¢ 
orange juice and | teaspoon grated oran 
rind. Beat 6 egg whites uritil” stiff but 1 


DD 
dry, and gradually add 14 cup sugar—« 


about a spoonful at a time, beating well ae comes faith see 
each addition. Fold part of the. nuts a 
crumbs into the egg-yolk mixture, then soi 
of the meringue. tepeEe ending with n 
ringue. Divide into 2 greased 9. inch lay Lt 


4 
Is new pans lined with wax paper and greased aga 


Bake in a moderately slow oven, 325° 








ey! = : 3 
35 minutes. Turn out on racks and cool. I : E: R: 4 S i 
ty exciting together with a thin layer of currant je : QUIBB Q ONS : 
end whipped cream. Spread currant jelly : ‘ / 1 : 
No other new dinnerware the top layer and decorate with more crea Z Manufacturing Chemists to the Medical Profession since 1858 : 
has captured the hearts of modern : : ; ; eh : 
es everywhere like Let us be thankful. Thankful that thin : Anesthetics « Biologicals « Antibiotics i 
*Ballerina.”’ Universal’s smart colored aren’t any worse. Thankful for the hope f : : : ‘ : 
glaze ware! Comes in Jonquil and faith in the things to come. Anoth Sulfonamides + Endocrines 
Yellow, Periwinkle Blue, Jade Green, year is drawing the shades and putting o : Nutreeal and Medical Specialties i 
Forest Green, Chartreuse and Dove the fires and shutting up shop for anoth i i 
Gray. So practical, too .. . larger tenant. Life’s rent must be paid. Life’s di : 
serving area on plates . . . easy to appointments and sorrows absorbed and tl S reeemeece ATUAT en ten eterna nec Re MT or ojananicnauan nus titan Re ticeneenrone 
clean . . . guaranteed oven-proof! ashes of burned-out hopes blown to tl 
Inexpensively priced at winter winds. 
good stores. But—for what we have, for what we ar 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 252) 

As in the case of a few other infectious 
diseases, epidemic meningitis has its ‘“‘car- 
riers,” who can transmit the germs without 
having the disease themselves. This explains 
its occasional appearance in single, isolated 
cases, when no other attack has been re- 
ported in the area. Three quarters of all cases 
of epidemic meningitis occur in children un- 
der ten years of age, and the majority of 
these in children under five. 

Here is an added reason, then, why 
mothers should call the doctor immediately 
when a child complains of stiffness or pain in 
the neck, back or legs, especially following 
vomiting or headache. For while not so 
prevalent as polio, and apparently not so 
easily spread, meningitis brings a possibility 
of death or permanent impairment, especially 
in the neglected cases. And one of the things 
that makes it so fearful is the suffering of 
its small victims. é 

Often there is constant pain, or acute dis- 
comfort, for periods of a few days up to two 
or three weeks in those cases which do not 
respond quickly to drug treatment. In all my 
years of intimate acquaintance with sickness, 
I can recall few experiences as harrowing as 
watching and caring for little children with 
severe meningitis. In some cases, every 
movement seems to cause excruciating pain. 

The doctor may give drugs to relieve dis- 
comfort as well as to combat the infection, 
but the mother at home, or the nurse in the 
hospital as the case may be, must also pro- 
vide careful, tender care to avoid unneces- 
sary motion and to alleviate suffering. Care- 
ful management is important throughout the 
course of the disease. In addition to expert 
nursing and the administration of drugs, 
medical procedures such as spinal puncture 
may be necessary, and in some cases the child 
has to be fed by injecting nourishing solu- 
tions into the veins. For all these reasons, 
hospitalization is generally preferred for 
meningitis whenever it can be managed. If 
the doctor decides that home care is ade- 
quate, however, the mother must be certain 
to get complete instructions about her duties, 
then follow them scrupulously. 

Another form of meningitis, occurring 
most frequently in infants and small chil- 
dren, is the influenzal type, which comes as a 
sequel to or complication of influenza affect- 
ing the respiratory system. The symptoms 
are the same as meningococcic or epidemic 
meningitis, but the disease does not respond 
to penicillin treatment at all, as does the 
epidemic type, and is likely to last longer 
than epidemic meningitis. However, when 
treatment with the sulfonamide drugs and 


November, 1949 


serum is started early and the infection is not 
too severe, recovery may be expected. Even 
so, damage to some of the affected parts is 
not unusual. One little girl I know recovered 
after weeks of desperate illness with influ- 
enzal meningitis, but her hearing has been 
permanently impaired. Another had St. 
Vitus’s dance as an aftermath. Signs of nerve 
damage should be watched for after influ- 
enzal meningitis and reported to the doctor 
promptly if they occur, so that measures to 
aid may be instituted. 

Still another kind of meningitis occurs in 
conjunction with tuberculous infection else- 
where in the body. While tuberculous men- 
ingitis is often fatal, treatment with strepto- 
mycin and a substance known as para- 
amino-salicylic acid has saved many chil- 
dren with this condition. 

Pneumococcic meningitis is commonest 
among infants and follows pneumonia or, 
occasionally, infections of the ear or of the 
mastoid bone behind the ear. Treatment with 
sulfonamide drugs or penicillin is successful 
in more than half the cases. 

So far, no way has been discovered to pre- 
vent meningitis. Following an attack of the 
disease, the child is immune to it for a while, 
but the period of immunity varies, and there 
is no vaccination or injection that may be 
given to provide immunity by artificial 
means. 

Nevertheless, we do know that meningitis, 
like other infections, strikes most often and 
hardest at children whose resistance is low, 
and at those who are allowed to be too active 
when they are recovering from influenza, 
pneumonia or some other infection, such as 
various of the so-called ‘‘children’s diseases.” 

Mothers can use extra caution to see that 
after any infection a child is fully recovered 
before full activity is engaged in. And when 
meningitis cases are reported in the neigh- 
borhood, make sure that your child has 
plenty of rest, eats nourishing meals and 
avoids chilling, exposure of all kinds, and 
overexertion. 

Keeping resistance high by proper care 
and watching for signs of infection are 
mother’s everlasting responsibility. These 
will help to mitigate the dangers of menin- 
gitis, as of other diseases of childhood. 

As with any other disease, early diagnosis 
is of utmost importance in cases of menin- 
gitis, particularly that caused by tubercu- 
losis germs. With early diagnosis and early 
proper treatment, miracles can be brought 
about and the saving of lives of those af- 
fected with these conditions. But remember, 
the treatment must be given early in the 
course of the disease to attain these results. 


HOW RENO LIVES 


(Continued from Page 210) 


they are full or close to it. The guests (who 
are known almost universally in Nevada as 
“‘dudes’’) pay $65 a week for a private room 
with semiprivate bath, or $85 a week for 
completely private quarters. They also get 
all their meals except Thursday-night sup- 
per, when the cook goes off to play bingo in 
Reno, and Sunday lunch, which most of 
them combine with breakfast anyway. They 
can ride horseback almost every day, with a 
dude wrangler (cowboy) in attendance to 
give instruction and prevent mishaps. They 
can swim in the pool in warm weather and 
ski in the mountains during most of the 
winter; there are hunting and fishing trips 
in season, and Ben, who has an impressive 
collection of shotguns and rifles, gives lessons 
in marksmanship on request. 

The ranch station wagon makes daily 
trips into Reno, so even if the guests don’t 
have their own cars (which many of them 
do) they can go to the city frequently to visit 
their lawyers or shop. Since most of them are 
in Nevada to establish residence for a di- 
vorce, and since most of them are women, 
Ben’s position as head of the household is 
complicated. On his frequent trips to town he 
cashes their checks, picks up special mail and 
papers at the lawyers’ offices, delivers 
watches and jewelry for repair, buys books, 
magazines and cigarettes, visits laundries 


and dry-cleaning establishments, attends to 
occasional visa problems, and fends off re- 
porters who try to pump him about his 
“name” guests. At night he sometimes 
dresses in his most colorful Western finery 
(he likes cowboy hats and has about twenty 
of them) and conducts a group of recent 
arrivals through Reno’s glittering night life, 
including the inevitable tour of the big gam- 
bling halls. Since he does not drink and does 
very little gambling, he sometimes comes 
home with the feeling that he has been a 
rather: dull escort. But he consoles himself 
with the thought that those of his charges 
who crave more excitement usually find it 
soon enough. 

As seen by day, Reno is an unimpressive 
cluster of brown and gray buildings, almost 
lost against a background of sagebrush pla- 
teau and the high Sierra mountains. A tiny 
silver thread, the Truckee River, winds 
through its center, bringing the water which 
gives it life. Its square gray courthouse is 
just a block from the river; here, if you are 
curious, you can drop in almost any morning 
at eleven and listen to a few divorce cases. 
But it will hardly be worth your while, for 
one of the attractions of a Reno divorce is 
that no intimate or detailed testimony is 
spread on the record. Hearings generally 
last no more than five minutes. 








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| | 

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| 750 Prospect, Cleveland 15, Ohio 

. Please send free illustrated folder. 
Name ee ee > 

| 

CC ——E—————————————E=— | 

| City States | 

| Baby’s age——___ | 

| 


1949 BT Corp. 

















LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Much more colorful is the city awaiting 
the visitor who arrivés at night. The train 
stops abruptly in a glittering fountain of 
light, more brilliant in the clear Nevada air 
than Times Square itself. The famous Reno 
arch, with its electrical boast, THE BIGGEST 
LITTLE CITY IN THE WORLD, is almost lost 
against dazzling neon columns of dripping 
coins, splashing waterfalls and prancing cow- 
boys that cover the fronts of gambling halls 
and night clubs. 

Reno’s gaudier pleasure palaces operate 
on a round-the-clock basis—they have elec- 
tric eyes on their doors to count the cus- 
tomers, but no locks, because they never 
close. Inside, at almost any hour of the 
twenty-four, there are the same excited, push- 
ing crowd of sight-seers, the same flushed and 
concentrated faces of the players. The crash 
of slot-machine levers and the rattle of silver 
dollars set up a din that is almost lulling in 
its intensity; even a fire, with clouds of 
smoke, will not drive the gamblers from 
their stools. 

Gambling is big business in Reno—as it is 
almost everywhere in the U.S.—but it is 
conducted publicly, with legal sanction, and 
far more honestly in Nevada than in other 
states. Drop in on the proprietor of any of 
the larger casinos and he will tell you frankly 
what are the odds against you (and for him) 
on any game in the house. And, if it makes 
you feel any better, his pretty girl ‘‘dealers,”’ 
who wear fetching embroidered Western 
riding shirts, are trained to smile when you 


A pessimist is one who has been 
intimately 


y acquainted with an 
—ELBERT HUBBARD. 


optimist. 


win and (as usually happens) make sympa- 
thetic little noises when you lose. 

Despite the stereotypes of the movies and 
tabloids, the Winnes have discovered that 
there is no pattern whatever for the would-be 
Reno divorcee. A considerable number who 
come to Nevada for that purpose are middle- 
aged mothers with families in tow, who want 
nothing but a quiet place to eat, swim and 
put their children to bed at night. A much 
larger group (which provides no business for 
the Winnes) consists of working girls who 
get jobs as waitresses, stenographers or gam- 
bling-club dealers, and earn their own living 
while residents. Many of the Winnes’ 
guests have been working girls, too, but in 
higher-income brackets—they have had 
numerous writers, doctors, scientists, ac- 
tresses, and even college professors, as well 
as heiresses and multiple-marriage glamour 
girls. 

About the only general rule their guests 
follow is that they arrive in an unhappy mood 
and depart feeling much, much better. This 
is not always true, of course, but the Winnes 
have found that it happens in about eight 
cases out of ten. Even when guests arrive 
late at night Bert sees to it that they are 
made comfortable in their rooms with hot 
chocolate or milk and sandwiches on trays. 
During the first day or so a new guest mopes 
quietly by the swimming pool or, if she is the 
talkative type, tries to tell her troubles to 
everyone. (And don’t think the others want 
to listen—they escape as fast as possible 
from what they call ‘‘a bleeder.’’) Contact 
with others who have had the same or even 
worse experiences seems to have a helpful 
effect; after the first week the average guest 
has established her own friendships and daily 
routine and is more than mildly interested in 
talking about other topics than herself. 

Only rarely does a guest seek to hide her 
identity, or use an assumed name. The 
Winnes, of course, are careful to protect the 
privacy of all who want to be protected; 
they never ask questions, though usually 
they don’t have to. The guests quickly learn 
one another’s first names and use them al- 
most exclusively. 

One guest who was by no means average 
was an heiress who spent six eventful weeks 
with the Winnes in 1947. From the moment 
she and her retinue arrived the Lazy A Bar 
was in a turmoi]. She came with three auto- 














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Protect all the tender, chafable 
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After every bath, smooth this gen- 
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LADIES’ HOME 


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eno 











JOURNAL 


mobiles and a trailer, two Negro manservants 
who waited on her at table and did her laun- 
dry, a chauffeur and his son, an extra handy 
man, a small baby, a nurse, and a girl friend 
who was also getting a divorce and who was 
expecting a baby of her own very shortly. 
(Ben had to jump out of bed one night and 
rush her to the hospital in Reno—he got 
there with only twenty minutes to spare.) 
At first the heiress wanted to take over the 
entire ranch, and argued endlessly to have 
her way. But the Winnes had several other 
guests, and they finally persuaded her to live 
in their own commodious suite in the main 
house. She loved horses and bought two of 
her own during her brief stay with the 
Winnes. She liked to ride far out toward the 
mountains and one evening, despite Ben’s 
frequent warnings, she stayed out too long 
and got lost in the sudden darkness. She be- 
came panic-stricken, whipped out a knife, 
and cut her way back home through barbed- 
wire fences—an almost unpardonable offense 
in ranch country. The cattle found the open- 
ings and the wranglers had to go out and 
round them up, but the heiress contritely 
paid for all the trouble she had caused. 


SHE also liked to gamble—she would send 
Ben to the bank to cash a $5000 check for 
her and stick the money, in $20 and $100 
bills, in the lining of he big Stetson hat. 
Then she would sit in the Nevada Club and 
play blackjack (‘‘21”’) for hours at a time. 
She lost a small fortune that way, but in- 
sisted she was having a lot of fun. 

Because Bill Barry, the enterprising Reno 
reporter for the New York Daily News, was 
trailing her for an “interview,” she studi- 
ously rubbed holes in her brand-new shirts 
and smeared mud on her riding pants so that 
she would not look like a little rich girl. The 
disguise was effective—one night she sat in 
the Nevada Club for almost an hour, with 
only Ben between her and Reporter Barry, 
who was loudly complaining that he had been 
looking all over for the heiress, and could not 
find her anywhere. 

The climax of the saga came when she was 
getting ready to go home. She wanted to 
charter an airplane to fly her horses to Long 
Island, along with a ton of feed—‘‘ They’re 
used to Nevada oats,”’ she explained to Ben. 
“T want them to have what they’ve always 
had.’”’ Ben finally talked her out of this 
superextravagance, but she engaged a whole 
boxcar and had special stalls built in it (at 
a cost of more than $2000) and took her 
horses home that way. The ton of Nevada 
oats went with them. 

“Graduation day,”’ which marks the end 
of each guest’s six-week stay, is often a 
festive occasion, slightly tinged with sadness. 
Before dinner the night before, the guests 
chip together for cocktails (the Winnes do 
not sell liquor, but they have a small private 
bar the guests can use), and there are 
speeches and songs if the mood is right: 


Three more weeks, and we too shall be 
Out of this den of miseree.. . 


The next morning, after breakfast, Ben gets 
out the Cadillac limousine which is reserved 
for such formal occasions, and the departing 
guest’s luggage is stowed away by Jimmy, 
the teen-age handy man, while farewell 
kisses are exchanged on the lawn. Then the 
“oraduate”’ rolls off in state toward the 
Washoe County Court House in Reno, which 
receives an average of around 20 such clients 
every weekday in the year. Ben, dressed in his 
Western finest, usually testifies as a residence 
witness; he has performed this chore 217 
times in the past four years, while Bert has 
testified 43 times. 

The courtroom ordeal lasts for three, or 
five, or perhaps even fifteen minutes, and 
then the new divorcee (and legal resident of 
Nevada) heads for the airline or railroad 
office where tickets to a distant point have 
long since been reserved. Often there is a 
stop along the way for a celebrating drink 
with the lawyer. Ben, who never takes any- 
thing stronger than 7-Up, is apt to leave such 
affairs in a highly carbonated condition. And 
not infrequently he has to hurry off to pick 
up his new guest before the old one has de- 
parted. 


November, 1949 


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For Bert and Ben Winne, all this adds up 
to an exciting, profitable and generally 
pleasant way of life. Many of their guests 
come from foreign countries—France, Eng- 
land, Hungary, Japan, China, Canada, 
North Africa—while the others are mostly 
pirom metropolitan centers like New York, 

Washington and San Francisco. The news 
they bring, and the people they know and 
talk about, are continuously fascinating to 
their hosts. Some of them have become very 
close friends as well—they come back to the 
ranch now and then for “reunions,” and 
write Bert letters from all over the world. 
On her wrist Bert wears an unusual sou- 
venir of these friendships—it is a charm 
bracelet with seven wedding rings attached. 
All of them came from guests who didn’t 
need them any more, and who gave them to 
her as a parting token of affection. Fingering 
them over, Bert can recall vividly their 
former wearers—the pretty Danish girl who 
was in love with a French count, the radio 
actress who had been an old neighbor in 
Kingston, and the New York society girl 
who dropped out of the Social Register be- 
cause ‘“‘she couldn’t afford it.’’ One of the 
rings is a man’s plain gold band, another is 
platinum with baguette diamonds, a third 
is a golden hoop almost an inch wide. 
‘There used to be a tradition here that 
the divorcees walked out of the courthouse 
and up the street and threw their rings in 
the Truckee River,’’ Bert says. ‘One night 
some of the girls got to talking about that, 
and decided they would rather leave their 
rings with me. One of them even went to the 
trouble of having some loose diamonds re- 
placed before she gave me her ring. I wear 
them on my bracelet because they remind 
me of some of the best friends I have—of the 
old lives they left in Nevada, and the new 
_ lives they are having now. I don’t suppose 
you would understand that unless you knew 
them as well as I do. Anyway, I don’t think 
you could find another bracelet like this 
anywhere but in Nevada!”’ 


” 


THIS ISA 
WATCHBIRD 
WATCHING 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 2 


In Nevada, even more than elsewhere, 
every family has a story. The Winnes’ story 
is not spectacular—it would never make 
tabloid copy, perhaps—but still it is rather 
unusual. Ten years ago Ben Winne was a 
prominent wholesale and retail hardware 
dealer in the Hudson River city of Kingston, 
where his family had been established for 
generations. The Winnes were originally of 
old Dutch stock, but Ben’s grandfather 
married a Scotchwoman—a combination 
that proved highly successful in business. 
The grandfather built Kingston’s famous 
Eagle Hotel and ran it for many years. Ben’s 
father, Levan S. Winne, started a hardware 
store in the 1870’s which grew in time to be 
the largest enterprise of its kind between 
New York City and Albany. He made a 
fortune, and when he died both the fortune 
and the business went to his only son, Ben. 
Naturally Ben was also a pillar of Kingston’s 
civic life—he was director of two old-line 
banks, a leader in the Masons and other 
fraternal orders, and lived in a big gray- 
stone mansion with towers on top and a 
sunken garden in the back yard. 

He was raised in part on a farm which his 
father owned, and became an ardent horse- 
man and outdoors lover; he owned prize bird 
dogs, hunted big game in Canada, and had 
his own fishing lodge in the nearby Catskill 
Mountains, where he entertained visiting 
celebrities and fellow fishermen like author 
Zane Grey. His was, to all outward appear- 
ances, a stable and satisfying life, and one to 
which, having passed the age of fifty, he 
seemed permanently committed. 

Such appearances are often deceiving, 
however. Ben Winne had long been unhappy 
in his marriage to a Kingston woman, which 
had taken place in 1910. They had separated 
on several occasions, but neither was willing 
to make the break final, principally because 
of their only son. This talented youngster, 
christened Robert Bruce Winne, is now well 
known to movie fans as Robert Hutton, 
featured in such pictures as Hollywood 


THIS ISA 
WATCHBIRP 
WATCHING 


You 


4 
0 


A CHAIR-TIPPER 


By Munro Leat 


Cu AIR-TIPPERS worry everybody else, and if they had 
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this one’s will if it hits that radiator. Too, too bad! 


WERE YOUA CHAIR-TIPPER THIS MONTH 


ai NO 












































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9 


eT a 


TUT ey 
ahd Aa kd 





ho 
uu 
x“ 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


wy -\S Meet the Celebrated 
jh) Collins “Quads”! 


THE BRIGHT AND HEALTHY QUADS— 


Edward, Barbara, 
Linda and Andrew Collins and their mother, Mrs. 
Charles Collins. In the home of this famous New York 
City family, hospital-proved precautions are taken to 
help fight infection. Below... Mrs. Collins tells you how. 





We, 


Mother Fights Germs While Cleaning 


““RIGHT FROM THE START,”’ Mrs. 
Collins stresses, “we've kept the 
Quads’ home surroundings hospital- 
clean—with dependable ‘Lysol’ dis- 
infectant, and only ‘Lysol.’ In fact, 
before we brought our Foursome 
home, my husband and I disinfected 
our whole house with “Lysol.’ 


“POTENT ‘LYSOL’ is used in Lebanon 
Hospital, New York City, where the 
Quads were born. Now ‘Lysol’ brand 
disinfectant is routine when I clean 
our bathroom, kitchen, floors, walls— 
all surfaces where disease germs may 
be breeding. This helps guard our 
family against infection danger.” 





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“IN THE QUADS’ NURSERY, hospital-proved 
‘Lysol’ goes into every pail of cleaning wa- 
ter—to disinfect the Quads’ whole room, in- 


cluding their beds, bedding and laundry.” 





SAFEGUARD YOUR HOME and all your family, 
as Mrs. Collins does hers! Use “Lysol” to 
disinfect as you clean! Its high concen- 
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Canteen, Destination Tokyo, and The Man 
in the Eiffel Tower. He was only fourteen 
when he first told his father he wanted to 
become an actor; the news, Ben recalls, ‘hit 
me like a ton of bricks.” He had pictured 
himself passing on the family business to 
Bruce, as he calls him, just as his father had 
handed it to him. With rather more concern 
than most parents might show in such cir- 
cumstances, hedevoteda great deal of his time 
to investigating dramatic schools, visiting 
theaters, both big and small, and talking with 
directors ina commendable effort to help his 
boy get started. Once he traveled all the way 
to Hollywood with Bruce for a screen test— 
and brought him back when it was found he 
was not “‘ready.”” Bruce—or Bob, as he is 
known now—went to four different dramatic 
schools, learned to act in French, Italian and 
German, spent a whole year studying English 
diction, and served the usual apprenticeship 
in various little theaters before he was 
spotted one night by a Warner Brothers 
scout and launched on what is now a gen- 
uinely successful career. His photographs, 
displaying a very handsome and _ self- 
assured young man with curly hair and long 
eyelashes, are scattered lavishly around the 
Winne ranch. 

Up to the time his son was twenty-one 
years old Ben Winne had resolutely put 
aside even the thought that he himself might 
marry again. ‘No, sir,’’ he used to tell his 
friends. “Don’t talk to me about it. I’ve had 
enough trouble.” 


One of the friends he used to say this to 
was Chief George Ross, of the New York 
City Fire Department, a gay old widower 
who lived in the Astor Hotel overlooking 
Times Square, and thoroughly enjoyed the 
society of personable young ladies. Chief 
Ross, who claimed to be a direct descendant 
of Betsy Ross, often went on fishing trips 
with Ben. He also invited him to dinner with 
various feminine friends in New York, but 
Ben always turned him down. 

“T told you,” he would say. “‘I don’t want 
to look at another woman.” 

One day when he was in the city on a 
business trip, he dropped in on Chief Ross 
for lunch and found two young women there. 
One of them was Bertha Freeman, daughter 
of a Pennsylvania dry-goods merchant whose 
name was familiar to Ben. “Bert,” as her 
friends called her, was good-looking, with a 
gay laugh and a quick sense of humor, but 
definitely not the glamour-girl type. Like 
Ben, she had been raised in comparative af- 
fluence; she attended Rosemary Hall and 
the Moravian Seminary in Bethlehem, Penn- 
sylvania, and then, because she had in- 
herited her father’s interest in business, she 
got a job as a salesgirl in Bonwit Teller’s 
Philadelphia store. She had worked up there 
to a responsible position, but she still wasn’t 
satisfied. At the time she met Ben she was 
thinking of going into the chicken business, 
and she had just completed a Penn State 
extension course in scientific chicken farm- 
ing! 

After chatting with her for a while, Ben 
realized that he was losing his previous stern- 
ness about a second marriage. ““We just 
seemed to like the same things,” he says 
now. “‘She had good sound ideas about busi- 
ness, and she liked to go fishing. I couldn’t 
help but like her.” 

Up to then Ben had never seriously con- 
sidered a divorce. But now he remembered a 
conversation he had once had with a Reno 
lawyer who was visiting New York. He had 
to go to the West Coast on business anyway, 
so he stopped off in Reno to visit his’ lawyer 
friend. 

After that, things moved rather swiftly. 
Ben established a Nevada residence (and 
quite genuinely—eventually he bought 
a big stone house in Reno which had round 
towers and a sunken garden just like the one 
in Kingston), obtained his divorce, and was 
married to Bert in a double-ring ceremony 
the same day, March 21, 1942, by the 
Methodist minister in nearby Carson City. 
His lawyer and the lawyer’s wife were the 
only attendants, but Bert’s wedding outfit 
was very fashionable—a Hattie Carnegie 
gown in sapphire blue, with a hat to match. 


November, 1949 





What makes 
her grow 
both ways? 


ove makes her spirit grow. Be- 
L cause you think so and tell her 
that she is a wonderful baby, she 
gains the self-confidence that leads 
to popularity and happiness. 


To help her grow in strength and 
in beauty—to build a well-shaped 
head, a strong back, straight legs 
and sound teeth—your doctor will 
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min D regularly every day. 


One of the most dependable Vita- 
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Vitamin D it supplies; also the 
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fine, full chests 


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SQUIBB 
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For a while they divided their time be- 
tween the new home in Reno and the old one 
in Kingston, where Ben was disposing of his 
business. Bert proved to be an enthusiastic 
helpmeet in several respects. She had never 
done much kitchen work, but when Ben re- 


’ marked that there were a lot of cucumbers in 


the Kingston garden, and that he was very 
fond of bread-and-butter pickles, she went 
to work and made 510 jars of bread-and- 
butter pickles. 

“They were grand pickles,” Ben recalls, 
“but I never thought she’d turn the place 
into a pickle factory.” 

Bert also suggested that Ben add a gift 
shop to his hardware business, during the 
mid-war period when tools and other heavy 
hardware were unobtainable. 

The gift shop, with its knickknacks of 
copper, glass and pottery, proved to be a 
real money-maker, and the Winnes decided 
to move that part of the business to Reno 
with them. Ben’s idea was to “‘retire for a 
while’’—to hunt and fish to his heart’s con- 
tent—and then go back into business in a 
mild sort of way. His divorce settlement had 
taken a large chunk out of his capital, and 
he felt that he should keep the rest working. 

Lee was born in 
July, 1943, in Kings- 
ton, and a few 
months later the 
Winnes left the East 
for good. One big 
moving van brought 
aload of family fur- 
niture, while an- 
other was packed 
solid with stock for 
their projected gift 
shop, including two 
tons of carefully 
wrapped mirrors. 
But the gift shop 
never materialized, 
except in a very 
limited form as the 
Lazy A Bar ‘“‘trad- 
ing post.’’ Reno’s 
business rents were 
sky-high, for one 
thing, and there 
were lots of gift 
shops doing busi- — 
ness there already. ' 

During the next two years the Winnes 
plunged zestfully into Reno’s social life. 
Neither of them had ever had much time or 
inclination for that kind of thing before; now 
they entertained frequently at their big stone 
house, and attended parties three or four 
times a week. And Ben got his absolute fill 
of hunting and fishing. 

‘It really bored me stiff when I could do it 
all the time,’”’ he says. ‘“‘And I got awfully 
tired of parties too. I told Bert I felt like a 
fireman—I had to keep my white tie and 
tails hanging on a hook so I could jump into 
them at a minute’s notice. A good many of 
our friends had ranches, and I envied them 
the informal outdoor life they led. We talked 
it over and decided that ranch life was the 
thing for us.” 


Art that time the Winnes had only the 
vaguest thoughts of running a ranch for 
profit; they were looking mostly for a place 
to live and raise Lee. But the moment they 
saw the Lazy A Bar, in its pleasant setting of 
trees and running water, they knew it was 
what they wanted. They bought it in 1945 
and immediately launched a furious cam- 
paign of improvements and additions which 
is still going on. The first big job was a com- 
pletely new sanitary and water system; then 
they found that when they pulled an electric- 
light switch half the lights were apt to blow 
out, so they ripped out all the old wiring and 
replaced it. The barns and fences were ina 
sad state of disrepair—once Ben and some 
guests sat down on a fence rail to pose for a 
picture and the whole fence collapsed—so 
they, too, were rebuilt from the ground 
up. 

The main ranch house, a long structure of 
rugged stone and clapboard with a gable roof 
and dormer windows, had been built origi- 
nally by Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr., during 


VICTORY— 
FIVE YEARS AFTER 


HRISTMAS, 

and grim and bloody for 500,- 
000 American boys as they hurled 
themselves at the Germans in the 
Battle of the Bulge. This Decem- 
ber, on the fifth anniversary of the 
battle which turned the tide of his- 


tory, ex-infantryman Wally Rifle- 
man, Green Bay hero, is living a life 
that made the fight worth while. 


For the story of how an ex-in- 
fantryman is facing his peacetime 
future, read Richard Lauterbach’s 

How America Lives 
in the December 


Lapies’ Home JouRNAL 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 259 
one of his periods of Nevada domesticity. 
The first floor was well laid out with a 
sunken living room surrounded by a wrought- 
iron railing, a cobblestone fireplace, and 
short flights of steps leading to three corner 
bedrooms and a dining alcove. But the 
second floor was just a bare attic. The 
Winnes finished this off in five compact pine- 
paneled bedrooms which they rented to 
guests. It was Ben’s personal fancy to at- 
tach little Western silhouettes with names 
like “Ranger,” “Buckaroo” and ‘‘ Maverick”’ 
to all the bedroom doors. On his and Bert’s 
bedroom the picture is of a cowboy on a 
bucking pony, bearing the legend ‘Un- 
tamed.” 


WHITER 
THAN NEW! 


As their guest business expanded, the 
Winnes put up additional cabins and out- 
buildings, and last year they completed the 
76-foot-long ‘‘recreation cottage,” which 
now houses the cooking and dining facilities 
for the whole ranch. About two thirds of this 
building is occupied by a combination social- 
and-dining room with a massive refectory 
table and benches in one corner, a fireplace 
of cut and colored stone, comfortable leather 
and tapestried sofas, and electric fixtures in 
the form of kerosene 
lamps hanging from 
the raftered ceiling. 
At one end of the 
room is a game nook 
with card table, the 
small home bar, and 
a movie-projection 
booth which is dis- 
guised by book- 
shelves and rows of 
copper pots and 
trays. At the other 
end is a swinging 
door leading to the 
big modern kitchen, 
professionally 
equipped with stain- 
less-steel warming 
oven and work 
tables, a big steel 
hood over the cook- 
ing range, a hotel- 
style serving coun- 
ter, and almost a 
quarter mile of shelf 
and cupboard space. 
The big walk-in refrigerator, with an inner 
compartment for freezing whole sides of beef 
and hundreds of pounds of vegetables at a 
time, is the Winnes’ special pride and joy. 

The Winnes are especially fortunate in 
their blond Swedish cook, Ella, who has 
worked on Nevada ranches for most of her 
life and loudly insists that the Lazy A Bar 
has the best kitchen in the state. Ella’s two 
consuming interests in life are bingo and 
good food. She bakes wonderful flaky rolls 
and pastries, and every morning prepares a 
big batch of tender Swedish pancakes. 
Breakfast is an optional meal at the ranch— 
guests can have pancakes or eggs, ham or 
bacon or sausage, or any combination of 
them that strikes their fancy. Lunch usually 
consists of salad, creamed chicken on 
waffles, or noodles with meat, while for 
dinner there are steaks, roasts or fish, alter- 
nated with such specialties as Ella’s Swedish 
meat balls and lamb cooked in dill 
sauce. ; 

The Winnes raise their own chickens, pigs, 
rabbits, eggs, butter, milk and cream; they 
used to fatten their beef as well, but Ben has 
found it cheaper to buy an occasional steer 
from a nearby packing plant. Their garden 
produces, under proper irrigation, more than 
forty kinds of vegetables and fruits; last 
year they froze 600 ears of corn on the cob 
alone. The ranch has a monthly payroll of SOS 14, Grand For Dishes, Too! 
$670, which includes the cook, two waitresses Vy Z New 1950 Rinso loosens 
who double as housemaids, a wrangler who Y Z h,- grease and dirt so fast that 
takes care of the horses and milks the cows, a RAUHUMA  diches:chineamel-spartlc 
rancher to tend the irrigation system and ; eT ; : ae 
garden, and a handy man to carry baggage, ina jiffy. Try 1950 Rinso in your dishpan 

today and see! Ask for the economical, 
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run errands and drive the station wagon. 
MORE WOMEN USE RINSO THAN ANY OTHER WASHDAY SOAP IN THE WORLD 


MAKES COLORS 


BRIGHTER 
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1944, was cold 
























































eee 


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Another fine product 
of Lever Brothers 
Company 
Other items, of which the largest are store- 
bought provisions, feed for the stock, gaso- 
line and insurance, boost the running ex- 
penses to around $19,000 a year. Last year 
the Winnes took in a little better than = 


260 | 


OH-SO-WELCOME — 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


THIS NEW AKKWAL! 


$38,000 from 98 guests, giving them an 
operating profit of around $11,700. 

Included in this, of course, was a comfort- 
able living for the whole family. But also 
included was a lot of hard work which did 
not appear on the payroll. Bert especially is 
on the go from early morning till after sup- 
per, and ther@have been times when she had 
to take over the whole cooking job herself. 
Another important factor is the $180,000 
which Ben has invested in the ranch to date, 
more than two thirds of which has been 
spent on improvements since they bought 
the place. 

The Winnes are not wholly dependent on 
the ranch for income, but by now they have 
staked a considerable part of their capital in 
it. And they have become completely ab- 
sorbed in it in other ways. No longer does 
Ben jump into his white tie and tails to go 
to a party; practically all their social life is at 
home. Their favorite indoor pastime is 
panguigné, a Western variation of rummy 
which is played with seven decks of cards at 
a big round table. Ben became so interested 
in it that he invented a special dealing box 
to hold the cards, and has made duplicates 
of it for several of his lawyer friends. In the 
winter, when business is light and the winds 
howl down from the mountaintops, the 
Winnes like to sit beside a big roaring fire 
and play “‘pan” with their friends for half a 
cent a point. 


Two years ago, on Bert’s birthday, Ben 
planned a big surprise for her; he invited 
Magnin’s, a leading Reno shop, to send out a 
selection of fine furs and a model so that she 
could pick her own birthday gift. Bert was 
delighted, of course, but after looking them 
all over she turned and said wistfully, “You 
know what I veally want is that beautiful 
Durham cow we saw the other day.”’ She got 
the cow, and the furs too, but subsequent 
developments cast a strong light on their 
changed way of living: the cow produced 
hundreds of pounds of butter via Bert’s 
churn, but the furs stil! hang in a mothproof 
closet, untouched and unworn. 

It would be a mistake, of course, to assume 
that life always proceeds smoothly on the 
Lazy A Bar; sometimes the guests don’t like 
the food, or the horses, or one another, and 
then there are periods of distinctly unpleasant 
tension. (“It’s a funny thing,” says Ben, 
“some of our groups get along beautifully, 
and some of them fight like cats and dogs.’’) 
Not long ago the Winnes planned a big out- 
door barbecue party for their guests and some 
visitors from Reno and other points; extra 
wranglers were hired to broil the steaks and 
lead the square dancing, and cowboy singers 
were imported from a Lake Tahoe night club. 
Ben lit an enormous blaze in the outdoor fire- 
place, after soaking down the surrounding 
desert with water all afternoon so there 
would be no danger from the sparks. Every- 
one settled down for an evening under the 
stars, but then one of the wranglers got 
drunk on hidden whisky, stripped himself 
to the waist, and went around trying to pick 
fights with everybody, including Ben. One 
of the guests managed to smuggle him off 
the ranch just before a pair of burly sheriff’s 
deputies arrived with revolvers dangling at 
their sides~It was all rather exciting, but not 
the kind of entertainment the Winnes had 
planned. 

Despite such occasional troubles, the 
Winnes regard their present existence as just 
about perfect, and certainly the happiest 
they have ever had. “‘There’s something in 
the air out here,” says Ben. ‘‘I suppose you 
could call it freedom. People live and let 
live. I know darned well that you couldn’t 
drag me back East with a team of wild 
horses.” 

And Bert, sitting back on a kitchen stool 
with cigarette between her fingers, nods 
smilingly. ‘It’s really wonderful,” she says. 
“IT never made so many friends or had so 
much fun in my life. Of course we have our 
problems, but they don’t seem to last long. 
The best thing is that we both like it just as 
much, and we both like the same things 
about it. As long as we feel that way, I guess 
you can say that we area very lucky couple!” 

THE END 


November, 1949 


MOTHER! (7) 
If You Love Your x 
Child Read This! 23 AN. 


It can happen in your home, a small accident 

.a sudden burn, a cut or scratch that can 
become infected. You must be ready to pro- 
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Minutes lost rushing to the drug store, the 
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endanger your child’s welfare, Have OIL-O- 
SOL always in your medicine chest. 

OIL-O-SOL is a soothing, inhibitory anti- 
septic ...of proved value in a healing. 
It does not stain the skin. Wonderful for 
minor cuts, wounds, burns, non-poisonous in- 
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effective that it has been used for years in 
thousands of homes, factories, and industrial 
plants. You can pour it on—that’s why it 
works instantly. Every home should have 
Mosso’s OIL-O-SOL. Ask for it at your drug 
store, today. Only 50¢. 


If You Have a Child 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“GRAND HOTEL.’* 1949 


(Continued from Page 23) 


| New York’s West Side, *‘we see here the lost 

being found, the dead returning to life. Still 
they deserve a tear. One tear, for a found 
mother, for a found daughter.” 

For this is “Grand Hotel,” 1949. Here ina 
rambling, old building with an ornate mar- | 
quee and a blue canopy are heartbreak and 
tragedy, hope and comedy, tears, laughter 
and great courage. The cast is amateur. 
There are no famous names which you or I 
would recognize. But here in this hotel are 
the motley of Europe, and here, in each card- 
board suitcase, in each coat pocket, in each 
face and in all eyes, is the shattered civiliza- 
tion of the great god Mars. 

The United Service for New Americans, 
established in August, 1946, has made the 
Hotel Marseilles a haven for the DP’s arriv- 
ing from American-occupied zones in Europe. 
The USNA is a consolidation of the National 
Refugee Service and the National Service to 
the Foreign Born of the National Council of 
Jewish Women. The USNA is recognized as 
one of fourteen agencies qualified to sponsor 
the entry of DP’s into this country under the 
Displaced Persons Act, passed by the 80th 
Congress. The agency’s resettlement pro- 
gram helps, principally, people like Lotte 
Mejia and Anna who have no relatives in the 
United States to receive them. 

In its first year, the Hotel Marseilles pro- 
vided an introduction to a new life of freedom 
and opportunity to 9516 men, women and 
children. This operation, known as Reception 
or Shelter Division, provides quarters for 


new arrivals. There is also a clothing depot, 


One can pay back the loan of 
gold, but one dies forever in 

debt to those who are kind. 
—MALAYAN PROVERB. 


and a medical headquarters with a permanent 
staff physician. 

As director of USNA’s Port and Reception 
Department, Ralph Astrofsky worked at 
finding shelter for the DP’s entering this 





country even before the USNA took over the 
Hotel Marseilles. In charge of all relief for 
transient families for the New York City 
Welfare Council—not only housing but feed- 
ing many thousands during the darkest years 
of the depression—he is well equipped by ex- 
perience and understanding to deal with the 
downtrodden, the depressed, the homeless. 

Finding a hotel with enough available 
space wasn’t easy. “I looked for rooms at ev- 
ery hotel in Manhattan, the Bronx and 
Brooklyn,”’ he remembers. He even dickered 
over the old Half Moon Hote! at Coney Is- 
land, which was in the hands of trustees. 
Finally the Hotel Marseilles offered to turn 
over 10 rooms at once and, as guests moved 
out, to allow the USNA to take over more 
and more of the hotel. By the end of the first 
year, USNA had 150 rooms, and only a few 
paying old-time residents of the hotel re- 
mained. 

“We take three hundred guests at a time,” 
Astrofsky said, “‘but for every one of them 
we leave behind in Europe a thousand who 
are homeless. This is a job for a surgeon, one 
who can look into opened hearts.” 

Mr. Astrofsky feels his main objective at 
the hotel is to give back to his guests their 
pride. To him, the act of giving these people a 
key to a room is as important as the food; 
letting them come and go freely from the ho- 
tel, to receive the courteous greeting of the 
doorman on their return, as vital as proper 
clothing. 

“They must realize,” he says, “that 
now at last they are secure.” 

The clothing center, a huge room like a 
dry-goods store, was set up at the hotel, 
partly as an economy measure, but also be- 
cause most of the guests would be frightened 
by huge New York department stores. The 
clothing center is stocked with everything 
from underthings and shoes to overcoats 
and suits. 


When baby fusses because of 


“Childhood Constipation’ 





\h~ 
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The original and genuine 


CASTORIA 





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preparations 


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They’re just the thing for your convalescent 

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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“They come in, their clothes often ill fit- 
ting and worn,” Astrofsky says. ‘‘They 
shuffle to the racks and put on new clothes 
and all of a sudden they stand straighter.” 

There is special emphasis on the prepara- 
tion of meals for young children, and case 
workers are on hand to show young mothers 
how to use American prepared baby foods, 
totally unfamiliar to them. All food for the 
hotel guests is prepared in a kosher kitchen. 
Many of the newcomers who are Orthodox 
Jews are now able to observe their religious 
dietary laws for the first time in ten years. 

On the hotel’s second floor are the offices of 
the national resettlement division, where a 
huge blackboard covers the wall of one large 
room. Seventy-one cities are listed on the 
board, and beside each city’s name, the 
number of family units it has agreed to take 
in and absorb into town economy. 

A glance at the board on a given day last 
July showed the quotas: Albany, 33; Atlanta, 
72; Boston, 132; Chicago, 360; Cleveland, 
264; Columbus, 72; Des Moines, 36; Detroit, 
240; Duluth, 24; Fort Wayne, 7; Memphis, 
60; St. Paul, 84; Philadel- 
phia, 248; St. Louis, 180. 
Another 165 cities had 
promised that if there were 
need for homes and jobs, 
they could take in families 
next year. 

Cities regularly report 
the kinds of jobs available, 
how much housing—a ma- 
jor problem, for new arrivals cannot displace 
natives—is waiting. As guestscheck in, theso- 
cial worker, part of USNA’s full-time staff, 
takes over. 

“What did you do before Hitler?” is the 
question each DP has already answered be- 
fore leaving camp. A steelworker may land 
in Pittsburgh. Linguists, needed by the 
United Nations, may travel only as far as 
Lake Success. The family head who worked 
in iron mines may go to Minnesota’s Mesabi 
range. These people will become self-support- 
ing. When they leave the hotel, their fares are 
paid to their destinations. There they are met 
by representatives of the local agencies 
sponsoring them. Housing is arranged, with 
the rent paid until the family checks come in 
regularly. Not one person passing through 
the doors of the Hotel Marseilles has ever left 
to become a public charge. 

A recent survey showed that 61.3 per cent 
of all Jewish DP’s arriving from Europe have 
left the New York area, and more than 75 
per cent of the Christian newcomers. USNA 
has been effecting resettlements at the rate of 
about 450 a month. 

The voluntary service organizations in ev- 
ery city do most of the work to make new- 
comers from the Hotel Marseilles feel at 
home. For all the USNA’s services, at the ho- 


Be like the sun and the 
meadow, which are not in 
the least concerned about the 
coming of winter. 
—GEORGE BERNARD SHAW, 


November, 1949 


tel and throughout the country, the esti- 
mated expenditure for 1949 is $11,644,505, 
all coming from funds of the United Jewish 
Appeal. Edwin Rosenberg, a textile-corpora- 
tion president, is head of the United Service 
for New Americans, which is a constituent 
organization of the UJA. 

The Hotel Marseilles served 1658 persons 
during the first seven months of this year. In 
addition, during the same period the USNA 
met and aided at the pier 10,884 persons 
who went directly to their destinations. Not 
all were displaced persons, however; about 
4600 came in under the regular immigration 
laws. 

What becomes of them after they leave the 
hotel, these guests who cry in the night? You 
may want to follow Herman Meier and his 
wife, Lucy, a pretty, dark-haired woman. 
They and their twenty-four-year-old daugh- 
ter, Rose, have an apartment in Manhattan. 
Lucy and Herman go to night school three 
times weekly, she to improve her English and 
he to learn American methods of his trade. 

A year ago, when they arrived at the Mar- 
seilles, they kept close to 
their room. They didn’t 
eat well, and were reluc- 
tant to go outside during 
daylight hours, for they 
were accustomed to the re- 
strictions of illegal resi- 
dence in a home near Ber- 
lin. For three years these 
intelligent, educated Jews 
lived in hiding, waiting for the time when 
they could escape, or join a group to over- 
throw Hitler. 

They are now self-supporting. The father 
works as a patternmaker in the garment dis- 
trict. The mother is a daytime companion to 
an elderly woman in the neighborhood, and 
Rose is a baby nurse. 

“Together, we earn a hundred and ten 
dollars a week, and it is enough for us to 
live,”’ Rose will tell you. ‘‘We even have 
enough so I can buy a formal gown to go 
dancing with my beau.” 

Out in a Midwestern town there’s a stone- 
mason who remembers the hotel. Louis 
Sager, with his wife, Sylvia, and their infant 
son, went into hiding when the war broke 
out. Later, when they were living under- 
ground, a second son was born. For seven 
years the family lived in darkness, the chil- 
dren never saw daylight. 

When the Sagers were guests at the hotel, 
Mr. Astrofsky recalls, the boys were wild and 
unnatural in their behavior, running around 
the lobby, into and out of rooms, turning over 
chairs, breaking lamps. They would flee 
when a stranger came near, often try to hide 
or crouch in a corner. The mother had never 
tried to train them. Her only thought had 

(Continued on Page 264) 





Other Views, Sizes and Prices of Patterns on Pages 54 and 35. 


Vogue Design No. 6918. Coat; sizes 12 to 20, 30 to 38. 75c. 


Vogue Design No. 6896. 
Vogue Design No. 6834. 


‘*Kasy-to-Make” one-piece dress. 12 to 20, 30 to 38. 60c. 
““Easy-to-Make”’ one-piece dress. 12 to 20, 30 to 38. 60c. 


Vogue Design No. 6911. Blouse; sizes 12 to 20, 30 to 38. 50c. 


Vogue Design No. 6860. 


waist. 50c. 


Vogue Design No. S-4039. One-piece dress; sizes 


12 to 20, 30 to 38. $1.00. 


Vogue Design No. 6870. “‘Easy-to-Make”’ blouse; / 


sizes 12 to 20, 30 to 38. 50c. 


Vogue Design No. 6910. ‘‘Easy-to-Make” skirt; 


sizes 24 to 32 waist. 50c. 


Skirt; sizes 24 to 32 


















LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 263 





i ¥ } a ; ; i a) 





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(Continued from Page 262) 
been to keep them from crying, lest they di- 
vulge their unhappy hiding place. Her own 
nerves were so shattered that she was on the 
verge of becoming an invalid. That was a 
year ago. 

Today the Sagers live in decent, comfort- 
able quarters. Louis has a well-paying job. 
Sylvia’s health has improved and she has re- 
gained her composure. The boys no longer 
run from people. They have made friends 
with other ‘children, are learning to play 
American games. Though they are behind in 
school, they are holding their own and expect, 
with some extra coaching, eventually to 
catch up. And in the school carpenter shop 
they are becoming skillful with their hands, 
learning to repair furniture and to make use- 
ful articles for the home. 

Not all the hotel guests adjust so readily. 
After spending years in constant fear, after 
losing husbands, wives, parents or children, 
these people sometimes find it difficult to live 
normally. There were two sisters who feared 
their fellow employees in the big office where 
they went to work. They are being counseled 
by psychiatric case workers who attempt to 
allay their nameless fears. Lotte Mejia, so 
dramatically reunited with her daughter, will 
probably never reattain a healthy outlook on 
life because of her memories of years of im- 
prisonment. But her daughter, Anna, and 
Anna’s husband and baby are here in Amer- 
ica and she is happy because she has her fam- 
ily near. Anna’s husband after his day’s work 
attends to furthering his rabbinical studies. 

Mr. Astrofsky has not found it easy with 
his headquarters at a hotel where there is a 
tragic story for every guest. In the night, if 
someone tries a wrong door by mistake, there 
are screams, he says. Often he spends hours 
trying to convince the occupant that it was 
not the Gestapo outside. He also has trouble 
persuading newcomers not to conceal bread 
in their clothing and to take it upstairs. The 
hotel dining room is open from eight to ten in 
the morning for breakfast, from noon to two 
for luncheon, and from six to eight for dinner. 
The food is good, and there is plenty. 


‘But when I tell them not to take food up- 
stairs, that there will be plenty tomorrow, 
they don’t believe me,’”’ Mr. Astrofsky says. 

The children worry the hotel employees. 
They are brighter than children need to be, 
and more wary. Questioned about their in- 
terests and ambitions, some of them shrug. 
Asked if they would like a bicycle, they may 
want to know why you would bribe them. 
But like any other kids, they love baseball in 
Central Park, where every day some of 
them are learning to run and laugh. 

One of the first questions that mothers ask 
Mr. Astrofsky is, ““ Where is the school ?’”’ The 
hotel directs them to wait until they are set- 
tled in a permanent home. But nearly all the 
parents insist upon starting their children in 
school immediately. What can you do, Mr. 


November, 1949 


Astrofsky wonders, when parents of children 
ten years old have never been able to send 
them to school? 

Public School 54 is just around the corner 
from the hotel and Hotel Marseilles guests 
are given a special dispensation. They may 
send their children to school if for only a day 
and no questions asked. 

Like many good hotels, the Marseilles has 
a recreation program, a nursery school and 
planned tours, but the most popular feature 
is the weekly lecture program, all about 
America. The guests ask such questions as, 
“How can people be Democrats in a country 
that is a republic?” 


Sometimes the guests are too silent. But 
Mr. Astrofsky has a cure for that too. In the 
hotel’s Rose Room, now a recreation hall for 
guests, there are dances every Friday night. 
It’s never hard to round up an orchestra. For 
in every large group that checks in at the 
desk, there are at least a dozen who play the 
piano, violin, cello, clarinet or saxophone. 

The Rose Room is never empty. Always 
there is someone seated at the piano. Once, 
Mr. Astrofsky, passing the door, heard a 
Chopin étude and saw no one at the piano. He 
walked in and found a curly-haired girl seven 
years old hidden in the easy chair on which 
she perched to reach the piano keys. 

“Do you know, she had never taken les- 
sons,” Mr. Astrofsky says wonderingly. ‘‘I 
asked where she learned, and she just said 
there was a piano at the DP camp. She 
played and played for me, and then said, 
“Now I will play something of my own.’”’ 

The girl is now studying at the Juilliard 
School, where another hotel guest won a fel- 
lowship recently. 

Even the very active, normally boisterous 
children in the hotel sometimes stop to con- 
trast their present pleasant life with past 
days. David Gross, thirteen, one of six 
brothers staying at the hotel with their par- 
ents, is a sort of leader. He plays baseball, 
soccer, chess, and collects stamps. He laughs 
a great deal, and is often scolded for riding up 
and down the elevators or using the inter- 
room telephones for pranks. But Mr. Astrof- 
sky thinks this is a good sign. It means that 
David has little time to remember his time at 
the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, or his 
family’s flight from Hungary into Italy, 
when by the side of the road his mother gave 
birth to his youngest brother. 

““T made up my mind then to be a very 
good boy,’’ David says. “‘I did not even cry 
in the /age [camp] when I had typhus. Now, I 
am not so sure I am good. I am-having too 
much fun.” 

There is many a story of courage and 
bravery, heartbreak and suffering to be 
learned inside the Hotel Marseilles. ‘‘ There is 
something in this hotel we must never for- 
get,’’ Ralph Astrofsky tells you. “We must 
somehow let our guests know that the sun 
will shine again for them tomorrow.” 


Kw wow Wk ROK rk KVR TK UK AK Oe OK OX 


Ii Ht { ot the World ye: Covel By Joan —— 


Wars end. The idle’lilies of the field 

Nod graceful and perpetual applause 

No matter what befalls, and idly 
yield 

Their white heads to the glassy wind 
that draws 

The seed, the bee, the flower, effect 
and cause, 

Interminably together and apart, 

Begetting sons as though it had a 
heart. 


Wars end. Also in the cool morning 
air 

The pleasant birds salute the entire 
cast, 

Soldiers and citizens, the grim, the 
fair, 

Without a thought to the just buried 
past, 


Or to which one flies first and which 
one last; 

They pipe their lovely and imperti- 
nent song 

To robbers, cops and robbed, and all 
day long. 


Wars end. Survivors wonder and dis- 
cover 

Small gardens growing grave and 
secret flowers. 

In’ the rock’s shadow the forsaken 
lover 

Whose love was once the world can 
watch the hours 

Build in the air like slow and golden 
towers 

Beside the blue lake ofthe summersky 

And see how simple was the wish to 


die. 
Printed in U.S. A. 





q 


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DUE ie 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


December, 191" 








On your very first trip you'll discover there’s nothing like 
a Flagship for mothers traveling with a baby. 


66 ; 
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There’ nothing like u Certainly there’s nothing like it on earth for sheer convenience! 


The trip is so short you can travel light... 


Sh ) ; no need to lug along oodles of clothing and diapers. 
ON EARTH for 4 The! odin Me ae ea 
IN 4 ’ OY VM There's nothing like it at mealtimes either! 
\ They're absolute pleasure times with baby’s special prepared food 


7 } ” 
with a baby yh served when he wants it... how he wants it. 
But et journey’s end—ah that’s when you really count 
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Pour Haireanbe 


Journal Contents .... ~~ December, 1949 


VOL, LXVI, No. 12 


eee Novel Condensation Complete in This Issue 


Houses UpontasRock %..). 9. “aGoc x¢ « . 2) Henry, Misrock. +34 
Fiction 





—all youve got to do is take 


ime home and squeeze me! G 


































Then the Meilmar Came ictus 2 . Val Teal 
Gentian Hill (Second part of eye. . . . Elizabeth Goudge 38 
The Dog Who Had Everything. . . . . . . . Dorothy Walworth 40 
California Hybrid. . . . . . . . . . . . Alberta Hughes Wahl 42 


Special Features 





Road Accidents Can be Cut Down . . . . . Dorothy Thompson 
Wives Who Work. ......... . . .Louise M:; Neuschutz 11 


/ 
| From, Amesslowa\... to Vienna, Austria . - . . 1c © @2..4 4 20 
: SHEE ASS ON BAUS World-Wide Neighbors . . ..... . . . . Margaret Hickey 23 
For five years (I’m 21 now) I’ve All is Calm, Allis Bright. . . . . . . . . Dorothy De Zowche 50 
been writing for teen-agers—syndi- A Street in Our Town. . . . . . . . Hodding Carter 51 
cated newspaper columns and four Profile of Youth: Jim Brown, Gite of °50 Se TM Tae ROT dor eters ete 
books. The latest: an etiquette book Look, Ma! They’re Dancing. . . > ee cules OO 
for boys called Blondes Prefer Ga Subsidized Marriage... Pattern of ie Eemace?, ee J ee fre 
anes To contribute to Profile of There’s a Man inthe House. . . ... . . . . Harlan Miller 59 
: Youth (page 56), I interviewed °83 I Wanted to Nurse My Baby... . . . . . Eleanor O'Donnell 141 
teen-agers, visited, the Stork Club How America Lives: Victory Five Years Later 


twice and was taught the Charleston Richard EF. Lauterbach 159 


= General Features 
by a Princeton sophomore. Work? 


Our ReadersO Write Ur 2. nF se eames eS IS GRD whe oe Maye vO 

Under-Cover Stuff... ..... .... . . Bernardine Kielty 14 

Diary of Domesticity. ...... .... ... Gladys Taber 24 

Making Marriage Work. . . . aa _ Clifford R. Adams 26 

Come On—It’s Christmas (The Sub- Deb) Edited by Maureen Daly 28 

Fifty Years Ago in the Journal e Journal About Town. . . . 33 

; Ask Any Woman. . . ee eo Cee Re arcelene Cox 115 
R This is a Construction- Cliunher eo ee ee MiunranLeafel 30 


What to Do About “Scary Dreams” . .Dr. Herman N. Bundesen 139 


Fashions and Beauty 





There’s Something About Her Wilhela Cushman 








































Pattern for a Perfect eee iat 2 ae . . .Nora O'Leary 48 
Short... Sleek . ew waeakel Doin Crowell Norman 52 
HENRY MISROCK ; Beauty. ... Five a Rain Todas. . . . Dawn Crowell Norman 164 
Quick Ghanves ... for Your Basic Dress . . . . .Nora O'Leary 166 


“My parents left Russia long ago in 


search of a better life. New York Food and Homemaking 












City is my home town. Three plays Christmas at the Journal . . . . . . . . . . . Ann Batchelder 60 

of mine lit up Broadway briefly. At MinezaeDayin fom a5 Gace «Cotto el aes ty |, Annybatchelder* 162 

the outbreak of the war I enlisted, Conversation Piece. . . ....... . . -Ruth Mills Teague 84 

and emerged, some centuries later, Quick and Easys for Two... ... . . . . Louella G. Shouer 148 

a captain. When the JouRNAL ac- One Roast—Three Meals . . . . . . . . . . Louella G. Shouer 168 

cepted House Upon a Rock (page 34), Small House—Small Kitchen. . . . . . . . . . . Gladys Taber 180 THERES NO 

I phoned Madeline Himes, a Life ; OTHER SHAMPOO LIKE 
reporter in. San Francisco, and Architecture and Interior Decoration EMERALD. 
: made immediate wedding plans.” The Hermitage. . . . . . . Richard Pratt 44 == =—- 





Young Marrieds’ Budget Room — radio cal Seton 


H. T. Williams 190 
Poetry 






Julia Johnson Davis 69 ¢ Margaret Widdemer 80 e Georgie Starbuck Gal- 
braith 90 ¢ Bernard D. N. Grebanier 103 ¢ Elizabeth-Ellen Long 113 
Dorothy Smith 118 e Marion Lineaweaver 130 e Kenneth C. Anderson 152 
Marjorie Lederer Lee 176 ¢ Sara King Carleton 183 e Polly Toland 189 
Frances Rodman 196 


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COVER: THE REST ON THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT—GERARD DAVID 
FROM THE NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART, MELLON COLLECTION 


Ladies’ Home Journal, copyright 1949 by The Curtis Publishing Company in U. S. and Great Britain. 
All rights reserved. Title registered in U.S. Patent Office and foreign countries. Published on last Friday of 
4 month preceding date by The Curtis Publishing Company, Independence Square, Philadelphia 5, Pa. Entered 
as Second Class Matter May 6, 1911, at the Post Office at Philadelphia under the Act of March 3, 1879, En- 
i = tered as Second Class Matter at the Post Office Department, Ottawa, Canada, by Curtis Distributing Com- 
DOROTHY DE ZOUCHE pany, Ltd., Toronto, Ont., Canada. 

Subscription Prices: U.S. and Possessions, Canada, Costa Rica, Cuba, Nicaragua, Dominican Republic, Gua- 
eecur s | I h h I temala, Haiti, Mexico, Panama, Philippine Islands, Republic of Honduras, Salvador, Spain and South America 
When I was smal t oug t 1 was except the Guianas: 1 yr., $3; 2 yrs., $5; 3 yrs., $7; 4 yrs., $9. Other countries, 1 yr.,$6. Remit by money order or 
: aaa . draft on a bank in the U. S. payable in U. S. funds, All prices subject to change without notice. All subscriptions 

a privileged child because I was TeLte rat Rete 


A never scolded for tracking dirt on Unconditional Guaranty. We agree, upon request direct from subscribers to the Philadelphia office, to 
Py E i li ot . refund the full amount paid for any copies of Curtis publications not previously mailed. 
d the rug or breaking a dish or getting The Curtis Publishing Company, Walter D. Fuller, President; Robert E. MacNeal, First Vice-President; 
é i eee ta 7 : - Arthur W. Kohler, Vice-President and Advertising Director; Mary Curtis Zimbalist, Vice-President; Cary W. 
& a le yw mark ix oe ithmetic. After Bok, Vice-President; Lewis W. Trayser, Vice-President and Director of Manufacturing; Benjamin Allen, Vice- 
i twenty years of teaching I still President and Director of Circulation; Brandon Barringer, Treasurer; Robert Gibbon, Secretary; Richard 
’ 5 Shive . Ziesing, Jr., Manager of Ladies’ Home Journal. The Company also publishes The Saturday Evening Post, 
. think so. I have taught all kinds of Country Gentleman, Jack and Jill, and Holiday. 


childre n and I find them all fasci- Change of Address: Send your Journal change of address to 
* LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL, INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA 5, PA. 


ating xciting. Allis Calm, All 
nating and excitl i C : at least 30 days before the date of the issue with which it is to take effect. Send old address with the new, en- 
1s Bright (page 50) recalls some closing if possible your address label. The post office will not forward copies unless you provide extra postage. 
‘ ‘} . 7 Duplicate copies cannot be sent. 
happy child hood C iristmases. The names of characters in all stories are fictitious. Any resemblance to living persons is a coincidence, 





CREATED BY PROCTER & GAMBLE 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL December, 1949 



















Be your smiling self whatever the day — even when your 
calendar threatens to dishearten you. Because with 
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aggravations ... 


Sure of softness that actually lasts; holds its shape, to 
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happy-hearted confidence that is very personally yours. 





EARTH for ¢ 0 Oa | | 
with a baby . | 








We wine thiode Ki j a 
we, Mie auntie tig nigphine—~ 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL ; Fy 
“Your Hair can be Fi 


Radiant and 
Dandruff-free 


— all youve got to do is take 
me home and squeeze me {” 





































1946 

Bud and Norma Jean 
Moore show friends 
their ‘‘first two.”’ 

















1947 
Tom and Sparkie (above) 
are joined by Andy, a 
handsome four months. 


1949 
At last a girl—Jamie— 
who’s well flanked by 
three male protectors. 


bi senate a 


LAE 


1948 
Eyes are bigger and 
rounder—do you think 
Santa will come soon? 


Christmas cards show growth of the Moore family of New Hampton, N. H. 


Adopts Baby, Then Has One 


Juneau, Alaska. 

Dear Editors: We really get burned up 
when childless couples tell us, ‘But we 
really couldn’t consider adoption; the 
baby wouldn't be ours,” or, ‘‘How do you 
feel toward your adopted child now that 
you have one of your own?”’ Naturally, we 
feel no differently toward one than the 
other. One is just as ornery or lovable as 
the other and we love them both very 
dearly. 

Four years ago today we were awarded 
our daughter by the Idaho Children’s 
Home Finding and Aid Society of Boise, 
Idaho, after the necessary investigation 
interval. Before we could say “birds and 
bees,”’ I was pregnant, and we have what 
we hope is just the start of a big family. 

We put in an order to the stork as soon 
as I was sufficiently on my feet after our 
son arrived, but guess that overworked 
bird has lost our application blank in the 
shuffle. But, like the JOURNAL, we never 
underestimate the power of a woman (or 
man) and are still hopefully checking our 
calendar. Very sincerely, 

LOIS H. REEDY. 


Claims Mather Letter Forged 


Trenton, New Jersey. 

Dear Editors: In September’s JOURNAL, 

p. 134, there appears a prominent insert, 
titled Religious Tolerance, 17-Century 
Style, in which Cotton Mather is pur- 
ported to planan act of piracy and enslave- 


ment against William Penn and the 
Quakers. 

The letter is nothing more than a ma- 
licious forgery. As such it is unfortunate 
that it should be so widely printed and 
continue to circulate as the coin of history. 
It first appeared in The Easton Argus 
(Pennsylvania) on April 28, 1870. It was 
forged by the editor, James F. Shunk, who 
had a strong antipathy to the Puritans. 
Shunk said the letter had been found by a 
Mr. Judkins, of the Massachusetts His- 
torical Society, among the papers de- 
posited with them by Robert Greenleaf, of 
Malden, Massachusetts. The Massachu- 
setts Historical Society immediately 
branded the letter a forgery and a lie. 

Yours very sincerely, 
JOHN D. CRAIG. 


The letter came to us from a seemingly 
reliable source. Although some author- 
ities defend its authenticity, many agree 
with Reader Craig. ED. 


Finds Self Hard to Live With... 


Los Angeles, California. 

Dear Editors: Can a confirmed, practic- 
ing neurotic change—and if so, how? 

I know with private, inescapable cer- 
tainty that if my husband weren't such 
a swell guy to live with I could create a 
fancy five-room hell right here with the 
tensions and worries and dissatisfactions I 
accumulate in a single, ordinary day of 
keeping house and taking care of one baby. 









~ tueRE'S NO 
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FOR RADIANT HAIR, GET AHOLD oF Me! “ Ki Ree, 


5 a f 








CREATED BY PROCTER & GAMBLE 





6 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





The gift that proves special regard 


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Makes every slice uniformly light or dark, as de- 
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Your favorite cook deserves this 
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cooking and better eating! Cook- 
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ample for 16 hamburgers, 8 pan- 
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I have all the raw materials for a happy 
life—good health, congenial husband and 
cute child, no in-law interference, few 
money worries. And yet half the time I 
carry around as black and bitter a brew of 
inward discontent as you could find in a 
psychiatrist’s filing cabinet. From what I 
know of several of my friends I'm not 
alone, either. I don’t believe I’m a case for 
a psychiatrist—even if I could afford one. 
But sometimes when I hear my own voice, 
echoing shrewishly in my ears, or find 
myself trembling with irritation over 
trifles, I ache with the realization of how I 
hate the person I’ve become. 

At past thirty—can I change? 

Sincerely, 
(Name withheld by request.) 


If you put your mind—and spirit—in 
it, why not? ED. 


How to Solve Problems 


Paragould, Arkansas. 

Dear Editors: 1 read the letter from a 
Chicago wife who seemed to believe there 
was no hope for her marriage. I wish to 
offer her and any others the solution to this 
problem. It’s very simple—just start pray- 
ing. And to those who would immediately 
brand me a religious fanatic, let me say I 
can think of nothing that would be more 
amusing to my more pious friends, or even 
my husband. 

If you should choose to follow this 
course, and I assure you it will work, I wish 
to caution you to be sure your SOS gets 
through. The radio operator on a sinking 
ship doesn’t send one SOS and stop, but 
continues until he is sure the message has 
been picked up. Get off to yourself and 
keep sending that SOS until you are sure 
the message is through. You'll know by the 
peace of mind you experience. Keep in 
mind you didn’t know the answer to your 
problems, so don’t try to tell God how to 
solve them. 

All it takes is faith that your marriage 
is worth saving, and faith in God. 

Sincerely, 
(Name withheld by request.) 


Undercover Girls 


Hollywood, California. 

Dear Editors: Whenever the JOURNAL 
arrives, Tina says, ‘‘Mommy, that’s us,” 
as she looks at the illustrations. In 
this picture Tina is five years old and 
Cathy is sixteen months. My husband is 
Buddy Cole, the pianist, and I am one of 
the four King Sisters. Although our lives 





Youthful Journal Fans. 


are closely associated with the entertain- 
ment world, our home and family are our 
principal delights. For me, the photo sym- 
bolizes two lines I’ve always liked: 
““Whatever else be lost among the 


years, 
Let us keep Christmas still a shining 
thing.” Sincerely, 


YVONNE KING COLE, 


Con_ ersation at Midnight 


Kirkland, Washington. 

Dear Editors: Received the JOURNAL 
today. 

Boy oh boy oh boy! Best doggone copy 
ever written. 

The stories are great! 

Biggest issue yet. Read until 3 A.M. No 
wonder I am hungry! Make myself an egg 
sandwich and trot along to bed. 

3:30 a.M.: Oh hum! Just couldn’t quit 
until I told you how much I enjoyed it. 

My first fan letter, and sincerely yours, 

LORRAINE TREVOR. 
(Continued on Page 8) 















December, 1949 





MY HUSBANOS 
STILL RAVING 

ABOUT YOUR GRAVY 
LAST MIGHT / 




















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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Tf you don’t drink up all the BIRDS 
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overnight in a covered jar in your 
refrigerator. The wnthawed conten- 
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PRODUCT OF GENERAL FOODS 


Even the fussiest folks say Birds Eye 
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E/RDS EVE-B0UND 70 GE BETTER/ 


8 a LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


MOTHER-IN-LAW COMING: HOUSE IN A MESS 


UNEXPECTED VISIT! Mother-in-law wires she is arriving... thousands of things to do— 
and now the youngsters are making extra trouble for mother. 


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(Continued from Page 6) 
Teen-Agers in Germany 


Erfurt, Germany. 
Dear Miss Daly, dear Miss Dunn: This 
was Christmas in summer when your par- 
cel arrived. It would be a useless attempt 
to describe you the exaltation it caused at 
all of us. The package was opened with 
great ceremony and each item was greeted 
with merry shouts. We fitted on the nice 
clothes at once and distributed them in 
equal parts, for we are equally in need. 
Very sincerely yours, 
LONA, KATI, ECKI and SPATZ. 


ie These girls, members of our only Sub- 


Deb club in Germany, live in the Rus- 
sian Zone, where CARE parcels may not 
be sent. ED. 


Church and Magazine 
F-egg Harbor, Wisconsin, 
Dear Sir: The JOURNAL is a minister’s 
magazine too. Hats off to your stand 
against liquor, and your encouragement of 
wholesome Christian family life. 
Thanks again, 
J. W. STEDMAN, 
The Evangelical United Brethren Church. 


Out of Place 
New York Cily 

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gould: Come, come, 
Editors Gould! 

From many sources our attention is 
being called to the layout and feature, 
Where Do Teen-Agers Get Their Sex 
Education?, in the October, 1949} issue of 
Lapies’ HOME JOURNAL. 

In this feature you state that the 
LapIEes’ HOME JOURNAL has made a survey 
that turns up publications that present 
information “in distorted and inaccurate 
form’’—in “lewd pamphlets.” It is ob- 
vious that your layout is picturing this 
type of publication that you decry. Most 
prominent in that illustration, because it 
is tied in most directly with the layout and 
title, you have pictured the front cover of 
Woman's Life magazine. 

Our readers and some of our profes- 
sional contributors are protesting, and I 
believe that if you take another look you 
will understand our indignation that you, 
as editors, and L.H.J., as a publication, 
should so sweepingly make highly dam- 
aging charges against a very valuable pub- 
lishing property. The charges and the im- 
plications therein are grossly unjust, as we 
are sure you will agree if you take the trou- 
ble to examine any of the issues of Wom- 
an’s Life magazine that have appeared 
quarterly over a period of several years. 

The tone and content of Woman's Life 
are excellent, and have been highly com- 
mended by the clergy, medical profession, 
psychologists, psychiatrists, social-service 
workers and others. The tone of this 
magazine is exactly the same as that in 
our associated publication, Your Life, the 
Popular Guide to Desirable Living, from 
which, from time to time, LADIES’ HOME 
JOURNAL has made quotations. And an- 
other one of the ‘“‘ pamphlets” your article 
sweepingly decries might well be con- 
strued as being our quarterly publication, 
Your Health, which is a notably sound 
magazine dealing with health subjects and 
numbering among its contributors many 
of the foremost medics and representatives 
of organized medicine in the country. 
Incidentally, some of the contributors to 
Woman's Life have been contributors to 
LapIEs’ HOME JOURNAL. 

Although Woman’s Life is rarely placed 
with the magazines with which you have 
pictured it, we cannot believe that this 
action on, the part of LApIrs’ HoME 
JOURNAL in branding before your many 
million readers Woman's Life as a dis- 
torted, inaccurate, lewd publication has 
been deliberate or malicious. We greatly 
prefer to think that this damaging attack 
is inadvertent. I can’t help but believe 
that your own sense of fairness and honesty 
and professional integrity will prompt a 
fast and reasonable explanation and sug- 
gestion as to what you intend to do to 
right this very clear wrong. 

Very truly yours, 
DOUGLAS E. LURTON 
Editor and Vice-President, 
Woman's Life 


> The picture, taken by a staff photog- 


rapher, portrayed a section of a San 
Francisco newsstand as it happened to 
appear the day the shot was made. The 


e teen-ager, of course, takes his pick. ED. e 


December, 1949 





“My daughter doesn’t | 
like the shoes I wear... 





“Look here, I told her. Fashion 
isn’t everything. I need shoes 
that love my poor old feet. 

spo 





““Natch,’ she says. ‘But don’t you 
know Lastex adds comfort and 
fit to every style shoe?’ 





“Now, I’m wearing smart shoes 
with Lastex woven right into 
their linings. My daughter’s aii 
smiles—so am I. 






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for this label to be 
sure it’s made with Lastex.” 








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[es all too easy for a cold, once it starts, to spread 
from one member of the family to another .. . 
with troublesome results. That’s why it’s so sensible 
to enlist the aid of the Listerine Antiseptic gargle 
early and often! 

This pleasant antiseptic reaches way back on 
throat surfaces to kill millions of threatening germs 
called the ‘‘secondary invaders.” 


Although many colds may be started by a virus, 
it is these ‘‘secondary invaders,’’ say many author- 
ities, that are responsible for much of the misery 
you know so well. Listerine Antiseptic, if used .fre- 
quently during the 12 to 36-hour period of “incuba- 
tion” when a cold may be developing, can often 
help forestall the mass invasion of these germs and 
so head off trouble. 





It’s LISTERINE ANTISEPTIC 
Luick { 


... for Everybody 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Listerine Antiseptic’s remarkable germ-killing # 
action has been demonstrated time and again. 
Tests showed germ reductions on mouth and 
throat surfaces ranging up to 96.7% fifteen min- 
utes after a Listerine Antiseptic gargle, and up 

to 80% an hour later. 


This germ-killing power, we believe, accounts for 
Listerine Antiseptic’s remarkable clinical test record 
against colds. Tests made over a period of 12 years 
showed that those who gargled with Listerine Anti- 
septic twice daily had fewer colds and usually had 
milder colds than those who did not gargle.. . and 
fewer sore throats. 


So, whenever there’s a cold in your family, pre- 
scribe Listerine Antiseptic for everyone. It’s a wise 
thing to do. Lambert Pharmacal Co., St. Louis, Mo. 


Memo: Next time you see flakes and scales, start with Listerine Antiseptic and massage — 


quick... it’s a wonderful aid for INFECTIOUS DANDRUFF 


When a COLD threatens to run through a family... 





s 


Se 


oe 


- 







Threatening “Secondary Invaders” 
which Listerine Antiseptic attacks 


TOP ROW, left to right: Pneumococcus Type II1, Pneumococcus Type 
IV, Streptococcus hemolyticus, Friedlander’s bacillus. BOTTOM 
ROW, left to right: Streptococcus viridans, Bacillus influenzae, 
Micrococcus catarrhalis, Staphylococcus aureus. 


You can see by their names that they’re nothing to 
fool with. Millions of them can live on mouth and 
throat surfaces, waiting until body resistance is low- 
ered to strike. You can realize the importance of the 
regular use of Listerine Antiseptic to try to keep their 
numbers reduced. 












— 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


December, 1949 


Washington Girl 


becomes Camay Bride! 





Best-looking couple prize at their first dance 

together went to Ruth and Joseph. Ruth’s mask 
couldn’t mask her Camay Complexion! Washington 
born and bred—and beautiful—she’d met her 
husband-to-be through Theatre Guild work. 


Add up all the adjectives that mean gorgeous— 
and they still wouldn't do justice to Ruth! 

For her vivid coloring is set off by a strikingly 
lovely skin. ‘‘My first cake of Camay,’’ she 
confides, “‘led to a smoother complexion!” 


Jai Alai, they say, is the most exciting game in the 
world. But, on their Cuban honeymoon, Joseph 
couldn’t take his eyes from his bride’s 
breathtaking complexion. No wonder Ruth 
promises she'll stay on the Camay Mild-Soap Diet! 


MRS. JOSEPH JOHN LENZI, the former Ruth V. Sherwood of Washington, D. C.—bridal portrait painted by Ff Gore 









Be 








your First Cake of Camay! 


A lovely skin invites romance! And your skin will be smoother and clearer 
with your first cake of Camay, if you give up careless cleansing —use Camay 
and Camay alone. Let no lesser soap than Camay touch your skin! & 
We call this ‘The Camay Mild-Soap Diet” and if you follow directions on the 
wrapper, you'll be lovelier. Doctors tested gentle Camay care 


on scores of women. Almost all won fresher, softer skin with the 


a first cake of Camay. So begin today with fine, mild, free-lathering Camay! 
THE SOAP OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


REG, U.S. PAT, OFF, 


en aitfomitic... 


q miss! 


Shuts off by itself when 
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hot AUTOMATICALLY 





For that Christmas Gift! 


COFFEEMASTER coffee is ALWAYS delicious—because everything is auto- 
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when coffee is done. Resets 
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A product of CHICAGO’S Great Industrial Center 






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Save that ' 
rib roast 


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than a 


penny / 


Sandwiches Taste Better—Cut-Rite 
wax paper is extra heavy! Not just 
surface-waxed, it’s waxed through 
and through. Bread and spreads 
kéep “just made” fresh. Costs less 
than a penny to keep roasts “just 
cooked” delicious for other meals. 

















IVY 


‘‘CUT-RITE’* REG, U. S. PAT. OFF. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





Perfectly Pliable—No breaking, no 
splitting when you fold, wrap or 
even twist Cut-Rite! Save icebox 
space by wrapping small leftovers 
like a half lemon or tomato in a piece 
of Cut-Rite and tucking them in 
corners. A Scott Paper Product. 







Famous cutting edge 
tears easily 


More women choose it 


.-. love to use it! 





December, 1949 





Sonja, Mathilda and Irena, three little “‘blond Poles,’’ are 


recapturing their childhood in Pestalozzi Children’s Village. 


Uder-Coover Stuff 


By BERNARDINE KIELTY 


HE old wisecrack about Switzer- 

land is: Take away the mountains 
and what have you? All we can say is 
you have plenty. You have, for one 
thing, a fine upstanding people, ‘‘de- 
void of all romantic sentiment,” as 
John Ruskin said of them, “‘yet loving 
with a practical and patient love that 
neither wearies nor forsakes.”’ 


The Pestalozzi Children’s Village is an 
example. It is a village dedicated to the 
care and training of Europe's war orphans. 


The children live in houses as nearly 
like a normal family house as possible, 
with sixteen the greatest number in any 
one. Each nationality, in its own house, 
speaks its native language, and eats 
food prepared as it would be in its own 
country. But that is as far as nation- 
ality goes. The children mingle in sports 
and music and handcraft activities, and 
they learn almost at once to use one 
another’s languages. 





In time they will return to their 
own countries. They will be equipped 
for citizenship in their own lands, 
but with an additional practical ex- 
perience which will make them 
citizens of the world. 


Two books that people will keep 
and not give away next Christmas are 
U.S. WEsT—THE SAGA OF WELLS 
FarGO, by Lucius Beebe and Charles 
Clegg; and PIONEER AMERICA, by 
Carl W.. Drepperd. Both are handsome 
volumes embellished with innumerable 
illustrations. 


The Wells Fargo book is a romantic, 
nostalgic and exciting story of the West 
in the past one hundred years. PIONEER 
AMERICA 1s a history of early America 
through its crafts, gadgets, inventions — 
a boon for antique collectors, decorators, 
historians. 

(Continued on Page 16) 


CULVER SERVICE 








The Overland Route — by Van Dargent 











Then you’re serving Swift's 


you needn’t wait till mealtime to be sure of 


For thanks to a unique system of quality con- 
trol, Swift’s Premium is a/ways perfect. From the 


Premium Ham 


a meat-treat. That fork-tender texture is always 
the same. That matchless flavor never varies. 








CPs. 
25. > 


CRANBERRY HAM SLICES: Mix 2 c. raw 
cranberries with 1 c. honey; spread on 1” center 
slice of Swift’s Premium Ham. Top with an- 
other slice edged with cloves. Bake in slow oven 
(825°F.) about 75 min., basting occasionally. 
Garnish top with some of the cooked cranberries. 





America’s favorite ham 
comes in 2 styles: 


Blue Label, for easy 


home cooking ; 


Red Label, fully cooked. 





NOTE: Not so-called “‘ready- 
to-eat’’?. . . but really, 
deliciously, fully cooked as 
you’d do it at home! 





careful choosing of each ham, through the Brown- 
Sugar-Cure and oven-smoking over hardwood 
fires, a long series of controls assures uniformity. 
Swift’s Premium is dependably, deliciously the 
same anytime, anywhere you buy it. That’s why 
it continues to be America’s bes/-liked ham. 





HAM AND POTATO SCALLOP: Slice 6 c. 
cooked potatoes. (If possible, use potatoes of 
baking type.) Arrange in alternate layers with 
pieces of cooked Swift’s Premium Ham in 2 qt. 
casserole. Add 2 c. thin, seasoned white sauce. 
Bake in mod. oven (350°F.) about 30 minutes. 


Matha Leger 


Spiced Cranberry Bells: Boil 
4c. cranberries in 2 c. water for 
20 min. Add 2 c. sugar, 34 tsp. 
cinnamon; cook 2 min. Add 2 
tbsp. gelatin softened in % c. 
cold water. Rinse small molds 
in cold water; fill with sauce; 
chill. At serving time, top with 
bows of softened cream cheese 
put through pastry tube. For 
festoon, tie parsley sprigs with 
thread to make 36” rapes trim 
with shears. Bake Swift's 
Premium Ham according to 
directions on tag with every 
ham. Candle is cream cheese 
with flame cut from pimiento, 
holly leaves from green pepper. 





A gift you'd love 
to get! Swift's 
Premium Ham in 
gay wrappings. 





Clam is perfect every time 


Swift's unique system 
of quality-control 
assures you the same 
superbly mellow flavor, 
the same delicious 
tenderness, in every 


Swift's Premium Ham. 


16 


... looks like silver 
cooks like magic 


Lasts 2 






lifetime! 


itera 
Covered Saucepan 


\ 
at a 
88 
te Home aker 
© 


It’s the gift of a lifetime . . . it lasts 


a lifetime. Here are the reasons: 


@ Thick, cast aluminum, will not dent 
or warp in ordinary use 


@ Hammered finish resists scratches 


@ Solid one-piece construction; no rivets, 
no rolled edges; easy to keep clean 


@ Cooks over low heat, top-of-stove; 
can save you up to 50% on gas or 
electricity 

@ Reduces shrinkage, saves vitamins 

and minerals, so food bills are lower, 


nutrition higher 


© Pays for itself in the savings it makes 





th 





LADIES’ HOME JOU 


era 
Covered Saucepan 
ota heeds aT) 


10-in. Open Fry Pan 
ya) 


42-qt. Dutch Oven 
(Cover fits 10-in. Fry Pan 
above) 


¢ . 


3-qt. 
Covered Saucepan 


$4.45 





1949 rN ced 


is Christmas 


In Club you cook the waterless way. 
Diagram shows how Club saves fuel 
costs, keeps Full Flavor in foods. 


ae Thick walls spread 
s heat evenly; moisture- 

HEATS FROM 
pu sies @ seal cover bastes 
= back food juices. 





See Club Aluminum at hardware, 
furniture, department stores and 
other dealers. 20 pieces ...a wide 
choice of types and sizes. . . all with 
that handsome hammered finish. 
And — cheerful note — prices are 
about half of what they originally 
were. Club Aluminum Products 
Co., Chicago 14, Illinois. 


CLUB ALUMINUM HAMMERCRAFT WATERLESS COOKWARE 


Also makers of Club Glass Coffee Makers and Club Coffee Dispensers 
Tune in “Club Time,” ABC network, Tuesday mornings, ond hear favorite hymns of famous people 


With New Year so close, we quote a 
letter from a little Chinese boy who 
was our Foster Child last year: 


Dear Foster Mother: 

Final examinations in our school are 
over. Tomorrow we shall start our winter 
vacation. But before it begins every one of 
us makes up a plan of what he is going to 
do during this period. My plans are as 


follows: 
1) I get up and sleep early everyday. 
2) Everyday I help to cook food for Ue 


3) Everyday I teach three characters to 


4) Everyday I revise my lessons. 


things. I must not slack down in the 


RNAL 


(Continued from Page 14) 


family. 


others. 


5) I must read books and magazines 
and newspapers. I must remember 


them. 


6) Every week I must write an essay. 


Dear foster mother, I must do all these 


COLLIER'S 





“What’s the matter with cooking? 
Why don’t they take cooking any 
more?”’ 


holidays. Everything must be tense, lively 
and happy. How do you like my ideas? 
With best wishes, 
Your foster son 
Yu Suei-yu. 


TERROR AND DECORUM is Peter 
Viereck’s first book of poetry and it 
won him—as it very well should—the 
Pulitzer prize for poetry. It also won us. 
We have read every one of its beautiful 
poems and we recommend it heartily as 
a Christmas gift. Viereck’s poems have 
thyme and rhythm. They represent 
“the return to clarity,” as do also the 
poems, we hear, of Karl Shapiro. 


Perhaps it is not fair to take a piece 
of a poem, but here is the last of four 
stanzas of Viereck’s Kilroy: 


God is like Kilroy; He, too, sees it all; 
That's how He knows of every sparrow’s 
fall; 
That's why we prayed each time the 
lightropes cracked 
On which our loveliest clowns contrived 
their act. 
The G. I. Faustus who was everywhere 
Strolled home again. “‘What was it like 
outside ?”’ 
Asked Can’l, with his good neighbors 
Ought and But 
And pale Perhaps and grave-eyed 
Better Not; 
For “ Kilroy”’ means: the world is very 


wide. 
He was there, he was there, he was there! 


Two books about animals which we 
would have liked to receive at any time 
from the age of fourteen on, and which 
we have just—at an advanced age— 
read with great joy are THE VOICE OF 
THE COYOTE, by J. Frank Dobie, 

(Continued on Page 18) 








teal 
Ww 
December, 1949 


yu tastes 


Wy, ? ‘ 
at pill Y? Sut Bee 


says 





CHRISTMAS HONEY Nur KUCHEN 


ae ae 
3 Cup Sio 2c 
2 tables cities ae 
é S butter é j 
ion Or margarine 
4% cup broken pecan meats oa 
1 egg 7 
Dee 
a CUPs prepared biscuit mix 
V4 cup Sugar 
% cup milk 
Y, cup raisi 
3 UP raisins or currants 










Preheat over 
é 1to 400° F, He. 

] el - Heat hone 
a ; y ' 
See in 8 square baking oak, 

ti Sutter is melted, Sprinkle 
pecans over honey mixture I 
egg. Stir in biscyj | ee 
als >ISCuit mix, Sugar and 
Be : Add raisins to batter and 
i; re oven honey nut mixture 
24Ke 20-25 minutes j 
hot Oven (400°F.,), When don 
inve é ; 
ee pan Over a cookie sheet to 
2 ich drippings and remove cak 
Serve warm, ae 













S0 Good..made with 
SIOUX BEE honey 


@ It simply oozes goodness... this Christ- 
mas Honey Nut Kuchen. Meaty pecans, 
fruity currants, creamy milk, golden but- 
ter, delectable Sioux Bee Honey... wait 
till you taste! 

In every recipe calling for honey, use. 
Sioux Bee. It’s choicest honey, with its 
uniform high quality controlled by the 
world’s largest honey packers. Ask your 
grocer, always, for Sioux Bee. 


TREAT YOURSELF to Sioux Bee Honey 
on hot biscuits, pancakes, waffles, and 
cereals. Sweeten grapefruit with it. And 
try Sioux Bee Honey Spread—a crystal- 
lized confection. Every way, Sioux Bee 
Honey is delicious! 

FREE! Write for the new Sioux Bee book- 
let of unusual honey recipes. Address 
Sioux Honey Association, Dept. L-129, 
Sioux City, lowa. 


for finest honey, say 


























Five flavorful fruits in one easy lesson — 


Just say “Del Monte Brand Fruit Cocktail’”’ 
—-that’s all you need to know to get five 
luscious fruits, combined in perfect flavor 
balance —all ready to use. They're Del Monte 
fruits, every one of them — and you know 
what rich, ripe flavor ¢hat means! 


And think how handy! This fruit cocktail 
is dressy enough for company — quick and 
easy enough for everyday, too. No peeling, 
dicing or mixing for you to do. Just open 
and serve. 

Ready for starters, salads, desserts — it 
makes your simplest dishes bright, your 
brightest ‘“‘made-ups’’ simple. That’s why 
so many women get Del Monte Fruit Cocktail. 
Why don’t you? 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Drain No. 21 can Del Monte Fruit Cocktail, reserving 
syrup. Soften 11 tbsps. gelatin in 34, cup syrup from 
fruit cocktail; dissolve over hot water. Stir in 1/2 cups 
milk, 2 tsps. lemon juice, 2 tsp. almond extract, 
Yq cup sugar. Chill to consistency of honey. Mean- 
while make meringue as follows: Beat 2 egg whites 
till foamy, then add % cup sugar, a tbsp. at a time, 
beating after each addition. Now fold 2 lightly beaten 
egg yolks into gelatin mixture; then fold in meringue. 
Whip and fold in % cup whipping cream. Cut cones 
out of tops of 8 small day-old unfrosted cup cakes; 
press, cut side down, into 5-cup flat-bottomed ring 
mold. Pour mixture around cakes in ring mold; top 
with crumbled cake cones. Chill till firm. Unmold; 
fill cake centers and center of ring with chilled fruit 
cocktail. Serves 8. 


One more good food 
trom the brand that puts 


: 

























ta gay atlas 


Silt 


ee 


eed 





18 


NLY THE NEW CASCO 


ae ae 
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hem aM e 


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CU CO a 


nti tical this. Christmas Crt Mh a 





CUR e MC Cha Tote 
A Tee he eae) 
eC Marg 


2 





(Continued from Page 16) 
and THE WISE ONE, a book about 
beavers, by Frank Conibear and 
J. B. Blundell. 


The coyote, says Mr. Dobie, has 
something in common with Abraham 
Lincoln, Robin Hood, Joan of Arc and 
Br’er Rabbit; and as for those men 
who keep airplanes fueled and shot- 
guns loaded for any coyote or eagle 
reported by sheep ranchers within 
their zones: ‘For them the wild 
scream of the eagle in sunlight and 
the free howl of the coyote in star- 
light mean less than the price of some 
snotty-nosed old ewe’s offspring.’’ He 
feels pretty strongly about coyotes. 


THE WISE ONE is one of the very 
best animal books ever written. We can 
hardly say more. It is in story form, but 
as Frank Conibear has been a trapper for 
thirty-two years and has seen, or seen 
evidence of, every one of the incidents 
related, it can be regarded as true in all 


als detail. 
e 


Books are almost always the best 
Christmas presents. You don’t eat them 
or break them or put them away in a 
drawer. And of all kinds, books of 
poetry last the longest. COMPLETE 
POEMS OF ROBERT FROST, 1949, is a 
large collection of the Yankee poet’s 
best work, short and long. And for the 


REPRINTED COURTESY SATURDAY EVENING POST 
7 \v 1 WL j 





“All I want to know is what gave 
you the idea I wanted the complete 
works of Dickens last Christmas?’’ 


poetry lover, another book, not poetry 
actually, but a biography of one of the 
finest of English poets—CHRISTINA 
RossETTI, by Marya Zaturenska. 
Here are the Pre-Raphaelites: Christina 
and her brother Dante Gabriel, Millais 
and Morris and Ruskin, and the new 
poet, Robert Browning, who was be- 
ginning®to rival Tennyson. Here also 
are the poems that every lover dreams 
for his loved one. Do boys and girls of 
sixteen and seventeen nowadays ever 
read Christina Rossetti’s Monna In- 
nominata sonnets? Or are they satis- 
fied with Frank Sinatra? 


It is good to get one’s hands on a 
new Raymond Chandler detective 
story. THE LITTLE SISTER is quite as 
tart (no pun) as the others, FAREWELL 
My Lovey, THE BIG SLEEP, HIGH 
Winpbow. The actual mystery isn’t 
any better than a good many others, 
but the brassy phrases glitter. Like this: 


“The boss morlician fluttered around 
making elegant little gestures and body 
movements as graceful as a Chopin ending. 
His composed gray face was long enough 
lo wrap twice around his neck.” 

“ She looked at me as if I had just come 
up from the floor of the ocean with a 
drowned mermaid under my arm.” 

(Continued on Page 21) 


December, 1949 





Kates kids | 
strew crumbs... 


after she’s just finished vacuuming the 
rugs. And Kate can’t take it! 





So do Cards... 


but her handy Bissell Sweeper gets those ~~ 
crumbs in a few easy swoops. 


It’s the only carpet sweeper with 
“Bisco-matic’’* Brush Action. Adjusts 
itself automatically to thick rugs, or thin, 
with xo pressing down on the handle. 


Faster, Easier Clean-ups with aif 


BISSELL 


SWEEPERS — 


A “Bisco-matic”’ Bissell even sweeps 
clean under beds and chairs, with handle 
held low! Get a Bissell® for daily clean- 
ups. Save vacuum for periodic cleaning. 


GIFT HINT: Bissell’s beautiful new 
G “Flight” at $9.45. Other Bissell 
Sweepers with “Bisco-matic” Brush 
Action as low as $6.45. Prices a little 
more in far West. 


S 





Bissell Carpet Sweeper Co. 
Grand Rapids 2, Mich. 


*Reg. U.S. Pat. Off. Bissell’s full spring controlled brush, 








ee 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Ld | A New Standard of Television Picture Quality 









full length flush doors. 


New Zenith “Regent” TV-Radio-Phonograph ... Giant 105 sq. in. ‘“Black’’ Tube pic- 
ture, built-in ““Picturemagnet’’ aerial and other Zenith ‘‘tel-exclusives’’....3-Speed Cobrat 
Tone Arm that plays 7, 10, 12 inch records—33¥%, 45, 78 R.P.M.—automatically ... Super- 
sensitive static-free FM... Long-Distancet AM...Genuine Mahogany veneer cabinet with 


Zenith Glare-Ban Black’ Tube 








Zenith’s “New Pacemaker”... AM table receiver of 
smart, advanced styling with huge circular dial... full- 
toned and full-powered, with Zenith Wavemagnett, Con- 

> Zenith-built Alnico 5 speaker...exclusive 
Zenith features no other radio can give you, at amy price! 


Only $4995* 


Zenith Radio Corporation, Chicago 39, III. *« Also makers of America’s Finest Hearing Aids 


New Zenith “Super-Triumph”. . . A terrific FM-AM 
value! New super-sensitive FM that works in fringe areas 
where many others fail, assures static-free reception even in 
worst storms day or night! Plus Long-Distance AM, tone 
control. Walnut plastic cabinet, ‘““Cut-Away”’ Dial. 


Only $g35* 





Of Course, with BUILT-IN AERIAL— 
Zenith’s Exclusive “Picturemagnet” 
-.. plus One Knob Automatic Tuning 


and Famous Giant Circle Screen 


This new Zenitht picture—made possible by the Glare-Ban 
“Black” Tube—is simply unbelievable until you see it! You'll 
notice new sharp detail in the dark areas, the absence of blur 
or glare in the light areas. It’s as thrilling as a professional 
photograph—so life-like it takes your breath away! 

The secret of Zenith’s picture superiority is the amazingly 
ingenious use of ‘Black Oxide”’ glass in the lens of the pic- 
ture tube itself. Eyestraining glare and ‘blur’ are reduced— 
picture clarity is greatly increased even in broad daylight or 
fully lighted rooms! Medical authorities recommend this way 


to view television. 


And you enjoy all this without an outside aerial in many 
locations, thanks to Zenith’s sensational new ‘‘Picturemagnet’’ 
television aerial—built-in, exclusive! You enjoy, too, the 
famous Géant Circle Screen with Picture Control—your choice 
of circular or rectangular picture at the flick of a finger! You 
enjoy One-Knob Tuning—one twist makes all 7 necessary ad- 
justments automatically! Genuine Armstrong FM sound... 
provision for w/tra high frequencies without a conyerter .. . 


gorgeous new cabinets . . . all at prices that will open your 


eyes in sheer amazement. Don’t delay—see Zenith G/are-Ban 
“Black” Tube TV today! 





New Zenith “Lexington”... Television console with Giant 165 
sq. in. “Black” Tube picture, built-in “‘Picturemagnet’’ aerial and the 
many other wonder-features only Zenith can give you! Period design 
cabinet of exceptional elegance, in genuine Mahogany veneers finished 
to satiny luster. 


ENITH 


stoxe oistancee RADIO 
and TELEVISION 





T® 


e *Prices subject to change without notice. West Coast prices slightly higher. © 1949 





20 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL December, 1949 


“To keep your finest blouses and stockings 
lovely longer... use lvory Hakes care” 


SadyYS SARS FIFTH AVENUE 


NATIONALLY FAMOUS NEW YORK FASHION STORE 


ae 


- er 
es 
































Leading fashion and department 
stores from coast to coast 
recommend the only flake soap 


with the famous lvory name 


“To help keep your finest washables 
bright, give them Ivory Flakes care!” 
That’s what the buyer in your favorite 
store will probably tell you. As the buyer 
of blouses in famous Saks Fifth Avenue 
says, “All fine washables should be 
_ washed with a soap made especially for 

fine fabrics—the purest, mildest soap you 

can buy. We recommend Ivory Flakes!” 


Good advice—because one careless 
washing with the wrong soap can ruin 
the fit and color! Yet you can wash the 
finest washable cottons, silks, wools 
and nylons gently in pure, mild Ivory 
Flakes time after time, and they’ll come 
out bright and gay. Get Ivory Flakes 
today—they’re the only flake form of 
baby’s pure, mild Ivory Soap! 


Longer wear for nylons, too! Just 
suds your nylon stockings gently every 
night in Ivory Flakes. They'll wear and 
wear... and keep that new, fresh look 
up to twice as long! 


If its lovely to wear 
its worth 









BETTER HALVES—Saks Fifth Avenue believes that “if you use gentle Ivory Flakes care! Ivory Flakes 


blouses are the spice of this season’s wardrobe. are pure, so mild, so safe!’ (Reading from top to 
They prove the point with these three . . . so truly bottom... Pure silk shirtwaist, $19.95—Nylon 
beautiful ...so fine... you wonder if you dare wash with tucks and black bow, $12.95—Pure silk 


them. ‘‘You most certainly can,” says Saks’ buyer, pongee with tucks and mandarin collar, $14.95). 


i 21 


(Continued from Page 18) 
“She’s dark and lovely and passionate. 
And very, very kind... . She’s exclusive 


as a mail box.” 
@ 


In December, we who live in the 
East usually get our first and our most 
beautiful snowstorm of the year. We 
kick up our heels in delight, and feel 
like Joseph Wood Krutch, who 
lives in nice cold Connecticut and 
feels sorry for Adam because he lived 
in a paradise where there was no snow. 


THE TWELVE SEASONS, Mr. Krutch’s 
fine book that came out last spring, is 
perennial. In fact, it’s every month in 
the year, adorned with fancy and beauty. 
A fine Christmas present for those to 
whom nature is more marvelous than 


man. 
@ 


Christmas spirit is something we 
can’t have too’ much of. Take these 
two examples: One is a Brooklyn 
saloonkeeper. He is the man who 
tried for two years to give away his 
money ito the forsaken men on the 
Bowery, and each time started a riot. 
So this year he plans instead to put a 
five-dollar bill in each of the baskets 
given away by police headquarters in 
his district. It is to be for toys for the 
children. ... The other true Santa isa 
porter at the New York Athletic Club. 
Last Christmastime he walked into 
the hook-and-ladder company in 
his neighborhood and left thirty-five 
pounds of coins to be given to the New 
York Foundling Hospital. The coins 
amounted to $186. Every night of his 
life this man, a bachelor with no im- 
mediate relatives, puts aside any coins 
he has in his pocket as a gift for some 
charity at Christmas. During the war 
his savings went to the American Red 
Cross. His pay is $31.55 a week. 

@ 
' 

The heroic figures of the Old Testa- 
ment are magnificently painted and 
reproduced in color in a remarkable, 
stirring book, IN OuR IMAGE. It is a 
large, handsome book of text and pic- 
tures. The beautiful Bible passages have 
been selected by Houston Harte, and 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL December, 1949 


GUARD against colds 
the ol GRAPEFRUIT Way : | 


Fresh Florida Grapefruit and cans of its luscious 
Juice help fortify you each morning, noon and night 





IN ALL THESE WAYS 


Florida grapefruit guards 
your health! 


1. Helps maintain 
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2. Supplies LIQUID — 
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3. A gold mine 
of VITAMIN C 


4. Other VITAMINS 
and MINERALS 


5. ENERGY from 
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6. Arouses sulky 





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PUBLIC AFFAIRS DEPARTMFNT ¢ Edited by MARGARET HICKEY- 


FROM AMES, IOWA... 


World-Wide Neighbors 


By MARGARET HICKEY 


HAT can I do to lessen world need? How can I help our 
neighbors abroad? How many of us have asked our- 


selves these questions and felt helpless in the face of 


almost universal want and suffering! Yet there is a great 


deal that individuals and groups can do to make the spirit of 


Christmas live again for our world-wide neighbors. 

A practical gift—however small—of those things which 
help create human comfort is a step in the right direction. 
Our friends abroad: need food, clothing, medicine. Sending 
these life necessities overseas has already done more to ce- 
ment international understanding and build world friendship 
than all our lengthy documents or ponderous conferences. 


Use Established Channels 


Many organizations have under way far-reaching plans. 
They have up-to-date figures on needed commodities and es- 
tablished channels for providing them. The American Friends 
Service Committee works with orphans, the homeless, sick 
and poor in -Austria, China, Finland, France, Germany, 
India, Israel, Htaly, Japan, Poland, Spain and Palestine. The 
Friends need new or used clothing, shoes, household articles 
and sewing materials for each of these lands. 

CARE, the organization which makes it possible to send 
“person-to-person’’ aid gverseas, sent 1,100,000 food pack- 
ages to the hungry people in Europe in the first six months 
of 1949. They point out that fats and meats still remain in 
great shortage throughout most of Europe. With clothing 
prices out of reach for the average European, woolen suiting, 
knitting wool and blanket packages are a great boon. CARE is 
also sending packages to Japan, Korea and the Philippines. 

You may join in one of the “Practical Peace Plans” of the 
General Federation of Women’s Clubs, which supplies lists 
of projects abroad needing assistance. Mrs. John White- 
hurst, of Baltimore, Maryland, director of the program, ex- 
plains that $10 will keep a European orphan in school; $75 
will help provide special training for a girl in the Athens 
School for the Blind. Other groups may wish to follow the 
splendid example of the Soroptimist International, an or- 
ganization of community leaders, who have brought Dr. 
Dora Papara, of Athens, Greece, to this country and are 
financing her work at the University of Pennsylvania Medical 
School in the study of general neurology and psychiatry for 
abnormal children. 

The Junior Red Cross has taught boys and girls of school 
age the joy of self-denial that helps others. The gift boxes 
not only relieve the hardship of the world’s children; they 
help children throughout the world to learn the customs and 
problems of other lands. Everything from marbles to tooth 
paste finds its way into the little gift boxes from the Junior 
Red Cross in the United States to their friends overseas. 

There is a way for you to help—a job that you can do to 
meet human need. However microscopic it may appear in 
respect to the great task which must be done, the little gift, 
the first step, has a place in neighborly living. THE END 


To Vienna, Austria 


N the sunlit sewing rooms of Iowa State College’s Memorial Student 

Union, there is a pleasant bustle of activity and conversation every 

Monday. Piles of good woolen fabric lie on the cutting tables, ready to 
take the outlines of suits, overcoats or children’s leggings; yards of rosy- 
pink outing flannel lie neatly folded, already cut to form infants’ nighties, 
wrapping blankets, small sacks; cartons of brightly colored yarn are packed, 
ready to be transformed into mittens and sweaters. This is where the women 
of the Ames, Iowa, Red Cross chapter work. Here is where they prove that 
they look beyond their own well-fed and clothed families to the need of a 
neighbor in Europe. 

In Vienna, Austria, half the world away, there is a sewing center at No. 2 
Peregrinegasse. In an ancient ballroom still lovely with gilded mirrors and 
frescoed ceilings, ‘““made-in-America”’ sewing machines are lined up on the 
mellow parquet floor. Neat cubicles hold racks of clothing, made from the 
woolens from Ames; used but sturdy garments to be restyled for new 
owners; dainty layettes, packed, ready for the Viennese newborn. An aver- 
age of fifty Viennese women come to the sewing center every day to work on 
the garments to be made from American supplies. A social worker estimates 
that one out of five of Vienna’s nearly two million citizens is warmer for a 
sturdy winter coat or sweater turned out by this new production center of 
the Austrian Red Cross. 

“Before we started sending supplies, women in Vienna couldn’t mend 
their old clothes because they had no thread—they couldn’t even patch 
their garments because no fabric was available,”’ explains Mrs. B. R. Rose- 
bloom, a tall, well-dressed worker in the Ames Red Cross chapter. And she 
adds, “I don’t like to imagine my own children cold and ragged.” 

Mrs. Rosebloom has never really had to fear for her own; nor have most 


of the other housewives of Ames, Iowa. They (Continued on Page 135) 


PHOTO BY YOICHI R. OKAMOTO 


™ 


Frau Irma Buresch, widow of a former Austrian chan- 
cellor, and Frau Maria Roeschel, director of sewing cen- 
ter, take pride in their work and new Iowa neighbors. 





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The seasons with their infinite splendor will roll 





December, 1949 


on—this is the promise of my Christmas tree. 


iary of | )omesticity 


By GLADYS TABER 


HE Christmas snow falls so softly. with 

such tranquil flakes; it is the quietest 

thing in all the world, except perhaps 

the midnight moon on still summer 
water. Around Thanksgiving we may get 
snow—usually a scurry of clouds and 
whirling, light, frothy snow. But the week 
before Christmas we begin to see the sky 
colored like the breast of a sea gull, and 
the air has an intensity about it as dark 
falls sudden and soon. Then one day it 
comes, first one starry flake, then a few 
more, and silently whiteness fills the whole 
air. Now it is really snowing! 

The little towns in the valley are beauti- 
ful in the snow. All the doorways are green 
with pine; the tall trees in the center of the 
village greens are blossoming with colored 
lights and red and blue and green balls. The 
children pull their sleds out, although the 
grass is hardly covered yet. In their warm 
peaked caps and bunny suits and fuzzy 
mittens and boots, they look like children 
from a German fairy tale. 

At the post office the villagers gather; 
the men stamp their galoshes on the stoop 
and cast an eye at the sky, and wait to 
hear what Ed Munson says about the 
weather. Ed has been watching the weather 
for eighty years, and he knows how long it 
will snow. 

At the grocery store, the farm women 
have pink cheeks and bright eyes, and they 
are buying red candles and currants and 
cinnamon drops and the wonderful old- 
fashioned ribbon candy which is back again. 
There are boxes of scarlet and yellow lolli- 
pops, just the right size to fitan open mouth. 

And at the village garage, Arza Bennet is 
deciding whether or not we need the chains 
on. With the snow tires, probably not. Even 
if this turns out to be a three-day snow, he 
says, the roads will be all right. It’s a good 
snow, no sleet in it. 


George is bringing us a big yule log, and 
we are frantically hunting for the Christmas- 
tree stand, which is always, always missing. 
How carefully we put away all the orna- 
ments last year, and the lights and that 
stand! Too carefully, says Jill, brushing 
cobwebs from her hair as she gets down 
from the attic. a 

I like to get the tree up early, for it is so 
beautiful, and the holidays are so short 
anyway. And if the cut end is placed in 
water to which half a cupful of blackstrap 
molasses has been added, the needles keep 
fresh and stay on the branches a long time 

We planted five hundred Christmas trees 
a few years ago, on the slope beyond the 
meadow. But I don’t know whether we 
shall ever cut them, even if they grow big 
enough in our time. The theory is that you 
cut them on a planned basis, and they keep 
on developing. But a whole stand of Christ- 
mas trees will be so lovely to look at! For 
after all, no tree can be better decorated 
than with pure drifts of dazzling snow. 

This is the first Christmas for Linda and 
Flyer’s children. Souvenir and Night Flyer 
Second are wild with excitement at all the 
crisping of tissue paper and the unrolling of 
ribbons. What is better to pounce on than 
a nice shiny Christmas angel? Why don’t 
we do this more often? says Sue, trailing 
tinsel behind her as she races. 

The older dogs are more sedate about it, 
so they can give their full attention to the 
kitchen. Honey begins to wag toward the 
stove the minute the turkey is brought up 
from the freezer, and Esmé begins her 
holiday Siamese wail. There is nothing for 
it but as soon as the turkey is half done a 
bit has to be sliced off in an inconspicuous 
spot for the sapphire-eyed one. 

Maeve has all the Irish setter’s tradi- 
tional eagerness and curiosity. Every time 
(Continued on Page 31) 














Se 





ae 


» | —with this quick, delicious coffee ! 


By fo 
Art ah pa ett 
§DDEg a3 ee or} D 


pan 
a Al: westié co” 


we aL Tt 


Yong 


With the tree to see and presents to show, and 
Christmas spirit to spare, serving “company” 
snacks is almost an everyday occurrence. 

So at this season, there’s a very good reason 
for never being without Nescafé*. When guests 
come to call, Nescafé makes fresh coffee — fast. 
No pot—no grounds —it’s instant. Just measure 
to suit each taste, add piping hot water and stir. 


MORE 
PEOPLE DRINK 

scar 
THAN Awy etTHeAn 
: AN 


NT COFFEE 


$ 
Ltthy 


ast 


tT) ee 


You get all the flavor and “lift” of pure, freshly 
brewed coffee — without the fuss of brewing. 

If you like good coffee, you'll ove Nescafé. 
Serve it for breakfast, lunch, dinner or any time 
between. Nescafé is economical—there’s never 
any waste. You make only what you need. Order 
a jar of Nescafé today — in the regular or big 
economy size. 


Nescare makes coffee night 


— every morning noon or wight ! ) 


THAT’S WHY MORE PEOPLE DRINK NESCAFE THAN ALL OTHER INSTANT COFFEES! 


Mescalt 


ct 











(pranounced NES-CAFAY) is the exclusive registered trade-mark of The Nestlé Company, Inc. te designate its soluble coffee product which is composed of equal parts of pure soluble coffee and added pure carbohydrates (dextrins, maltose and dextrose) added solely to protect the flavor. 





26 





\ 


aking 


arr AE Work 


By CLIFFORD Kh. ADAMS 


Ph.D., Pennsylvania State College, 


Department of Psychology 


When your boulles wre tlle OWES, 
flliw hese wiles le help liom Vida Uf. 


Are Your Children Assets? 


OST everybody takes it for granted that 
children bring added happiness to marriage. 
So they can and should—and usually do. 
Nevertheless, it is a mistake to assume that the advent 
of children inevitably adds to the joys of family life. 
On the contrary, an unhappily married couple may 
find that the arrival of children, far from solving their 
domestic problem, actually complicates it and causes 
new friction. A happy relationship between parents 
and children, like that between husband and wife, 
requires constant effort, imagination and good will. 
Though the rearing of children is a challenging 
assignment, the difficulties, major and minor, can be 
overemphasized. Strict adher-nce to a few simple 
principles will diminish day-to-day friction, and help 
to achieve the family unity every couple wants. 


e Children are a joint enterprise of husband and 
wife. Though nobody is likely to quarrel with that 
statement, its practical significance is too often over- 
looked. In everyday terms, it means that fathers, as 
well as mothers, should play with their children, work 
with them, and share in decisions affecting them. Too 
many wives, in their absorption in the children, or in 
a misguided effort to spare their husbands, assume al- 
most exclusive responsibility; too many husbands, 
pressed for time and energy, let them do so. 


@ Each parent should respect the other’s judgment 
concerning the children, and should invariably en- 
dorse it in the children’s hearing. Better to assent to a 
decision with which you privately disagree than to 
raise doubts in your children’s minds as to their fa- 
ther’s wisdom and authority. Important differences of 
opinion about the children can and should be dis- 
cussed—but never in their presence. 


e Train yourself to anticipate. Try to tell your child 
in advance how you want him to act in a given situa- 
tion, rather than correct him afterward for failing to 
do so. A child who is not told ahead of time that guests 
are expected is likely to disrupt the occasion, and be 
punished then or later. But the child who is prepared 
for the event, told how to act, and perhaps offered 
grown-up treatment for grown-up behavior, will usu- 
ally make his mother proud of him. 


e Emphasize rewards and praise rather than punish- 
ment and scolding. Like most suggestions about chil- 
dren, this is easier to say than to do—particularly 
since what is wrong about a child’s conduct is usually 
more conspicuous than what is right. But it’s worth 
the effort, and if you can learn to plan ahead, it soon 
comes naturally. 

® Be consistent, firm—and don’t change your mind. 
Once you have announced a decision, stick to it, de- 
spite argument, coaxing or tears. The only exception 
to this rule is when new and important evidence is 
introduced—and this rarely happens. 


® The corollary to the above is to avoid hasty de- 
cisions or directions. 

® Fulfill your threats and, promises—but make few 
of either. A child’s faith in his parents depends in 
large part on the extent to which he can believe what 
they say, for better or for worse. Unfulfilled threats, 
as well as broken promises, can undermine that faith. 


® Finally, remember that a continuing happy rela- 
tionship with your husband is vital to the whole fam- 
ily; don’t let him feel that the children have taken his 
place in your affections, or that they absorb all your 
time and energy. An evening at the movies with him 
may be more important than finishing Johnny’s school- 
play costume or supervising Jane’s homework, 


Finding a Husband 


LMOST all girls want to marry, and take it for 
granted that sooner or later they will do so. In 
most cases, their expectations are fulfilled, for over 
half of all girls are married by the time they are 22, 
and 90 per cent of women marry eventually. 

Yet, though marriage is their chosen future, many 
girls trust to luck to meet the right man. A girl 
may devote herself to learning stenography and 
systematically seeking job opportunities, yet do 
nothing to prepare for marriage, the job she really 
wants, or to cultivate opportunities for meeting 
suitable men. 

There’s nothing undignified in a girl’s admitting to 
herself that she wants to marry. On the contrary, it’s 
wholesome to do so, and to plan accordingly. 


Are You Likely to Marry? 


Some of these questions concern circumstances, 
others traits and attitudes. But all have a bearing on 
2. ee 9° ee 99 

your chances of marriage. Answer “Yes” or “No. 


1. Do you like most people at first meeting? 

2. Are you careful about personal grooming? 

4. Do you have three dates a month or more? 

. Are you under 29 years of age? 

% Would you marry a man two years your 
junior? 

6. Is your weight about average for your 
height? 

7. Are you conservative and conventional in 
behavior? , 

8. Is it easy for you to make friends? 

9. Do your parents like the men you date? 


10. Are you tolerant about religious and social 
issues? 


11. Do men often admire your clothes and the 
way you wear them? 

12. Have you gone steady within the past two 
years? 

13. Do you like to do favors for people? 

14. Were you dating by the time you were 17? 

15. Do you attend many parties and dances? 

16. Are most of your girl friends dating or en- 
gaged? 

17. Do you belong to several clubs and organi- 
zations? 

18. Have you dated any man you would marry? 

19. Do you live in a town or farm community? 


20. Are you certain you want to marry soon? 


All these questions should be answered “Yes.” With a 
score of T6 or more, your prospects of marriage are good. 
With a lower score, study your incorrect answers for hints 
for improvement. If age or other circumstances are against 
you, that’s all the more reason to overcome other handicaps. 


Recently an attractive woman of 28 came to us for 
advice on finding a husband. She had been teaching in 
a large city where marriageable women far outnum- 
bered men; since she took little part in community 
life, her chances for getting acquainted were few. 
Further, despite her attractive personality and appear- 
ance, she was handicapped by shyness. 

The mere fact of discussing her situation, and of 
accepting the initiative in changing it, gave her new 
confidence. She took a position in a small city of 
18,000, where she joined the Y.W.C.A., attended 
church regularly, and worked in all kinds of volunteer 
activities. She accepted some dates that were not 
particularly interesting, simply to meet other men. 
In a few months’ time she had a wide acquaintance, 
and at a Christmas party she met a young business- 
man who really interested her, as she did him... . 
This Christmas they will be married, with every pros- 
pect of happiness. 

Obviously, it doesn’t follow that any girl can find a 
husband simply by moving from one city to another. 
But it does follow that if your present situation isn’t 
satisfactory, you can do something to change it. Per- 
haps you'd best begin by changing yourself. 

Every girl (and every woman, single or married) 
should do her utmost to be attractive, in both per- 
sonality and appearance. Not every woman can be 
beautiful, but every woman can look her best— 
and the knowledge that she does enhances her 
personality. 

But even an attractive girl can’t get dates unless she 
is where men are. Once you’ve finished school or col- 
lege, most of your opportunities to meet people of 
either sex will arise from your job, from participation 
in activities, and from the social life you share with 
your friends. 

If you work in a field monopolized by women, you'll 
need outside opportunities to meet men—or a differ- 
ent job. Hostess jobs, service jobs in fields where men 
patrons are in the majority, and jobs in business or 
industry employing more men than women are excel- 
lent opportunities. 

Perhaps you don’t care for community activities— 
fund-raising drives, amateur theatricals or church 
work. Then you are the loser, for such activities make 
you a part of the community. Rewarding ‘n them- 
selves, they also offer you a chance to widen your 
acquaintance. But don’t choose activities carried on 
exclusively by women! 

Be gracious about the people you meet through 
your friends. If you want the Andersons to ask you to 
dinner when John brings home a dashing bachelor, 
then be a willing fourth at bridge for their problem 
cousin. And even a dull man may introduce you to 
other mén. 

In any case, if you’re in a rut, get out of it. Change 
jobs, go to night school, take up hobbies men like, and 
if necessary, move to a new community. In some 
states, such as Nevada, marriageable men far outnum- 
ber single women; in others, the reverse is true. If 
your object is matrimony, why not make plans to 
achieve it? 


Do You Agree? 


My husband is an alcoholic,and I am planning 
to leave him. Would telling him so make him 
stop drinking? 


Probably not—and it might aggravate the situation. 
Contact your local Alcoholics Anonymous and ask 
their help. If your husband can stop drinking for six 


‘months, the chances are excellent that he will not 


drink again. He will need all your encouragement. 








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«Sh 


2 


T’S mistletoe time again with just a few “hoping’ 
days left till Christmas. And it’s you who are in 
there “hoping” that this year’s holiday vacation 
will be more fun than you can stuff a stocking 
with! But just to be sure you don’t wake up some 
morning to find that St. Nick has already gone that- 
a-way, how about making a few plans in advance? 

For instance, there’s always outdoor fun. Just 
about all you need for a sleigh-ride party is a starlit 
night, a good fall of snow—and the price of a sleigh. 
In small towns, you may be able to borrow one from 
a farmer friend. In larger towns, just check the list 
marked “Riding Academies” in your phone directory 
to get all the information about renting a sleigh, plus 
the services of a driver, for a good long ride in the 
country. The way we hear it, a sleigh that holds be- 
tween 12 and 16 people will cost anywhere from $10 
to $15 for an hour-and-a-half ride. And with the frost 
getting at your fingers and toes, that’s just about 
enough! 

In most cases, the fee for the sleigh (or for a hay 
wagon in warm-weather country) includes the sery- 
ices of the driver in making a fire for roasting hot 
dogs at midpoint in the ride. Serve hot cocoa brought 
in vacuum bottles, then try this de-luxe version of the 
hot dog: Before roasting, slit a wiener lengthwise, in- 
sert a strip of cheese. Toast over the fire till the cheese 
begins to melt, the wienie begins to crackle and mouths 
begin to water. Then pop into a bun and eat! 


And an armload of firewood, plus this and that for 
outdoor cookery, can turn an afternoon of ice skating 
or tobogganing into a winter picnic party. Bring 
along a portable radio for skating to music, and when 
the waltzing is over, build a fire well off the ice to warm 
up the crowd. When the fire has burned down to em- 
bers, pass out kebobs on long skewers or green sticks. 
Make the kebobs (do it at home, complete with salt- 
and-peppering, and wrap in wax paper) by alternating 
small cubes of beef, onion wedges, cut slices of tomato 
and bacon. One kebob apiece, then roast slowly, 
slowly over the fire. Eat hot and sizzling in hot-dog 
buns with coffee or chocolate as a chaser. 

While we’ve got scarves and mittens on, how 
about planning a carol-singing party? Make it a date 
affair, with the boys and girls counting off in just the 
right numbers. Pass out carol books or hum through 
a few favorites before hitting the road. Make the hour 
round eightand either map yourroutealong residential 
streets where you are known, or choose an orphanage 
or an old folks’ home as your singing destination. 
And, after the last Jingle Bells has died away, the 
crowd troops back to your house for chili, cocoa and 
dancing to finish off in the holiday mood. 

Here’s one for girls only. Get your Sub-Deb club, 
or a group of friends, to gather at your house a week 
or so before Christmas. Each cook can put 50 cents in 
the teapot toward expenses, or you can contribute 
sugar, spices and other ingredients as your “some- 


THE SUB-DEB e EDITED BY MAUREEN DALY 




































» 


thing for the girls.” Plain sugar cookies are easy and 
the most fun—if you have plenty of fancy cutters, 
and trimmings to doll them up when they come out 
of the oven. For refreshments, a cooky or two with 
cocoa. And the rest go into little gift boxes for the 
girls to take home. 

Here’s an idea I remember from last year. A group 
of fellows and girls | know turned the annual chore 
of shopping for and sending out Christmas cards into 
a boy-girl party. They got together a few weeks before 
the big red-and-green day, did their fanciest work with 
colored paper, tin-foil stars, scissors and paste, and 
made individual Christmas cards on the spot. It took 
most characters a whole evening to turn out half a 
dozen cards—but round school those handmades were 
collectors’ items! To make it a real party, prizes were 
given for the best cards before each was popped into 
a white envelope for the mailman. 

Since Christmas is the “giving” season, why not 
give a party for a few of the little people from a local 
orphanage? Instead of planning games to play (it’s 
often too difficult to keep children of mixed ages 
amused at the same time), take the group to a Satur- 
day-afternoon matinee, complete with two cartoon 
features. Then back to your house for cocoa and 
Christmas cookies afterward. And a ten-cent gift for 
each guest will doalot to make your Christmas happier! 

If you want to get the boys in on this “Christmas is 
for children” fun, suggest that everyone in your 
crowd, your class at school, or in a special club 
bring an old toy to be painted or repaired to regive 
for Santa Claus. A few cans of paint, small hammers 
and nails, needles and threads and bits of cloth can 
make old toys look like products fresh from the work- 
shops at the North Pole. Check with your church or 
local charity organizations to find out just where 
the toys would fit best, come Christmas morning. 

“It’s the night before Christmas .. .” but at your 
house the tree is already standing, complete with 
tinsel, colored balls and a big bright star right at the 
top! Because the night before the night before Christ- 
mas, you invited your friends over for a session of 
tree trimming, with dancing and refreshments on the 
side. Tell your parents not to worry about whether 
or not these ‘‘Santa’s helpers” will do a good job — 
most fellows are surprisingly handy with strings of 
electric lights and, with a group of friends around, it’s 
fun to hang tinsel carefully on just the right branches. 

And last on the list is a ““Merry Christmas by mail” 
idea that can mean special fun for any group of 
friends with whom you'd like to exchange presents. 
Draw slips to find out who gives gifts to whom, but 
all names drawn must be kept secret. No gift costs 
over 50 cents and all must be sent by mail—to be 
opened only on Christmas morning. Your secret 
friend will have put her name inside the package. It’s 
fun to find out that Santa Claus can also wear a 
uniform with buttons marked “U.S. Post Office.” 


GOT “BRIGHT LIGHTS” FEVER? 


Want to get on Broadway? Or would 
you rather find the right play right 
now for your church group, little 
theater or school dramatic club? How 
about trying SIxTEEN, No. 2308, or 
Oxpjective Jounny, No. 2309—two 
one-act plays just right for teen-aged 
talents! Ten cents each from the 
Reference Library, Livres’ Home 
Journat, Philadelphia 5, Penna. 



































































Jill ties a ribbon on a package, she nearly ties 
in a red velvet nose with it. “‘I guess she 
thinks her name is Maeve Stop,” Jill opines. 

There is a slight problem with the cat 
Sydney, who comes with Dorothy and Val. 
In summer he can stay in the studio, but in 
winter he has to be upstairs right where Esmé 
can sense his alien presence. We are accus- 
tomed to sudden bangings as Esmé tries to 
go right through a locked batten door to get 
at Sydney. The spirit of hospitality has 
never, never penetrated our Esmé’s heart. 
She yowls some, too, but Sydney never says 
anything. I often think that, like many wo- 
men, Esmé does not know how silly she is, for 
Sydney is a very large, very active, unpedi- 
greed strong male, and I think he would 
finish her off in a hurry. Women have a way 
of assuming they are right, sometimes, just 
because they can make more racket! 

Cicely gets off the train half hidden in 
luggage. I always know when she is about to 
escend, for at that point the conductor 


she says, waving at the 
nountain of things. “I don’t know why they 
e all funny shapes.” 

Don, on the other hand, may come back 
rom college without even a clean shirt. 

The little old house begins to fill up, the 
week before Christmas. Radios go on in the 
pstairs bedrooms, the records are playing 
n the front living room, Val and Don are 
ealing for canasta on the trestle table where 
ve really ought to have lunch. The girls want 
ore wrapping paper and 
nore tags, and we are al- 
vays out of tags. 

Jill is trying to find out 
which light is dead on the 
ree string. I am basting 
he turkey, stepping out 
nd around a bevy of 
ctive cockers, and won- 
ering whether the plum pudding is done. 

Our present to Stillmeadow this year is an 
lectric dishwasher. This is one gadget we 
hought never to succumb to. We said you 
ad to rinse the dishes anyway, and stack 
hem, and why not finish them off? 

But all summer we were cooking and wash- 
ng for as many as eight or nine at a time, and 
o help, of course. And there was always the 
uestion: who is going to wash the dishes 
his time? The children like to leave them for 
ours while they do other things. They like, 
ll of them, to let their dinner digest. Jill and 
like to get them out of the way immediately. 
usually Jill and I keep sneaking a few 
ut, and rinsing them, and just doing the 
lasses. And then the children rush out and 
evile us. 

I was thinking about all this when I went 
0 visit the Shentons in their lovely old stone 
ouse in the Pennsylvania hills. They had a 
ishwasher and a maid, which seemed too 
legant for words. But the maid had to go 
ome after dinner to West Chester, and I 
-as worried about how late that must be. 
here were ten for dinner that first night, a 
-onderful and very dish-consuming kind of 
inner. And we were just sitting around the 
re, drinking our after-dinner coffee, when the 
,aid appeared in the door, hatted and gloved 
nd ready to go home! The dishwasher was 
urned on and the kitchen was as clean as a 
ew penny, and in the morning she would 
nload the racks—and, there it was, just like 
aying abracadabra. 

“T am sold,” I said. “I am really sold on 
his thing.” 


le hadn’t expected to use it unless we 
ad company, but we discovered at once 
hat you can stack all the dishes for a whole 
ay in it, turn it on after dinner at night, 
nd never wipe a thing. It releases a lot of 
ime for things like brushing the dogs, or 
anning the mushrooms George brings over, 
r polishing the toaster and broiler. And the 
lasses shine better, the plates are clean, front 
nd back—and where is the good housewife 


e The man who wakes up 
and finds himself famous 
hasn’t been asleep. 

— WILSON MIZNER. 


to us all. 


LALIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


DIARY OF DOMESTICITY 


(Continued from Page 24) 


who doesn’t do over a few plates washed by 
guests and/or children? 

Incidentally, I have long believed that one 
good house present is a fine thing for any 
family to give at Christmas. In lean years, it 
might be a heatproof platter or a new frying 
pan—spider, to us New Englanders. In es- 
pecially good years, it has been an antique 
table or a comb-back chair. But the idea is 
that it should be something that every soul 
who enters the house should enjoy. 

I know some men who feel that anything 
for the house is especially for the women. But 
it isn’t. Even new curtains that make the 
living room a gay place are really for the 
whole family, and add a great deal to the 
pleasure in home. 


TF there is one thing that is characteristic 
of Americans, about whom one can say a lot 
of adverse things, it is that we are a nation 
of home folks. And I think we shall always 
be so. From a flat over a drugstore to a pent- 
house over New York, home is the real focus 
of our living. Perhaps this will save America 
in the end. 

We do live in parlous times. Nobody can 
deny it. Our country is full of underprivileged 
people, we face crises not once a month but 
every week. I know all this. 

But oh, as Christmas comes again, I know 
an inner security about life that I wish I 
could share. The old tired earth is most 
beautiful and lovely. As long as men come 
home from work and children from school, 
and women put a sprig of parsley on the 
platter so the steak or the chicken or the 
spaghetti may look fes- 
tive, as long as the church 
bells ring in the frosty air, 
we have a world worth liv- 
ing for. 

And Christmas is the 
time when we can under- 
stand this, even if we are 
sad or lonely or in trouble, 
as so many people are in this scrap of mat- 
ter whirling in space. From the smallest 
little card which says Merry Christmas 
to the most expensive present that can be 
bought, the meaning of Christmas comes 


On Christmas Eve we light the candles in 
the windows to light the Christ Child in, and 
this is a testament of faith. I always hope the 
real spirit of the Christ Child will burn in 
our hearts as clearly as the pointed candle 
flame. And although I love the new elegant 
candles—the little winged angels and cherubs 
and the big twisted heavy reds and blues and 
whites—I am always mindful that it is the 
flame that matters. 

The tree, too, is a symbol. How good the 
scent of pine, how bright the fragile gold and 
blue glass balls, how shining the tinsel and 
the delicate glass icicles! But this tree, this 
year, as the tree my mother used to trim on 
long-ago Christmas Eves, has a meaning 
beyond any individual tree. It is a symbol of 
the rich growth which Nature gives us all— 
out of the dark and frozen earth under the 
snow came the seed, comes the lifting spire 
of green. Unless we destroy her, the earth 
will grow green in spring, bear in summer, 
glow in autumn, and dream in winter. This 
is the promise of my Christmas tree. 

When the last apple-wood log falls apart, 
and the popcorn bowl is polished out by a 
careful cocker, and the house is half asleep, I 
keep my own personal tryst with Christmas 
as I always do. I open the door and look at 
the sky, now pure and deep and sown with 
stars. The path to the door is drifted with 
the new-fallen snow, and Honey moves out 
to put a print of paws in it and sniff up a 
smidgin on her golden nose. 

I make my little prayer that I may always 
remember how much love there is in the 
world, how much wonder and beauty and 
hope. And then I send my wishes to every- 
one, the comforting old words which sing 
down the galleries of time: 

God rest you merry, gentlemen. 

THE END 





fied for flash reading. Compare! 





31 


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No triggers, catches, or latches. 
A one-hand wonder that saves 
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MIXGUIDE puts 10 tested 
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WZ 








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JUICE 
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TRY HAMILTON BEACH! 


Of all food mixers, it’s by far the easiest to use. But prove it to yourself. 
Compare feature for feature and you’ll know why this is the Christmas 
gift she’s hoping for. Yes, she’ll be happiest with the one that’s easiest to 
handle... Hamilton Beach! Hamilton Beach Co., Div. of Scovill Mfg. Co., 
Racine, Wis. 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


No wonder you women buy more TIDE than any other 




















2. 


3. 


TIDES A SUDSING 
WHIZZ EVEN IN 








HUMT ORB REFUND 
ee Te iy 
* Guaranteed by @ 
Good Housekeeping 
4 ~ 


‘Noy cn 
AS apventisto 
— 









December, 1949 


washday product 


onLY TIDE poeEs ALL THREE: 


World’s CLEANEST wash! 


Yes, Tide will get your wash cleaner than 
any other washing product! (Tide, unlike 
soap, removes both dirt and soap film.) 
No wonder more Tide goes into American 
homes than any other washday product! 


World’s WHITEST wash! 


It’s a miracle! In hardest water, Tide will 
get your shirts, sheets, towels whiter — 
yes, whiter—than any soap or any other 
washing product known! 


Actually BRIGHTENS colors! 


Trust all your washable colors to Tide. 
With all its terrific cleaning power, Tide 
is truly safe . . . and actually brightens 
soap-dulled colors. 












THERE'S NOTHING LIKE 
PROCTER & GAMBLE'S 


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Fifty - Ago 
fl 
The Journal 


SAUX EWE 280 888828 


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N December, 1899, President 
McKinley remarked upon the 
“unprecedented prosperity” of 
the U.S.A. Young girls gave their 
sweethearts tiny gold croquet mal- 
lets to hang from their watch 
chains, and In His Steps had sold 
over three million copies. News- 
paper correspondent Winston 
Churchill escaped from the Boers 
who were holding him prisoner, 
and Dwight Moody, evangelist, 
died. 


Ran an ad in the December, 1899, 
Journat: “MorHers—KeEep YOUR 
Boys at Home. Pool tables, $40 and 


up. 


“Horse’s Neck: This term is generally 
applied to a beverage of half ginger ale 
and half cider.” 


Gossip of a New York Girl: *‘Would 
you like to hear my Thanksgiving- 
dinner menu? I am going to hive 
tomato purée, then boiled salmon, 
turkey with cranberry sauce, 
boiled ham and yegetables. Then 
lobster in the shell, with salad; and 
for dessert, strawberry ice cream, 
pudding with raspberry sauce, and 
fruit.” 


Newest thing: “Three handbags, 
matching your gown, suspended from 
a belt. One bag is for money, one for 
visiting cards, and the third for your 
handkerchief.” 


“To prevent dust when sweeping, 
damp tea leaves may be sprinkled 
on dark carpets, but never on light 
ones.” * 


“Doll mansions are for sale at from 
$24 to $80 each. They are furnished 
ith electric bells and everything the 
most exacting child could desire.” 


ee 


Latest hair-do: “No more towering 
plumes and aigrettes in the hair, but 
lovely green leaves, beautifully made of 
ribbon and velvet, worn with a small 
tuft of marabout feathers in the center.” 


“> Bir 


“tA flat of five rooms may be fur- 
nished comfortably for $250. This 
allows $25 for dining-room furni- 
ture, $35 for the living room.”’ 





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Gossip about people you know, 


editors you like, 


and what goes on 


in New York. 


look down, from the Workshop, 

on a pure white Christmas tree in 
the Plaza, a monster spruce, ten sto- 
ries high, which Robert Carson, the 
Rockefeller Center architect, has just 
come back from selecting, out on 
Long Island—and out of breath. 
**The biggest tree ever brought into 
the city,”’ he pants. They'll have to 
bring it in at night—because of the 
daytime pre-Christmas traffic—the 
week before Christmas; first spraying 
it out there in the country with a 
special white waterproof paint that 
came out of wartime camouflage, then 
decorating it here with carnival colors 
in ornaments and lights. Mr. C. says 
he’s been dreaming of a white Christ- 
mas tree now for several years, aiming 
at something really spectacular, and 
feels pretty sure this will be it. So 
keep your eyes open for its picture in 
the papers. 


[ive year for the first time we shall 


Of the million or more regular Christmas 
trees coming into the city this month, the 
most numerous will be the Norway 
spruce; the most popular, the balsam fir, 
which comes principally from Nova 
Scotia, is by far the most fragrant of all, 
and is said to hold its needles longer than 
any of the others... . If you want to know 
what New Yorkers pay for their Christ- 
mas trees, we’ve heard of handsome speci- 
mens selling for as high as $25; but $3 
for a good six-fool tree is average in mid- 
town Manhattan, until late Christmas 
Eve, of course, when you can have your 
pick of any that happen to be left, for a 
quarter. 


J DI PIETRO 
























AASIISLVU GYvVMaT 


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White-Christmas dreams come true: a white Christmas tree in the Plaza. 


Working recently on a Christmas-gifl 
story, we ran across a whole new slant 
on American enterprise—the anniversary 
industry. Let’s say you're a big executive 
with a long list of clients or customers 
whose birthdays, wedding anniversaries or 
what not you'd like to notice with a gift or 
card or telegram. You turn over the names 
and dates to one of these remembering com- 
panies, some of which handle as many as 
a million people; tell them what you want 
to send, then put the whole matter out of 
your mind, except not to act surprised 
when recipients thank you for your 
thoughtfulness. And don’t put your wife's 
name on the list, as one bank president 
did—she’ll catch on quicker than a 
customer. 


If you had been behind the scenes 
when Donald Stuart photographed 
Gladys Taber’s cottage kitchen, on 
Page 180, it would have looked to you 
just as it looks in the pictures, but 
would have felt a little too cozy for 
comfort. For piling up on the heat of 
Stuart’s big indoor floodlights was an 
outside heat of ninety-eight in the 
shade. And just as it was about to be- 
come unbearable, what didaconscien- 
tious editor do, back there in August, 
mindful that this was to be a Decem- 
ber picture, but light, as you can see, 
a roaring fire in the fireplace! 


Visiting recently with Lady Astor in 
an English countryside rich in great 
old houses, Beatrice Gould began tell- 
ing her hostess, who came from Vir- 
ginia, about the Regional Series which 
has been appearing for the past three 
years in the JOURNAL. “Oh, I have 
them all, right here,” said Lady Astor. 
“My sister sends me the pages as soon 
as they come out.’’ Now this distin- 
guished Englishwoman has a complete 
collection of Richard Pratt’s articles 
in book form—one of the first copies 
published by Whittlesey House, sent to 
her by Mrs. G. Between covers it is 
called A Treasury of Historic American 
Homes ($12.50), and everything is in 
it from New Castle, Delaware (Novem- 
ber, 1946, JOURNAL), to Ipswich, Massa- 
chusetts (this past October issue). The 
sequence is new; there are many new 
words by Mr. P.; but if you’re a regular 
reader of the JOURNAL you'll know it 
the minute you see it at almost any 
bookstore. 


John Walker, chief curator of the 
National Gallery of Art, in Washing- 
ton, who writes the descriptions each 
month in the JOURNAL’S series of fa- 
mous paintings, sends us these notes 
on the painting on this month’s cover: 
The small panel painting by Gerard 
David (c.1460-1523), in the National 
Gallery of Art,is oneof the most beau- 
tiful of Flemish Primitives. Our Lady 
has paused on her flight into Egypt 
to offer her Child a bunch of grapes, 
symbol of the Eucharist, while in the 
background Saint Joseph gathers 
more food by beating chestnuts from 
a tree. In the foreground the wicker 
traveling basket of the Virgin shows 
that realistic observation of detail 
which is an outstanding characteris- 
tie of early Northern painting. 


Ethel Barrymore has never seen her- 
self on the screen: “I never see myself 
on the stage; why should I go watch my- 
self in a movie?” . . . About one out of 
every ten persons in the United States 
lives within fifty miles of Times 
Square, meaning that a little less than 
10 per cent of the nation’s population 
is jammed into a quarter of 1 per cent of 
its area. 


CULVER SERVICE 





Betty Grable’s fourth Christmas. 


Some birthdays this month are King 
George, on the 14th; Betty Grable 
(here she is on her fourth Christmas), 
on the 18th; and Gen. George C. 
Marshall, on New Year’s Eve. 











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"As always, in 
the mystertous ways of God, 


the few were chosen. 


By (Henry Misrock 


THE JOURNAL'S COMPLETE-IN-ONE-ISSUE CONDENSED NOVEL 


OR most people along the Eastern Seaboard of the United States it 

was an ordinary summer evening. The moon was bright and full, and 

stars appropriately punctuated the heavens. Offices, factories, banks 
and other sacred institutions of commerce were closed. Their inmates of 
the daylight hours were doing all the things that men and women do on 
an ordinary summer evening. 

They were dreaming, quarreling, loving, talking, walking, riding, 
listening, scheming, hoping that someway, somehow, tomorrow would be 
better than the day that had just passed. The rich wondered how they 
could become richer, the powerful more powerful, the adored more 
adored. The poor worried about prices and rent and children and love 
and how they could become rich and powerful and adored. 

Meanwhile, this summer evening, movies unwound their tales of 
eternal happiness which was the eventual reward of beautiful women and 
virile men. The radio promised never-ending ecstasy if one would only 
use the proper cigarette or hand lotion or automobile. Newspapers con- 
tinued to assure their readers that all would be secure if only taxes were 
reduced, Communism eliminated, private incentive encouraged and the 
Brotherhood of Man endorsed by all American citizens regardless of 
creed, color or race. 


About sixty-five miles up the Hudson River it was also an ordinary 
summer evening. The moon was bright and full and stars appropriately 
punctuated the heavens. Young men in pajamas and bathrobes lay in 
beds, sat in wheel chairs and dreamed and hoped that someway, some- 
how, tomorrow would be better than the day just passed. 

Few of them gave much thought to becoming rich or powerful. They 
would have been eternally grateful if only they could walk through 
towns and city streets, see the buildings and the women and have control 


of their own bodies once again. (Continued on Page 93) 





Copyright, 1949, by Henry Misrock. This is a condensation of the novel, 
God Had Seven Days, soon to be published by Doubleday & Co., Inc. 


* 


ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER BIGGS 








THEN THE 
MAILMAN 


T’S a funny thing about mailmen. They’re just 

nice, kind of good-natured guys. They have a 

pleasant, sociable kind of job. Our mailman 
knows every kid on his route. You can meet him 
going to school and he yells at you. 

“Hurry home this noon, kid,” he yells. “Your 
stamps came.” . . . “Happy birthday, Bud,” he 
yells. “You got three cards.” 

Mailmen are powerful people. You never know 
what they'll bring. They can bring something that 
will change your whole life. They can bring some- 
thing that will change all your plans. 

That morning he came early and J can remember 
that morning so well. Because after that it wasn’t 
the same again for weeks. Father had been working 
late the night before so he had overslept on purpose 
to feel fresh again. There are mornings like that in 
your life. We sat and dawdled over our breakfast 
and I felt good about our house. I felt good about 
how our house could be messed up and fun but still 
clean, I felt good about a mother like ours who will 
let you leave up the stuff you build and who will 
clean around it and admire it and say, “Who knows? 
Maybe you'll be a great civil engineer when you 
grow up and then you can tell the man from the 
magazine who comes to interview you that you owe 
it all to your mother who encouraged you in your 
youth.” 

Pud and I got up from the table and threw our nap- 
kins back and ran into the hall because we had 
been getting an idea worked out fora tunnel through 
the city we had in the hall and we went to try it out. 


ILLUSTRATED BY ROBERT PATTERSON 





CAME 


Father yelled, “Hey! Fold your napkins and put 
them in their rings.” 

*Can’t now,” I said. “Ill lose this idea if I wait,” 
and I went right on and mother said, ““That’s all 
right. Ideas can’t wait. Come back and do it later,” 
she said, and it was the last time. After the mailman 
came nothing could wait till later. After the mail- 
man came, ideas were out. 

Right then mother was busy on an idea of her 
own and she was all excited over it. She was plan- 
ning our vacation. 

“We could leave the children with the grand- 
mothers,” she said. “Just think, Roger,”’ she said. 
“No cooking, no cleaning! Just to stay in a hotel 
would be wonderful, but a hotel in New York! 
Shows and galleries and shops and museums! And 
no cooking!”’ she said. “Maybe Amy’ll go along,” 
she said. ““Amy’d love New York.” ; 

“She certainly would!” father said. “I can just 
see you two! New York merchants, here we come!” 
father said. ““Well, we'll see,”’ he said. It was the 
kind of a “we'll see” that meant “I guess we can 
arrange it.” ‘“What dol do,” he said good-naturedly, . 
“while you and your sister Amy go shopping?” 

And then the mailman came. The mailman came 
and completely changed our nice, easygoing mother. 
He came and spoiled all our building plans. He made 
our house over. He made our lives over. The mail- 
man came. And he had a houseboat floating down 
the river in his pack. And you never saw anything 
like the way that houseboat hit father. Right 
between the eyes. (Continued on Page 150) 








































“I’ve been trying to have fun 


for almost forty years,”’ 
Uncle Dillon said. 


**I’ve been doing it wrong.”’ 





Hi 


rh 


i 
yn! 











By ELIZABETH GOUDGE 


“I DESERTED, SIR,” Zachary told Doctor Crane. He did not explain the 
inhuman treatment that had driven him to throw overboard his title 
as a fifteen-year-old midshipman, slip out of a gun port, out of Lord Nel- 
son’s navy and the battle against Bony. The old naval surgeon’s disap- 
proval was tacit: and since he believed in Zachary’s courage and basic, 
if befuddled, integrity, he offered himself as substitute father for the 
orphaned boy. Later he helped him to get a job on the farm of Father 
and Mother Sprigg. There Zachary saw again, and loved more, their 
adopted daughter Stella, whose father and mother were supposed to 
have been lost in a disaster at sea. 

Stella had befriended and fed Zachary when he was still a ragged vag- 
abond, wandering from farm to farm looking for food and a hayloft bed. 
Together they made up a new name for the runaway—Zachary Moon. “‘T 
come from the moon and yow’re a star,” he told her. “Quite right that 
we should meet at night.” 

But when the Brest fleet under Admiral Cornwallis sailed into the 
harbor of Torquay, Zachary forgot old fears and hatreds in the night- 
marish rescue of men from one of her shipwrecked craft. He steeled him- 
self to re-enlist. “I'd like to go back, sir,” he told Doctor Crane quietly. 
“T can take whatever punishment is just and right.” 


II 


ACHARY awoke to a cold, desperate misery. He was going back to 
the life of the sea that he hated, cutting himself off, perhaps for- 
ever, from a life that he loved. And he was doing it by his own act. 
This lunacy had not been forced upon him. He rolled out of bed to wash 
himself, get dressed and start off for his last day’s work at Weekaborough 
Farm. He must tell Father and Mother Sprigg at once that he was leav- 
ing them. 

They were all there, finishing their breakfast, except Stella. ““Mornin’, 
lad,” said Father Sprigg jovially. 

Bluntly Zachary told them what he was going to do. There was a 
moment of astonishment and then Father Sprigg brought his great hund 
down with a crash on the table. 

“Good for you, lad!” he roared. ‘Going for a sailor, is it? That’s the 
style!’ Mother Sprigg was grave, seeing the misery in the boy’s eyes. 
And as for Sol, his old face went gray and his mouth shook. Then he 
fumbled in his pocket and took out his bull-roarer. 

“Take it, lad,” he muttered. “I’ve had it man an’ boy, an’ my father 
afore me, but Id like ’ee to have it. It'll cheer ’ee up in foreign parts.” 





*% Copyright, 1949, by Elizabeth Goudge 


TLLUSTRATED BY ANDREW LOOMIS 


Zachary could not refuse the old mua’s gift. “Thank you, Sol,” he 
said. 

“Who’s to tell Stella?” asked Mother Sprigg. 

“TH tell her,” said Zachary. “Ul be on Bowerly Hill at noon. Will 
you let her bring my nummet to me?” 

“Aye, lad,” said Mother Sprigg. 

Zachary worked all the morning, thankful for the hard labor, thank- 
ful to Father Sprigg and Sol for their understanding that left him to do 
it alone. The work was finished at last and he sat beneath the yew tree to 
wait for Stella. There was a moss-covered stone half buried in the earth 
at his feet, and he looked at it, unconsciously kicking at it with one of 
his boots. He thought he saw something carved upon the stone. He bent 
forward, idly pulling away the moss. There were faint marks upon the 
stone, something that might have been a fleur-de-lis such as was carved 
upon the wall in St. Michael’s Chapel. He was too wretched to be partic- 
ularly interested, but the thought of the chapel reminded him of the 
legend of the hermit, and Rosalind and her lover, amd he suddenly 
thought of a plan that might keep Stella from forgetting him. He might 
be away for years and she was only a little girl; how could he possibly 
expect that she would not forget? 

Looking round, Zachary saw Stella running up the path, swinging his 
nummet, tied up in a scarlet handkerchief. She wore her scarlet cloak 
over her green gown and little white apron, but the hood had fallen back 
from her tumbled dark curls. She saw him and laughed, running on again. 

They sat down together beneath the yew tree, and she untied the 
scarlet handkerchief. Mother Sprigg had packed a slice of pork pie, apple 
pasty, saffron cake, Devonshire splits with clotted cream and damson 
jam inside. Zachary knew that he must dispose of it all, though it choke 
him. Luckily Stella was quite prepared to help. 

“T’ve got something I must tell you,” he said when the nummet was 
finished. 

“Nice?” asked Stella. 

No: 

She looked at him. Her pointed elfin face, with sweet mouth and 
somber eyes, had a very adult gravity. No, she was hardly a little girl. 
She had some strange inheritance of wisdom that set her apart from 
other children of her age. It did not seem difficult, once he had begun, 
to tell her what he had done, what he was going to do. 

When she spoke, it was childishly enough. “Zachary, I wanted you 
’’ She caught her lower lip be- 

(Continued on Page 64) 





to be here for Christmas. Zachary 
tween her teeth and was silent again. 


39 








40 


ik 
Dt 
WH) 
Zw 
VERYTHING 











ee” ey 


By DOROTHY WALWORTH 


HIS is a true story about a rich dog and the people he loved. He belonged to 

Mrs. Brown, a widow in the real-estate business. This dog, Buck, was not re- 

markable for-clever tricks. What he did was solve a problem that puzzles 

many dogs, and find an answer to a question that we all ask, as the years go 
by. His life was the life of anybody who feels that someone means all the world 
to him. 

Buck was handsome, a fine specimen of the German-shepherd breed, with a 
glossy black coat, brown paws, and dark eyes that were the open windows of his 
heart. His tall ears moved forward at the slightest sound, and his tail waved like 
a plume to show his state of mind. He could have won blue ribbons at any show, 
because he held himself like a prize winner. 

People always told Mrs. Brown that Buck was a wise dog who thought 
things through. One of her friends said, “I could tell Buck everything that has 
happened to me, and he would understand. He is more human than I am.” 
Mrs. Brown did not quite believe this. She had the habit of speaking to Buck as 
if he were a sensible individual, but she was always sure that, in every way, she 
was superior to him. After all, a human being was supposed to have a soul, and 
a dog muddled along by instinct. j 

Buck and Mrs. Brown and her two children lived in Miami, Florida. Since 
she had done very well in real estate, their house, outside the city limits, near 


99 


a cypress wood known as “‘the jungle,” was an old mansion. Its porch had 
high white pillars, and its many rooms were spacious. All around were broad 
lawns shaded by trees with Spanish moss hanging like gray woolen shawls from 
their branches. At one side, under a palmetto, was a little house for Buck, 
painted red, with a belfry on top. He had a fancy dish, too, and the finest food. 
One might say that Buck had a comfortable income, and that thing called security. 

Security, however, did not make Buck feel fortunate. Being only a dog, he did 
not know enough to value it. He never went near his little house, and he seldom 
ate from the fancy dish, preferring to hunt his own food in the jungle. His 
reasons for happiness were Richard and Laura, eleven and ten years old. They 
made him wear funny hats and ride in a wheelbarrow, taught him foolish, simple 
tricks, like holding up his right paw to shake hands. He never cared what they 
did, so long as they were all together. Folks say that dogs don’t smile, but when 
Buck was with the children, he held his jaws in a special way that looked like a 
wide smile. Time and time again he leaped high off the ground, just because he 
was happy. 

Buck had his serious side too. He always felt responsible for the children. 

He didn’t let them go too far into the jungle, which was full of swamps and 
tangled vines. When they went walking, he tugged them out of the way of 
passing cars. Downtown, he learned the traffic signals, and kept Richard and 
Laura from crossing the street on a red light. At first the Browns said how loyal 
he was, and how smart for a dog, and then, as time went on, they took it all for 
granted. Buck’s devotion became part of their daily living, like a picture, hung 
on the wall and admired, and then never really seen any more. 

No life is perfect, even for a dog. Buck had his troubles. For instance, he 
always suspected that Richard loved him much more than Laura did: 
Richard’s hand on his head was warm, but Laura’s was cool and light as a 
leaf. Buck knew, but could not explain. His eyes, when he looked at Laura, 
were sometimes deeply puzzled, as if he were wondering why everyone did not 
love, simply and generously, as he loved. He must have wondered, too, why the 
children went, so many mornings of the year, to a place called school. He always 
waited, without moving from the front porch, for (Continued on Page 183) 


like He 
1 tall 












i FNRI Speen: tne PONT cS Nee Tne 





It seemed as if Buck understood. 





His eyes glowed and his 





tail never stopped waving. 








ILLUSTRATED BY HARRY ANDERSON 










Her voice always made him feel, 
in a delicious way, like 


a sardine being boned. 





By ALBERTA HUGHES WAHL 


the great floor of Grand Central Palace toward the 


cided with the flower show, and he had no intention of 
wasting a second of it on what he considered the de- 
plorable fakes of the first floor. 

After a day and a half in New York he was still air- 
sick, and a morning’s shopping for ties and stuff had 
not helped, but his first whiff of hot, wet greenhouse 
smell picked him up like a bottle of ammonia waved un- 
der his nose. 

When he’d got back to his hotel an hour ago, there’d 
been a message from Mr. Harrod, saying if Charles 
could make it to the show by four he’d meet someone 
most interesting. He wondered what lion of the flower- 


growing world the old boy had managed to capture. 


, ILLUSTRATED BY COBY 





> . 
elevators. This was only the second time since the — 


war that his free time between pictures had coin- | 


HARLES hurried through the turnstile and across — 


; 
} 


i 


That Mexican, maybe, who’d been growing flowers from 





seeds found in a Mayan tomb. Or it could be 

Charles raced for the closing elevator door. Inside he 
took off his Caspar Milquetoast hat, and, with his free 
hand, smoothed down a newly grown, ragged mustache 
over his too famous mouth. It was a point of pride with 
Charles each year to achieve his vacation disguise by the 
simplest means—a change of his name from Dennison 
to Denton, glasses perhaps, a different sort of suit— 
and each year his attitude toward these simplest means 
resembled that of the emperor toward his new clothes— 
admiring, but a little uneasy! 

“Anyone out four?” 

“Oh! Oh, thank you!” 

Charles hastened like a bridegroom along the right 
aisle of the almost deserted floor. Halfway down, in 
(Continued on Page 142) 


' front of a small booth with 


WHITMORE 






















THE HERMITAGE. 


So faithfully kept. all you miss in Andrew Jackson’s 
























Nashville home is Old Hickory himself 


By RICHARD PRATT 


Architectural Editor of the Journal 


HE first President to make a point of plainness was in the 
White House when a courier from Nashville brought word 
in 1831 that the Hermitage had been gutted by fire. This big 
brick mansion had been built by the hero of New Orleans 
about a dozen years before, from all accounts a plain affair itself, 
whose blackened walls still stood so strong that word went back 
to start from there rebuilding right away. In view of Jackson’s 
disapproval of pomp, the only explanation for the great Corin- 
thian portico that now appeared across the front of the Hermitage 
as part of the restoration was a rage for the classical look in 
architecture, then at such fever pitch that even the humblest 
dwellings resembled little Greek temples. Now, after a century 
or more, the columns, the carpeting, the tassels are part of the 
Hermitage’s period charm, making a most personal and moving 
monument to one of our greatest Americans. 


- 
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ind the back parlor beyond, are filled with furnishings that Jackson acquired and lived among, here and at the White House. 


The front parlor, é 


e six-column. tv t nortico. whatever its architectural correctness, has undeniable beauty and stateliness to its credit. 
SIX-C . two-sto ort vik 





VI 


skirt 





RES SOMETHING ABOUT TER 


Seay decidedly differen. her rule tn clothes 


hoc | iIng-pint 





supper parties at home. wears Clare Potter’s bilhiard- 


jers 


top. black-velvet ribbon sash and leaded slippers. 


By WILHELA CUSHMAN 
Fashion Editor of the Journal 

“Tf it looks like anybody else’s, my husband doesn’t 
like it... . I like any color as long as it’s bright.”’ 

Twenty-four-year-old Mrs. George F. Vietor, Jr., 
who was New York’s Helen Stewart Trevor, 
dresses to please her husband—‘“‘He is the judge 
as to whether I keep it or not, and he’s always 
right.”’ Luckily they agree, and her clothes “‘go defi- 
nitely with Devon (Pennsylvania)’’ where they live. 

Warm wools as well as warm colors—because 
an old-fashioned iron stove and an open fireplace 
are the only sources of heat in their cozy ‘‘done- 
over’’ frame house which used to be the New 
Centerville post office. Skirts and jersey jumpers— 
because they switch around so well with her 
favorite long-sleeved jersey shirts. Tweed suits— 
because they’re perfect for antiquing expeditions 
(a Vietor hobby), for driving to New Haven to 
football games, as well as to wear to Bryn Mawr, 
where she is junior vocational adviser to students. 

Dinner at home, weekly parties for six find 
her in a gay personality skirt—‘“‘but practical, 
too, as I do the cooking.”’ Her “‘work skirt”’ 
(for refmishing furniture, digging in the yard) 
is colorful canvas, extra heavy. Even her coat 
is never a conventional color—this year an 
apricot-gold fleece reefer which goes amazingly 
with her greens, yellows, russet-browns and grays. 

She has a rack full of wide belts—her 
husband hammers in the old brass ornaments. She 
goes in for colored shoes and bags, usually red or 
green, for gold chains, medals and safety pins which 
she wears with bright scarves. Helen Vietor 
has an original touch, but her gay ideas 


are good ones in any young, country-living crowd. 
















PHOTOGRAPHS BY JOHN ENGSTEAD 






: 
oe 
See 


Evergreen tweed skirt, jersey shirt (by Lotte) which she 
wears also with her tweed suit. This is the house that was 


a post office and station, its waiting room now the study. 





Her country tweed suit goes to New York and to her college 
job. It has the full skirt she likes, and the calfskin belt. By 


Tilly Schanzer. Bright fleece reefer by Harry Williams. 








jian-summer days, she works in 


|yard in a Phelps’ canvas skirt, 


jon shirt, washable farm gloves. 


Her husband 





taught her to 
cook, and he approves the 


bright red canvas overskirt. 


Out to dinner in Devon, to the theater 


ii. New York—a green velveteen in her 
favorite two-piece fashion by Tilly Schanzer. 
phe likes a gray jumper because it 
: ; ti 

oes with bright shirts, jersey be- 


lause it’s warm. By Tilly Schanzer. 
















Reminiscent of the ‘‘Twenties”’: black taffeta with 


\ straps, peplum. Vogue Design No. S-4049, 12 to 20. 






Flattering portrait collar, slim bodice. Four-gore skir 
is gently flared. Vogue Design No. S-4042, 12 to 20fj), 






Becoming black velvet halter, Vogue Design No. 6453, 12 
to 20. Taffeterized print skirt, No. 6910, 24 to 32 waist. 





19 










Praia 
eeteaeten a 
ee ; 





Pe 


ome 





) VOGUE 


ast iey 


Most feminine of evening dresses, chiffon or net, with . 





matching stole. Vogue Couturier Design No. 391, 12 to 20. 


, Shlyneux-designed, to expose your neck, slim your Ingeniously simple of line, dress for alovely fabric, Balmain’s exciting great sleeves on otherwise 
ist; jacquard satin. Vogue Pattern No. 1080, 12 to 20. antique satin. Vogue Design No. S-4050, 12 to 20. simple brocade coat. Vogue Pattern No. 1075. 
HEN it comes to evening clothes, we like to make you look satins, taffeterized silks and lush velvets. Our short black dress with 
extravagantly lovely for very little money. We like to discover the charming peplum cost around $5 to make (using good quality 

new fabrics or new ways to use the old favorites. We found excitement rayon taffeta). For those who wear evening clothes seldom, we sug- 

in these designs as well as in the fabrics. Narrow shoulder straps, gest separate skirts and tops that can be varied. If you wear them 
wing collars, great push-up: sleeves : fabulous brocades, antique often, be sure to include at least one short one in your collection. 


: . r 7 Seas > 
; . 2 -m i “i de ail, enclosing check or money order.* from Vogue Pattern Service, Putnam Avenue, 
Buy Vogue Patterns at the store which sells them in your city. Or order by mail, en g j g 


Greenwich, Conn.; or in Canada from 198 Spadina Avenue, Toronto, ( nt. (* Connecticut residents pleaseadd sales tax.) For other Views, Sizes and Prices turn to Page 173. 








ATHER grew up in a family where 
Christmas was observed with the ex- 
citement of singing hymns at church 

on Christmas morning and making calls on 
friends in the afternoon. Anything more 
elaborate than a bowl of English walnuts on 
the sideboard to mark the day as different 
was vulgar ostentation. He celebrated Christ- 
mas, therefore, with the wild fury of the 
convert. If anybody tied the red ribbon on 
Cousin Jennie’s box of toilet water or Uncle 
Charlie’s socks without his supervision, he 
was hurt for hours, and no strand of tinsel 
on the tree was right until he had rearranged 
it. The number of stickers on the gifts he 
wrapped, if not a testimony to his sense of 
artistry, at least conveyed the idea that he 
was all out for the twenty-fifth, with no 
holds barred. 

Mother insisted that one “Do Not Open 
Until Christmas” was sufficient for the liter- 
ate, and that five or six of them constituted 
a threat. She also maintained stoutly that 
you were supposed to know that it was a tree 
supporting the ornaments and candles, and 
that a few balsam needles should be left bare 
to prove it. On the whole, however, mother’s 
delight in Christmas was as unrestrained as 
father’s. She lived and breathed its loveli- 
ness. She was Mary and the Wise Men and 
the heavenly host and ma-in-her-kerchief 
and the blood sister of Santa Claus all in 
one. Besides the terrible fervor she put into 
our personal Christmas, she sent Christmas 
packages to all her relatives and all father’s, 
including the second and third cousins. 

She was a stout arm to Miss Anna when 
the costume problem or the stage properties 
at Jackson School became too much for the 
latter. (Any woman who had two children, said 
mother, and couldn't realize what having 
fifty-two at Christmas or any other time 
would be like must be singularly unimagina- 
tive. It was just a matter of arithmetic, said 
mother: 24 hours x 2=48; 7 hours x 52=364. 
By anybody’s arithmetic Miss Anna had the 
tougher job.) 

She was also, only more so in December, 
her pillarlike self in supporting all Presby- 
terian revelries. She never complained about 


the boxes of Sunday-school candy that had 


By DOROTHY DE ZOUCHE 


to be packed, not only for the regular mem- 
bers of the Sunday school but also for the 
children who found God pressing upon 
their hearts so urgently in December that 
they enrolled two weeks before Christmas 
each year. She helped to coach, costume 
and execute the pageant, adult, and the 
program, juvenile. She collected bathrobes 
and incense burners and hay for the manger 
and pale blue scarfs for Mary from whatever 
household possessed them, without Presby- 
terian bias. She built stars of Bethlehem 
from Larkin cartons. She rearranged tab- 
leaux so that somewhere in one of them 
each one of the temporary little converts 
could kneel for three minutes in an over- 
sized bathrobe and stare at the Larkin star of 
Bethlehem. She wrapped shepherds’ crooks 
and angel wands, cut whiskers out of cotton 
batting, and stitched fairy costumes far into 
the night. If nobody else had time to get the 
carolers to the county farm and the deten- 
tion home, mother got them there. And 
every old person and child on our street had 
his beautifully wrapped box of cookies or 
pair of mittens, knitted or crocheted, from 
mother on Christmas morning. 

At home she put clean curtains up all 
over the house (it was possible to have 
Easter and wear your old hat, but Christmas 
without fresh curtains wasn’t Christmas), 
baked thousands of cookies, rearranged the 
living room so that there would be space for 
the tree (father apparently confused the 
dimensions of the Masonic Hall with those 
of our living room when he went to buy the 
tree), carried up from the basement the 
packages that had been arriving for days, 
brought the family gifts down from the attic 
where they had been stored as purchased, 
stayed up until midnight to get the turkey 
stuffed and got up at six to put him in the 
oven (“Twenty-five minutes to every pound, 
dear”). When she was ready to drop dead 
from fatigue she was firmest in her affirma- 
tion that nothing more marvelous than 
Christmas, backache included, could ever 
happen to the human race. 

The first time I actually heard Santa Claus 
on the roof was the Christmas when I was 


five. | was sleeping (Continued on Page 186) 









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WANT to tell first of a man who is now 
dead. His name was William Alexander 
Percy and he was a poet, mystic, and 

benefactor of many people. It was because 
of him that I came to Greenville, Mississippi, 
which is now my home, and his friendship 
was the most significant experience of my 
life. 

Once when the Second World War was 
beginning, Will Percy talked of the holo- 
caust which he knew would eventually en- 
velop us. He hated brutality, hated the total- 
itarian shadow that fell then, as now, across 
man’s pathway toward individual dignity 
and freedom. 

After I had listened a while I asked de- 
jectedly, “What can we do about it? We’ve 
got to do something!” 

This was his answer: ‘“‘You can’t do any- 
thing on the grand scale. But you can work 
for your own people in your own town. It 
isn’t national leaders we need so much as 
men of good will in each of the little towns 
of America. Try to keep Greenville a decent 
place by being a correct citizen yourself. The 
total of all the Greenvilles can make the kind 
of country we want.” 

And now I want to tell you of a street in 
that town in which William Alexander 
Percy lived. It is not an imposing street nor, 
except for its great shade trees, a beautiful 
one. Along it and within a stone’s throw of 
one another are these structures: the news- 
paper I publish, the public library which 
now bears Will Percy’s name, the city hall, 
a Protestant church, a Jewish synagogue, a 
Catholic church, and a scattering of spa- 
cious, fading old homes, reminders of a 
quieter, less hurried day. 

Let me repeat—the library, the city hall, 
the churches of the old and the new cove- 
nants, the newspaper, the homes. They are 
the symbols by which we Americans live, 
for they are the structural personifications 
of the best of our American democracy. 

I never pass along that street without 
thinking of its meaning. On it are both the 
guides and the tools for the man of good will. 
And so I like to walk home along that street. 
But sometimes, particularly when the reali- 
ties of my newspaper’s front page obsess 








me, I am disturbed—not by what I see there, 
but by what I sense. 

As I have said, I publish the newspaper. I 
try to use it as a weapon for good and as an 
honest mirror for our town. But I know I 
am not always successful. I know that some- 
times the problems and diversions of busi- 
ness intrude upon my conduct of the news- 
paper, and that too often we rely more 
heavily upon the freedom of the press than 
upon its responsibilities. 

I am a member of the library board. We 
are pleased with its appearance, its books 
and equipment. But I know that the city ad- 
ministration is niggardly in its appropria- 
tions for the library and our population is 
too unfamiliar with the books upon the 
shelves. Moreover, every now and then, the 
library board and my newspaper must fight 
back against the uninformed and uncompro- 
mising censorship of small-minded semi- 
illiterates whose only literary criticism is 
confined to the word “dirty.” And, although 
some of us have tried and are still trying, we 
have not made much headway against the 
discriminatory segregation that denies our 
Negro citizens access to the main library 
and at the same time provides them with 
only a totally inadequate branch library. 

Because of my work, I go frequently to 
the city hall. I am quite sure that if my work 
did not demand it, I would take no greater 
interest in the conduct of my city’s affairs 
than do the overwhelming majority of my 
fellow citizens. And for nearly half of our 
citizens who are Negroes, there is no en- 
couragement to take part in its self-govern- 
ment at all. So it is not with a holier-than- 
thou attitude that I point out the vast in- 
difference to and ignorance of our self- 
governmental processes. We happen to be 
blessed with an honest, if frequently inept, 
city government. But this is largely a matter 
of luck and not of community action. In this 
indifference we are not unlike citizens of 
thousands of other communities. 

St. James’ Episcopal Church is not situ- 
ated along this symbolic street, but it is 
nearby and I am reminded of it when [ look 
upon the three which stand so close together. 


It would be easy (Continued on Page 155) 





~ 
“4 


SHORT... SLEEK... NEW 


The 1950 look for short hair depends on cutting and shaping 
(to be done by an expert) and a minimum of curls 
(to be accomplished by you!). These sleek arrangements, 
winging forward and shining after your shampoos, 


will give you a new look for a new year. 


By DAWN CROWELL NORMAN 


Beauty Editor of the Journal 






Hair designs by Michel 

Taffeta evening dress by Syd Rappaport 
Feather half-hat by Chanda 

Velvet beret and evening headdress by Mr. John 


Soft bangs across forehead round out a long or narrow face. Three large 
forward pin curls on each side, six in back, will achieve this popular hairdo. 


4 





The newsy “gamin”’ look. Sleek crown with ends of 
hair set in large, forward curls to brush toward face. 





Feather-and-velvet bonnet sits straight on the head, 
showing gentle waves on the sides; curls in back. 





Make forward pin curls at temples; alternate, 


turning curls reverse and forward, around head. 





MEDIUM...LONG 


If you have not cut your hair —in deference to 
the man in your life or your own good judgment of 
what is best for you — here are a variety of hairdos 


designed to make you prettier than ever! 





met on _ 





You like a page-boy: Wave hair back from center part, hold with combs above 
ears. Turn remaining hair under, beginning at top of ears, into this page-boy roll. 


You like to look casual: Alternate reverse and for- 


ward curls around head for brushed-back look. 


PHOTOGRAPHS 





= 





Sweep hair back from face, fasten with combs just behind 


ears. Comb the remaining hair off neck, arrange in curls. 


Smooth crown, sides waved back, ending in neat roll. This hair- 
do takes to its holiday headdress of veiling, velvet and pearls. 





Turn to Page 135 for detail sketches and directions for these hairdos. 


PHOTOGRAPHS 





“Dad and [ are alike in lots of ways—middle conservative types. We like people, but mom really likes them!” 


BY 


JOSEPH 


DI 


PIETRO 


A straight A average. a ear. 
a pretty girl and money to spend... could 


high school possibly be better? 


HE first time Connie Wright saw Jim Brown he was playing basketball 

in the Shaker Heights, Ohio, high-school gym. “I thought he was just 
wonderful, but I didn’t think he’d ever ask me for a date. ’'m a year older 
than he is, you know.” Now, after going steady for nearly two years, Connie 
remembers in detail every date Jim and she have ever had and thinks, ““He’s 
the best thing that ever happened to me.” And Jim, a young-looking Jimmy 
Stewart, feels the same way about Connie. However, he is a realist (he once 
wrote candidly in an English theme that “‘one good reason for studying Eng- 
lish is that you can’t get through high school without it”), and he thinks 
college may make a difference. About Connie, now a freshman at Bradford 
Junior College, Jim says, ‘“She’ll meet lots of guys she’ll like more than me.” 
And right now, college (M.I.T., Cornell or Princeton, where he will take 
chemical engineering), not girls, is the most important thing in his future. 


don’t mind if a girl knows more than I do... 
just like her to act like she knows a little less.” 








tt 
pees 


“I never had much confidence in myself until the year before last when I got asked to 
join G.D.I. fraternity. Then they went and elected me president. That really meant a lot.” 






It takes all kinds of young people to make up the teen-age 





world. This is the seventh of a series of articles about teen-agers, 







and we still haven’t found any two alike. What’s done in Texas 
may be frowned on in New York; the hit dance step in Portland, 
Oregon, may be old stuff in Portland, Maine. 


Objectively, candidly, we are presenting young people as 





we find them, in the high schools they work in, the homes 






they are growing up in, places where they find their fun; at 
their best and at their worst—twelve Profiles of Youth. 







Jim (James Walter Brown, Jr.) was born on February 11, 1933, less than a 
month before the banks closed. He was a depression baby and grew up an 
only child. But he has had the best of everything, including his parents, who, 
in his opinion, are “two terrific people.” An exceptionally close family, the 
Browns take vacation trips together every summer, ask Jim’s advice and 
opinion on money matters, still remember the time, five years ago, when he 
offered them his $750 War Bond to help pay for their house. Mrs. Brown 
thinks she might be accused of doing too much for Jim. Even though she 
does all her own housework, Jim’s only daily chore is walking his wire-haired 
fox terrier, Mike. But her pet theory that “children are brighter than some 
adults and ought to be allowed all the richness of (Continued on Page 174) 





ve 





Although Jim admits he needs practice, he and Connie 
like to dance, prefer slow numbers to “jump” tunes. 





Mrs. Brown, Phi Beta Kappa from Smith, lets Jim 
live his own life; helps out only when asked. 





Basketball coach says Jim is “‘well co-ordinated, a team player.” 
Jim plays a fair game of golf, made varsity singles in tennis. 


\VorTeE A LUE 


_BALLOT...- 
CAUSE JIM-BOB 





At election time Jim and running mate spent $18.50 
on publicity posters; campaigned in assembly. 





Built in 1931 at a cost of $1,000,000, school resembles college 
campus with ivy-covered walls, winding paths, old shade trees. 
















x! is 


pel 


y ff; 


ites 


aN 









i 


MAUL: 
a CTT Eremthe ke 


to the Bop I 
teen-agers from coast to 


tell their dancetime preferenc 


Teens list dancing as one of three top date activities, 
oD 

may dance three nights a week. “Good date doesn’t 

have to be good dancer—but must be willing to try.” 


Formal dances, like prom, “when you can’t help get- Sock hops, originated when dancers went shoeless to Teeners will dance almost anywhere, even on cement 
ting romantic,’ mean slow, dreamy dancing, often preserve finish on gym floors, now are popular all over driveways at informal barbecue. Only at such casual 
called “Y dance.” Boy asks girl in his arms, “Y dance?” country. In Texas, girls kick off shoes even at formals. affairs may girls dance together without disapproval. 


The Charleston, spanning two generations from the “Oh, you kid!” ’20’s to the “Well, all reet” ’40°s, has returned to popularity in high schools along with short haircuts and middy 





~| 


uw 








































Mexican Shuffle gained popularity in South- 
west, spread rapidly. “You can’t do it often, 
though, your wind won’t hold out.’’ Califor- 
nia teens dance at noon in school courtyard. 


Teens complain of jitterbugging: “Tt 
wears you out for afterward.” Less 
violent “jigging” is still popular at 
home parties and school dances. 





The polka still rates teens’ attention, Large groups square dance at school and club 
especially in Maine, where high-school- dances. The music is on record or by small 
ers meet Friday nights at Grange halls. band with “corny” caller. Steady couples 
“Seotch Hop” is current music choice. often wear matching calico skirts and shirts. 


PHOTOS BY SKIPPY ADELMAN, ROGER COSTER, DI PIETRO, 
MORRIS ENGEL, LANKS FROM EUROPEAN, PAUL NODLER 





RIDAY night is dancetime; for high-school fellows and 

girls from coast to coast, “no school tomorrow” means 
“big dance tonight.” Fellows and girls gather in private homes, 
church basements, school gyms, Y’s, teen canteens and settle- 
ment houses to dance to music provided by high-school combos, 
small local orchestras or a stock of good records with T. Dorsey 
and Tex Beneke still dance-band favorites. 

Because “‘just dancing gets dull” as date-to-date entertain- 
ment, high-schoolers have found ways to dress it up. School 
gyms are lavishly decorated to resemble Southern gardens, 
circus tents or night clubs for big school dances. In North Caro- 
lina, teens attend barefoot dances, check their shoes at the door 
and dance on floors specially finished to eliminate splinters; in 
the: Midwest, schools or clubs rent old movie shorts of dance 
bands, screen them in the gym and dance to the music in the 
dim light given off by the movie screen. In all parts of the 

‘country, girls ask boys to “turnabout dances,” pay for tickets, 
pick up their dates, furnish boutonniere corsages and cut in. 

Teens have developed a special, set of etiquette rules for 
dancing. Girls disapprove of fellows who cut in on the same girl 
twice in a row, boys frown on girls dancing together and will 
seldom break in on such a twosome. In Minnesota, a boy doesn’t 
ask a girl to dance, he simply nudges her foot with his and nods 
toward the dance floor. And in Virginia, the conversation goes 

| like this: Boy—“‘You dancing?” Girl—‘‘You asking?” Boy— 
“Tm asking.”’ Girl—“‘I’m dancing.” 





After dates in San Francisco, teens drive to parking area overlooking Golden Gate bridge, 
range cars in huge circle and dance in beam of headlights to music from car radios all tuned 
to same station, turned to top volume. “Fun, but it’s likely to be hard on the car battery!” 


es. Teens learn dance from their mothers, add fancy footwork of their own, borrowing break from Lindy, knee crossing from Black Bottom. Big difficulty: finding suitable recorded music. 


PHOTO BY MORRIS ENGEL—SCOPE 


Many young men find that thoy can do much better work if they get the girl out of their dreams and into their kitchen. 





Pattern of the future?... “We're together,” is the 


answer young newlyweds give to economic hardships. 


#. y 


ee 


ee / SA Ly E went to different colleges and saw each other just week ends. Monday and Tuesday 


a 


I couldn’t think about anything but Janie—from Wednesday on I couldn’t concen- 
trate on anything but Saturday. In a way, we had to get married.” .. . “I wouldn’t be in a 
position to marry, from a financial angle, for a long time to come. I was sure my girl and I 
could make it go. Why waste the years in between?” . . . ““We started dating in high school. 
By our senior year in college we had been going together for four and a half years. Even our 
families just didn’t expect us to wait any longer.” 
Up to a very few years ago, the foregoing reasons would not have been considered strong 
enough for young people to break tradition and marry while still (Continued on Page 193} 





GASOLINE ALLEY COPYRIGHT, 1949, THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE By King 





’ 


Oo, Tha 2 OM fil 71 





SURE. $7.90. 9OCENTS FOR \K | | 
THE PHONE CALL AND SEVEN /) +I") |} 
BUCKS TO LIVE ON THE Modal 


YOU'D BETTER Y | SUPPOSE SO. YH 
KEEPING YOU IN MARRIED. SS Ki, CORE 
COLLEGE ? TASS 






[Pra 








“My wife won’t believe me,” says Peter Com- 
fort, sizing up his little evergreen to guess if a string 
of colored lights might hurt it, “when I tell her 
she’s prettier after a bath with her hair pinned up, 
and cold cream on her face, than when she’s fresh 
from «he beauty parlor. She merely assumes I’m 
trying to save her primping money.” 


Wr 


For future arguments with his wife, the man next 
door tells me he has prepared a placard he intends to hold 
up boldly at the crucial moment. It says: “Your husband 
might be right!”” 


x 


“I wish my daugliter had sized up her young 
man as realistically when she was falling in love 
with him,” confides my cynical neighbor, in the 
house that was so drastically modernistic till he re- 
modeled it, “‘as she does now that she’s divorcing 
him.” 


re 


If I could only find the surreptitious notes I’ve 
jotted down all year whenever my Dream Girl said 
she’d like this or that for Christmas! But if I ask her 


to mention ’em again she might be even less surprised. 
ox 


For my neighbor across the street, every 
silver lining has its cloud: Since he became a 
two-car family he complains that now his wife 
will have to clear away the snow in front of 
both garage doors. 


¥ 


Ah, if we could only bottle some of that 
Thanksgiving-Christmas holiday spirit and 
spray a little of it from an atomizer on the 
twenty-fifth of every month! The other ten 
months have a trick of drooping a little 


toward the end. 
~ 


In my own private Utopia, you’d be 
able to get a raise merely by showing your 
boss the letters from your son or daughter 
away at school demanding more money. 


Y 


Two red pillows are responsible for the 
oldest dispute between me and my Wonder 
Girl. She wants to keep one on each of the love seats, 
where they're in the way. I want ’em both on the 
davenport, for my head when I stretch out occaston- 
ally. . . . You ask who’s boss? Two weeks a year, 
when I'm batching it, they’re on the davenport! 


wv 


‘Usually our arguments are amiable enough,” 
confides Betty Comfort, emptying her vacuum 
cleaner on the first clean snow. “The only time my 
husband was really horrid was when he threatened to 
terminate our joint checking account!” 


& 


Once I penetrated deep enough into the White 
House mysteries to espy a can of imitation maple 
sirup in the pantry. . . . It merely reminded me that 
real maple sirup now costs almost as much as whisky. 
(Tastes better, though!) 


Y 


The confused father across the street has offered 
his 14-year-old son a deal: He can have a dinner jacket 
at 14, if hell be docile about spankings till 16. 








I’m uncertain which baffles a child more, and 
threatens future complexes: a Christmas toy he can 
break in twenty-four hours, or a toy that defies his 
most heroic attempts to destroy it. 


I’m far more patient than I used to be. Today 
I'm willing to wait until Christmas of 1950 for my 


family to give me something I wanted to buy for 
myself in the spring of *47. 


x 
I can understand how Daniel Boone might feel in 
Times Square when I’m shoveling the snow off my drive- 
way by hand and my neighbor begins to operate his 
motorized snow shovel. (Anyhow, my driveway’s level 
and his is hilly!) 


When my wife asks me to carry the big box of 
Christmas decorations down from the attic, I’m 
grateful that she and all her sex keep the yule spirit 
wrapped up so safely in cotton no matter how 
savagely we men mislay it. 


59 


My neighbor’s piquant wife likes to be taken out 
to dinner once a week. But she confides her husband 
spoiled the last one on her silver anniversary by aski ng 
if she took cream with her coffee. “Plenty of men,” 
she complains, “remember I haven’t used cream in my 
coffee for ten years.” : 

i. 


When the wreaths go up on doors, and the 
colored lights twinkle out the windows, I’m so cheer- 
ful I half believe that in another thousand years peo- 
ple will be as lovable all year as they are now for ten 
days in December. 


i 


Two of my sillier neighbors haven’t spoken to each 
other for more than ten years. Except at Christmastime, 
when they’re occasionally caught flatfooted and give 
each other a slightly crusty ““Good morning!” 


4 


Another family emergency for which neither 
college nor bachelorhood prepares a man is exactly 
what to say when his three children all ignore the 
sandwiches and order the $3.50 steaks when the 
family’s dining out on a Thursday evening. 


R 


With the front pages so filled with atoms 
and menace, maybe this is the Christmas to 
begin loving not only our intimate neighbors 
in the block but also a lot of complete stran- 
gers from the Strait of Magellan to Spitsbergen. 


i 
Down at the club our testiest member 
tells me he can get an argument out of his 
wife every time he opens his mouth, except 
when he wades into Russia with both fists 
flying. ““She’s a DAR, you know,” he ex- 
plains, “and that baffles her.” 


x 


When I was a child I suspected the apho- 
rism, “‘It is more blessed to give than to receive,” 
was just another slice of grownups’ double 
talk. Not until I squatted with children under a 
Christmas tree of our own did its profound 


truth illuminate me. 


we 
When Junior acts like a dead-end kid 


to show his resentment because he can’t have the 
car... and your wife treats you as if you were out on 
parole because you’ ve been detained at work and are 
ten minutes late to a 7-o’clock dinner party where 
they won’t eat till 8:45 . . . and your daughter sulks 
because you reproach her gawky Galahad for bring- 
ing her home at 1 A.M. two nights ina row... then 
you wonder if the Foreign Legion on the Sahara 
would have been so bad. 


x 


But when the children chip in and buy you for 
Christmas a very special little gadget you mentioned 
wistfully last May . . . and your youngest says, 
“Daddy, P’ve been awful and I want you to punish 
me!” . . . and your own Mrs. 1949 stops you in the 
midst of a labored explanation of your more promi- 
nent shortcomings and reverses the field by saying, 
“Yes, darling, even at your worst you’re the best hus- 
band in the tenth precinct!” . . . then you want to 
send insulting telegrams, collect, to all your bachelor 
friends when they celebrate their silver anniversary 
of single-cussedness, saying, “Maybe any wife is 
better than no wife!” 






























Assorted Sandwiches, 


wars . Pa thie -Toas ater Cress, Holid:z 
Ghikkcni¥stnenanieMachameniCeiecrale Enc Chicken-Toasted Almond, Water Cress loliday 
aay 
Hot Rolls ap \ : Roquefort Pecans 
; “a Vanilla Balls Fruitcake 


Spiced Apricots 


‘ : ‘ Coffee — Tea 
Tomato Aspic — Roquefort-Cream Dressing OG CA wT 
*K L Candied Grapefruit Peel 
ee 


Currant Jelly 
Chilled Pineapple Cake (Planned for 24) 
Coffee . 


(Planned for 12) 





By ANN BATCHELDER 


DON’T need to remind you that the big Day is “just around the corner.” Things going 
I on tell me so, and I’m perfectly aware that the calendar always tells the truth. 

You are no doubt squarely in the middle of all sorts of goings on. Doing up presents and 
getting the inevitable cards on their way. Hiding grandma’s knitting bag and little Willie’s 
baseball bat and roller skates in that spare-room closet, where both grandma and Willie 
have looked them over some time ago—without comment. [ could be wrong, but that’s the 


way I think it probably is with you. 





Now to our doings. You know—or maybe you just guessed—that we have parties here 
at the JourNAL. When it comes to throwing a real shindig, we’re there with the works. And 
wouldn’t it be odd—unthinkable, in fact—if we neglected to give Christmas its due? Have 
some entertaining going on and everything as bright and candlelit and bauble-trimmed as in 


anybody’s home? Well, Christmas at the JouRNAL is really something; and to prove it to you 





who can’t be with us during that great gala season, we have set out for you, in pictures and 


words, two of the menus we shall serve this year in our newly decorated dining room. They 


STUART-FOWLER 


are our stand-bys for a buffet party and a tea. 


Buffets take care of so many. A buffet luncheon or supper is one dependable thing 


PHOTOS BY 


in an unstable world, You can take care of a lot of people, or (Continued on Page 88) 





LINE A DA 


I One thing missing at Christmastime—indeed, all 
winter long—is the sound of sleigh bells. How many 
of you remember the old-fashioned White Christ- 
mases and the sleighs with their big fur robes and 
horses bedecked with strings of sweet-toned bells? 


2 For your holiday parties I am proposing two salads. 
Either will make a meal as gay as tinsel on a tree. Fol- 
low me and see if this isn’t pure understatement. 


3 Take halves of pears and chill them well. Fill 
centers with cream cheese mashed with a little sour 
cream and a small smattering of chopped crystallized 
or preserved ginger. Serve with sour-cream dressing. 


4 Here’s one for your book. Halve small avocados 
lengthwise. Scoop the pulp out to leave a shell. Mix 
the pulp with a cream cheese, salt and onion salt to 
taste. Add mayonnaise to make it smooth and creamy, 
then stir in enough crisp crumbled bacon so you'll 
know it’s there. Fill the shells, cover with strips of 
pimiento and serve with Russian dressing. 


® For asandwich snack, chop a hard-cooked egg, add 
salt and pepper to taste and mix with a little “boiled” 
dressing. Spread on a slice of bread. On another slice 
spread a layer of deviled ham. Put the slices together. 
Men go for this, in case you’re interested. 


G Wintertime is apple time. (Ever taste those won- 
derful Vermont Spies?) Core, but don’t pare, an apple 
apiece. Bake them until done, but no more. When 
ready to finish, put each apple on a slice of sponge or 
angel cake cut to fit individual serving dishes. Mask 
with vanilla ice cream, cover with a very stiff 
meringue. Shoot them under the broiler until a light 
brown. It’s apple Alaska, if you must know. 


7 Had to go to a wedding to find this one. I fell hard 


for some little rolled and twisted pastry tubes filled 
with sharp cheese and hot minced ham in cream. Hot 
and delicious. Finger length, thumb size. 

4% Here’s one that makes a nice easy luncheon. Heat 
and cool acan of asparagus soup. Add a cup of finely 
minced cooked ham and a cup of minced mushrooms. 
Season well, adding to the salt and pepper a little 
grated lemon peel. In a greased casserole put a layer 
of fine crumbs. 

9 Chapter 2. Now beat the yolks of three eggs. Stir 
these into the soup. Fold in the stiffly beaten whites 
of the eggs and two cups of fine crumbs. Mix well. 
Pour this into the casserole, strew the top with crumbs, 
add little pieces of butter or margarine and bake at 
475° F. It will puff. It will be a heavenly soufflé. Serve 
it quickie, with a salad and dessert. 

1@ Part I. Select with care thick, large, lamb chops. 
Sauté half a pound of fine mushrooms, peeled and 
sliced. Take thick slices of bread and cut the size of 
the chops. Brown these in butter or margarine. 


By ANN BATCHELDER 


II Part II. Sprinkle the mushrooms with flour and 
add some rich cream. Cook until smooth and season 
to taste. Broil the chops to your liking and put a chop 
on each slice of bread. Decorate with a large sautéed 
mushroom, and serve with the creamed mushrooms. 


12 Part III. Peas or broiled tomatoes go well with 
lamb. Garnish with cress and lemon. 


133 Part I. Bake some aristocratic Idaho potatoes 
and cut in half lengthwise. Scoop out the pulp. Mash 
smooth. Add hot cream. Then a crisp piece or two of 
crumbled bacon and/or crisp sausages chopped fine. 
Season well with salt, pepper, paprika, butter and a 
tablespoon of chopped parsley. Beat, beat. 


44 Part II. When it’s all sort of creamy and well 
seasoned (and perfectly smooth), stuff the potato 
shells, cover with grated cheese and brown and heat 
in the oven. The most delicious potato dish I know. 


15 A word to the wise anent the hors-d’oeuvre tray. 
Don’t fail to have among the hot ones small oysters 
dipped in lemon juice, drained, covered with thin 
fritter batter and fried in deep fat. Have them hot. 


1G Two soups are often better than one. For in- 
stance, combine one can cream of chicken with one 
can cream of celery. Add equal quantity of thin 
cream and a dash of curry. Sprinkle chopped chives 
on top. There’s something that rates a blue ribbon. 


17 Lamb chops are quite another dish when they’re 
broiled to a turn, and served with a sauce made by 
taking a tumbler of currant jelly, half as much chut- 
ney, the juice of half a lemon and a little salt and 
pepper. Heat these together and pass with the chops. 


18% As if a tomato could surprise anybody, here’s 
another version. Pick out small hothouse tomatoes, 
peel and scoop them out and arrange on crisp let- 
tuce. Mix the pulp with cream cheese, finely minced 
pecans, alittle chopped green pepper and mayonnaise. 
Stuff the tomatoes. Serve with more mayonnaise. 


19 An old trick, still good, still in vogue. Make some 
rich pastry, roll it out thin, sprinkle with minced 
Parmesan and Gruyére cheese, cut in strips and bake 
on acooky sheet till light brown and crisp. Try these 
with salad—and with afternoon coffee. They’re tops. 


THE TREE 


“How tong ago it seems, 

Like half-remembered dreams, 

The long, long pull up through the 
drifted snow 

To bring the tree from its 
accustomed hill. 

No backward look to those that 
waited there 

And wait there still. 


- 





20 Speaking of ham hash, you’ve had my receipt 
which I made up more years ago than I have any in- 
tention of divulging. Two cups of quite finely chopped 
ham to four of potatoes boiled halfway and chopped 
like the ham. Cook it in plenty of milk, slow, slow. 
Add cream, add butter or margarine. It should be 
thick but not dry. And seasoned well. There’s no 
ham hash on earth to touch it. Serve on toast. 


21 And I might add that this hash, encased in fine 
pastry, turnover style, and fried, is noteworthy. 


22 Now hash is hash and the swankiest places fea- 
ture it and you’d be surprised how folks go for it. Add- 
ing chopped green pepper and a flirt of chili sauce 
wins praise, especially in the corned-beef corner. 


2:3 It’s always a comfort to come across something 
new to do with potatoes, even if it’s only to mash 
them better. Fried potato balls are a good bet if 
you’re out to make potato history or reputation. 


24 Take three cups of hot mashed potatoes, and not 
a lump ina bushel. Add a teaspoon of bakirig powder, 
salt, pepper and paprika to taste, and two well-beaten 
eggs. Now add half a cup of grated cheese, two table- 
spoons of butter or margarine and beat like all get 
out. Drop by spoonfuls into deep hot fat. Fry until 
brown. Garnish with lemon. Now then—Potatoes! 


2% One word of warning. Not long ago I was served 
an oyster stew. And, believe it or not, it had whipped 
cream on top. Never, never do this. 


26 Sweets to the sweet is the oldest gag extant, I 
guess. Put a ball of vanilla ice cream in each coupe 
glass. Around it arrange sections of orange. Over all 
pour a tablespoon or two of orange-blossom honey. 


27 From an old cookbook: “‘On very cold or stormy 
days children may take their lunches to school. These 
must’ be hearty and ample. A large piece of pie and 
two or three doughnuts with the sandwiches.” And 
how about that pork chop and sauerkraut? 


2% The humble beet makes a fine garnish for fish 
dishes. Real good with fish balls. And you can’t beat 
the beet to trim up salt pork—fried. You may dice 
them in butter, too, and fill a spinach ring. See? The 
beet is coming up in the world. 


2% Stop, look and listen, as the old crossing signs 
used to say. A deep-dish apple pie sweetened with 
maple sugar, served with whipped cream flavored 
with nutmeg and maple sugar. It’s super. 


:8@ Mushrooms (large caps), grilled and filled with 
mushrooms chopped and mixed with butter, cream, 
salt and pepper, and then sautéed and served on little 
buttered rounds of toast, are highly recommended. 


:bl There’s only one thing to say to you now. I hope 
you're all set for a whopping Christmas. You know 
how I feel. To each and all of you I send the wish 
that’s old but ever new—Merry Christmas! 


BORDER DESIGN BY JOHN URBAIN 





pu ae a et ie ee ee Be et ” 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 















8S U 
7¢ OMIGHTS fol 
with “Ihe 200 ec 


Campbell's Tomato SouP wit 


i med C 
i Ring with Crea 
a ‘Carrot Strips and Celery 
' Cocoanut Cream Pie 


amily will enjoy: 
Tomato Soup - - er of seasolung - - 


ell’s i : 
pe better than Campb e butter, 4 ia less recipe! 


ice tabl tc 
finest tomatoes, ae to Campbell’s ow? ma 
r 


all blended acco 


ks like best”! 


ch to a meal! Try this: 


h Crackers 


Its spark! hipped Beet 


1 What could 
first to last: he world’s 


he whole f _made from t 


Here’s a meal t 













To make a hit 
AY) May I suggest 

You serve “the soup 

. Most folks like best’’? 


LOOK FOR THE RED“AND=WHITE LABEL 


TOMATO SOUP 








Campbell’s Tomato Soup 
Peanut Butter and Lettuce Sandwich with Olives 
Canned Pears 


Lunch you should—and well—even though you 
lunch alone. A bowl of Campbell’s Tomato Soup 
is ready in minutes...a joy to eat...and nourish- 
ment to see you through the afternoon. 





Campbell’s Tomato Soup with Crackers 
Platter of String Beans with Sliced Luncheon Meat 


Macaroni Salad Orange and Grapefruit Cup 


Thrifty meals help make ends meet. Start them off, 
round them out, with the soup most folks like best. 
Bright bowls of Campbell’s Tomato Soup make 
budget meals taste good and plenty! 





Campbell’s Tomato Soup is also the best tomato 
sauce you ever tasted! Use just as it comes from 
the can. It’s smooth, zestful, colorful. Makes good 
dishes taste better, look better! Write for FREE 
COOK BOOK—“Easy Ways to Good Meals” — 
Campbell Soup Company, Dept. J, Camden1, N.J. 








64. 





2 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





é 


Mrs. JOHN F. Brush, Mt. Lebanon: “Window cleaning is such a 


hard job that I was overjoyed when I discovered Windex Spray. 
It’s really wonderful to be able to just spray the cleaner on the 
glass. These other cleaners have to be rubbed on. That’s not for 
me! I’m staying with Windex Spray!” 


Read why housewives are changing 


Bk TOWNOEK SHAY 





Mrs. Maurice C. Boyer, Kansas City: 
‘I switched to Windex Spray from soap- 
because I hated all that 
Now I’ve tried other kinds 
of glass cleaners, and found JI had to 


rub them on, too! So I’m switching to 


W index 


and-water, 


rubbing. 


Spray—again!” 





a 
fas 


Mrs. Marsorie DANIELS, Washington: 
“Fifteen cents certainly isn’t very much 


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GENTIAN HILL 


(Continued from Page 39) 


He put his hands round hers, and held 
them tightly. ‘Stella, if I’m not at home this 
Christmas I’ll be home for lots of other 
Christmases.” 

“Promise?” 

“T promise. And when I’m away you'll 
write me a letter sometimes, won’t you? I’ll 
write to you.” 

Stella nodded. 

“And there’s another thing you can do. 
You can go to the Chapel of St. Michael, like 
Rosalind did, and remember there that I’m 
coming back again.” 

Stella smiled. ‘‘I’ll go, like Rosalind... . 
But that man was away for years, Zachary.” 

“And I’ll only be away till I’ve licked 
Bony,” he said, and laughed, and, jumping 
up, swung her to her feet. “I’ll race you down 
the hill, Stella.” 

The race was a device to get them from the 
top of the hill to the garden gate, where they 
must say good-by. At the gate he kissed her, 
holding her tightly, but only for a moment. 
Then he watched her until she reached the 
shelter of the porch, and tramped quickly 
away down the lane. 


The turmoil of packing over, Doctor Crane 
and Zachary sat for the last time talking in 
front of the study fire. 

Zachary said slowly, “I’ve said good-by to 
Stella.”” He wanted the doctor to know how 
he felt about Stella, yet it seemed unexplain- 
able. 


“Sue’s a very unusual little girl,’ said the 
doctor, “‘of whom unusual things may be ex- 
pected. She is not the child of Father and 
Mother Sprigg.”’ 

Zachary suddenly sat straight up in his 
chair. ““Does she know that? She never told 
me!”’ 

“T imagine that loyalty to Mother Sprigg 
would have kept her from telling you. But I 
think it is right that you should know.” Doc- 
tor Crane told all that he knew of Stella. 
Then he went to his desk and came back with 
a folded scrap of paper. ‘‘ This was written in- 
side Stella’s mother’s locket. I copied it in 
the Greek in which it was written. Your 
Greek is equal to the strain, I think.” 

Zachary took the scrap of paper and trans- 
lated slowly, “Love is the divinity who cre- 
ates peace among men, and calm upon the 
sea, the windless silence of storms, repose and 
sleep in sadness. Love sings to all things which 
love and are, soothing the troubled minds of 
gods and men.” 

Zachary had read the words often and they 
had had little meaning for him, yet now it 
seemed as though they had been written for 
him. He folded the paper again. 

“You can keep it,” said the doctor. “‘And 
now we'd better go to bed.”’ 


It was Sunday, October 20, 1805. Mass 
had been said in the old guest hall of Torre 
Abbey. This was now the Catholic church of 
the neighborhood, and the little group of 
worshipers were gathering in the entrance 
hall. They were gloomy enough. Napoleon 
had been crowned emperor in Notre Dame. 
Thanks to the vigilance of Nelson and Corn- 
wallis, the threatened invasion of England 
had not yet been attempted, but the fleets of 
France and Spain still remained intact, and 
the danger was not over. Hearts were heavy, 
though at the moment, among this group, 
there was the rekindling of hope that comes 
when an aesthetic experience of great beauty 
has laid its spell of peace upon the mind. 

Sunday mass at Torre Abbey was in these 
days always memorable. The Abbé de Col- 
bert, the chaplain of Torre Abbey, made of it 
always a poignant and deep experience for 
those to whom he ministered. Each of the fa- 
miliar prayers, spoken in his extraordinarily 
beautiful voice, soared up like music and fell 
again as light. 

His history was known in bare outline, but 
no more, for he never spoke of his past life. 
He had been the third son of the Comte de 
Colbert, and his childhood must have been 
happy enough, and presumably his young 


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manhood too. He had been sent into a crack 
egiment, had held the rank of colonel at the 
age of twenty-five, and had spent much time 
nattendance at the gayest court in the world. 
e had seen foreign service with his regi- 
ment, and had distinguished himself in it. 
d in the day of retribution his courage had 
till been as a flame. He had not joined the 
rst waves of émigrés who escaped from 
France after the fall of the Bastille. He had 
served the king while this was possible, then 
e had gone home to protect his parents. It 
was said that when the mob came to burn 
e chateau and murder its occupants he had 
ought like a tiger until he had been wounded. 
he village curé, it was said, had rescued him 
and hidden him. When he came back to life 
again it was to find himsélf Comte de Col- 
dert, for he was the only one of his family left 
alive. Then he became a fugitive, and it was 
at this time that he was joined in his wander- 
ngs by a woman whom he loved; who she 
was and whether he was married to her, the 
orre Abbey community did not know. Some- 
show they had escaped together and reached 
ngland, a child had been born to them and 
ey had been happy. Then the woman and 
e child had died and the come had gone to 
Ireland. There he had become a priest. Two 
years ago he had come to Torquay as the 
Abbé de Colbert. That was all any of them 
ad been able to discover about him. 

He moved about the hall, to first one group 
and then another, saying not more than a 
few words to any excepting to Mrs. Loraine, 
fa very old lady. She was a widow whose two 
sons had died fighting in India. She lived 
alone in a little house near Torre Church. He 
ad actually been to call upon her once and 
he had asked him to go again, but he had 
ot gone. 

The abbé’s constitution had always been 
emarkable. He was thinking this morning 
hat if he was to live to ninety like his grand- 
father then he was still only halfway through. 
And since Thérése had died the time had 
seemed long. That was the way of it in loneli- 
ness. He supposed he ought to try and be 
ore companionable, but he had lost the 
trick of it. 

He looked up and saw St. Michael’s Chapel, 
with its gray walls almost silver in the frosty 
sunshine. He had not been able to stay as 
long as he had wished in the abbey chapel 
after mass; courtesy had demanded that he 
go to the hall and speak to the congregation. 
He decided he would climb up to St. Mi- 
hael’s Chapel. It was, for him, steeped in 
e sense of sanctuary. 

He climbed up quickly and, entering the 
hapel, he knelt near the piscina, facing the 






I want you to say hello to him—say hello. . . 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


place where once the altar had been. He wor- 
shiped there for he did not know how long. 
Then, without knowing it, he spoke aloud: 
“Sit nomen Domini benedictum: ex hoc nunc, 
et usque in saeculum.” 

Some sound disturbed him, a small rustle 
like that of a mouse. He looked around and 
saw a small girl in a green cloak and bonnet 
sitting sedately on a hummock of rock, re- 
garding him seriously. Meeting his glance, 
she smiled with the utmost friendliness, and 
the smile went through him with a stab of 
pain. He got up almost shakily, one hand 
against the wall. 

“Don’t your knees ache?” she asked sym- 
pathetically. 

“Slightly,” said the abbé stiffly. 

He had not the slightest idea how to talk 
to children. He knew nothing about them, 
His own child had been so small a creature 
when death had come. He crossed the chapel 
and sat down on the low rock with some dif- 
ficulty, his long legs stretched out before him. 

“Do you suffer from lumbago, sir?”’ asked 
Stella. 

“T thank you, no,” said the abbé. ‘I just 
found it difficult to sit down because I am so 
much taller than you are.” 

Stella smiled, glad that ‘he did not have 
lumbago. ‘‘Father Sprigg had it. It’s most 
painful. Mother Sprigg warms salt in the 
oven and applies it to where the pain is, and 
then he feels better.” 

“Are Father and Mother Sprigg your par- 
ents?”’ asked the abbé. He had forgotten that 
he did not know how to talk to children. 

“Father and Mother Sprigg are my father 
and mother,”’ Stella answered. 

“You live in Torquay, child?” 

“No, sir. I live at Weekaborough Farm, 
near Gentian Hill.” 

“You are here alone?” 

“Doctor Crane brought me to the bottom 
of the hill. He’s gone to see a patient and then 
he’ll come back and fetch me. Those were 
lovely words you were saying when I came in. 
Like Zachary used to say sometimes.” 

“You like words?” 

She nodded. 

“So do I,” he said. “This Zachary, is he 
your brother?” 

He saw how the laughter left her lips and 


her eyes darkened. “No. He’s gone away to 
‘sea, and I come here to remember that he will 


come back. Like Rosalind.” 
The abbé knew something of the legend of 
the place. ““Once a year, like Rosalind?” 
“Yes. This is the first time I’ve come. 
Zachary went away on November twenty- 
seventh, so I really ought to have waited till 
November again, but I have come earlier 


**Say hello to daddy, Junior—say hello, you know 
how to say hello—say it—daddy’s very busy and 


9° 
. 


Autumn, with its crisp, cool days, 
is usually one of the most pleasant 
seasons of the year for motoring—but 
this can be enjoyable only when it 
is safe. 


The President’s Highway Safety 
Conference reports that the traffic 
fatality rate has dropped steadily in 
the postwar period from 11.3 for each 
100,000,000 miles of vehicle travel in 
1945 to 7.3 in 1948. While this is en- 
couraging, the 32,000 automobile ac- 
cident fatalities last year indicate the 
need for greater improvement. 


Safety authorities agree that most 


INSPECTION 


STATION 
ENTRANCE 


1. Vehicle defects are reported as con- 
tributing causes in many accidents. 
So, it is important to have your car 
completely checked at regular inter- 
vals to make sure it is in safe operating 
condition. Particular attention should 
be given at all times to brakes, tires, 
steering mechanism and lights. 


Or 








3. Collisions frequently occur when 
cars are too close together. On dry 
pavements, a good rule is to allow one 
car length for every 10 miles of speed. 
This margin should be increased at 
night, on slippery roads, or at high 
speeds. : 


65 





accidents are the result of drivers’ mis- 
takes. By far the most important cause 
of accidents is the failure of drivers to 
adjust speed to changing road and 
traffic conditions. For example, 55 
per cent of all fatal accidents happen 
at night, when vision is obscured, and 
14 per cent occur in inclement weather, 
when roads are slippery. 


Traffic experts stress driving at rea- 
sonable speeds as one of the most im- 
portant &teps in reducing highway 
accidents. In addition, they make a 
number of other suggestions, some of 
which are illustrated below: 





2. Skidding on slippery surfaces is a 
frequent cause of accidents. To help 
avoid this, brakes should be applied 
with light pressure, then released and 
applied again. Jamming the brakes on 
will lock the wheels and may cause 
a skid. 





4. Emergencies need not always cause 
accidents if drivers know how to han- 
dle them. For example, when a tire 
blows out, keep a tight grip on the 
wheel and allow the car to slow down be- 
fore applying the brakes. This makes it 
easier to prevent swerving or skidding. 


The cardinal principle of safe driving is to keep one’s car 
under control at all times. Only as more and more motorists 
observe this basic principle can the number of automobile 


accident fatalities be further reduced. 


For more information, send for Metropolitan’s free book- 
let, 129-J, called ‘‘How’s Your Driving?”’ 


COPYRIGHT 1949—METROPOLITAN LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY 
Metropolitan Life 
Insurance ‘i? Company 


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(A MUTUAL COMPANY) 


We 


1 Madison Ave., New York 10, N. Y. 


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66 










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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


because ——” She stopped and looked a 
little troubled. 

“Could you tell me why?” asked the abbé 
gently. 

“Last night I dreamed about the country 
where one goes. You know the country, sir?”’ 

“Yes,’’ said the abbé. 

“Zachary was there, but I could not find 
him. He was afraid. I know he was there, and 
I know he was afraid, but I could not find 
him.” 

“That was natural,’’ said the abbé. “Fear 
is a lonely thing. Even those who love us best 
cannot get close to us when we are afraid.” 

“When I woke up I wondered why he was 
afraid,” said Stella. ““I thought perhaps there 
was a storm ——” 

“And so you came here to remember 
Zachary in this place especially set apart for 
prayer for those at sea.”’ 

“Yes. The doctor came to listen to old 
Sol’s bronchitis—Sol’s our plowman—and I 
asked him to bring me here.” 

“Your friend the doctor,” he asked, ‘‘is he 
fetching you here or waiting for you below?”’ 

“He'll wait below,” said Stella. ‘He 
doesn’t like climbing. He has the rheu- 
matics.” 

The abbé crossed to one of the windows and 
looked out. Down at the foot of the rock he 
could see a gig. He turned back to Stella. 
“The good doctor is waiting. Will you tell me 
your name, my child?’ 

She got up and stood facing him. ‘“‘Stella 
Sprigg,”’ she told him. ‘Please, sir, what is 
your name?”’ 

“Charles Sebastian Michel de Colbert,”’ he 
said, his eyes twinkling. ‘“‘But most people 
call me the abbé, and others just mon pére.”’ 

““Mon pére,” said Stella gravely. 


He thought of her ceaselessly, and was as- 
tonished at himself. He, who had never cared 
for children, to have been so enchanted by a 
farmer’s child! 

Eating his solitary breakfast a fortnight or 
so later, he wondered if loneliness pressed 
upon other elderly people as it was now be- 
ginning to press upon him. Contented with 
his solitary life, he had not hitherto consid- 
ered the loneliness of others. That was shame- 
ful, and he a priest in charge of souls. Mrs. 
Loraine, for instance, widowed, her children 
dead—was loneliness to her not a treasure, 
but a grief? He decided to accept the invita- 
tion that she had given him so many months 
ago and pay her a morning call. 

Wrapped in his cloak, he stepped out into 
the bright sunshine. The weather was cold 
and frosty, but he enjoyed his walk to Torre. 
Mrs. Loraine’s attractive little white house 
was opposite the gate of Torre Church. 

The abbé walked up the pebbled path and 
lifted the brass knocker. 

The door was opened by an elderly maid- 
servant. He followed the maid into Mrs. 
Loraine’s parlor and found himself bow- 
ing with extreme formality, then straight- 
ening and meeting the amused glance of her 
cool blue eyes. 

“T have called to pay you the compliments 
of the season, madame.”’ 

“What an unexpected honor, monsieur.”’ 


Mrs. Loraine was nearer eighty than 
seventy, but she held herself upright in her 
high-backed chair. Her white hair was piled 
high on her head and she wore a lace cap 
with black velvet strings tied beneath her 
chin. A white lace fichu crossed the bosom of 
her voluminous gray silk dress. Only physi- 
cally was Mrs. Loraine an old woman. Her 
blue eyes, her smiling mouth and her fresh, 
clear voice were young. 

There was a beautiful cedarwood workbox 
inlaid with ivory, on the table beside Mrs. 
Loraine. The lid was lifted and he could see 
that inside there were ivory spools wound 
with colored silks, an emery cushion shaped 
like a strawberry, a silver thimble. . . . Stella 
had perhaps reached the age when little girls 
had to sew samplers. . . . He realized sud- 
denly that he had not been attending to a 
word his hostess was saying, and started 
guiltily. 

“Your thoughts wander, monsieur?” 
There was a hint of severity in Mrs. Lo- 
raine’s tone. 


December, 1946 


“Forgive me, madame. I was thinking hoy 
a child would delight in that workbox o 
yours.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Loraine. “‘ There is muck 
in this room that would delight a child. It is 
a grief to me that I know very few children. 

He began to tell her about his meeting with 
Stella, and of how he had renewed acquaint 
ance with Doctor Crane. He told her of hig 
first meeting with the doctor, and of the boy, 
Zachary, and she was eagerly interested. 

“You must see this child again,’’ she said, 
“And bring her to see me.”’ She looked abou 
her, then lifted the workbox. ‘‘I’ll just set 
this to rights and then you shall take it as a} 
gift to the child.” 

““Madame!”’ cried the abbé in horror. “I 
could not possibly do such a thing! I can see 
it is a great treasure.” 


“BELIEVE me, monsieur, I am delighted 
that Stella should have the box. Will you 
be so good as to ring the bell? Araminta! 
shall pack up the box so that it may be easy, 
for you to carry. You have given me great 
pleasure, monsieur, by this visit. You will cal 
again and bring the child, her parents pe 

mitting?”’ 

“T will indeed, madame.” 


Rupert Hounslow got Zachary back in 0| 
the navy with the minimum of unpleasant-| 
ness and the maximum of speed. Zacha ; 
did not return to his uncle’s ship; he served a 
grueling probationary period upon a ship o 
the Channel fleet, and then, taking the pla 
of a midshipman who had fallen sick, wa ] 
transferred to a frigate sailing to join the! 
Mediterranean command. i 

The probationary period had been almo 
as bad as the months on his uncle’s ship; b 
not quite, for this was a good ship. But Zac 
ary found that he hated the life as much 
ever, was as seasick, and decided that he was 
obviously not cut out for a sailor. The knowl- 
edge that he was doing his duty gave him no 
pleasure whatever. | 

He tried to do his work well, and oho 








an outward show of cheerfulness. To his a 
tonishment he found that a few among his 
messmates seemed to like him. They were 
not, as before, all his enemies. | 

The probationary period came to an end 
and he was transferred to the frigate. A vo 
age in stormy weather from the English 
Channel through the Bay of Biscay anc 
around to Sardinia, in the month of Dece 
ber, did not at first seem an improvement in 
his lot. He thought that this time he woule 
really die of seasickness, complicated by 
some sort of fever that he had picked up. 
was no comfort to be told that Lord Nelson 
to whom they were carrying dispatches an¢ 
under whose command they would find) 
themselves when they reached their jour 
ney’s end, had never succeeded in conqueri 
seasickness either. The Christmas of 180 
came and went, but he could not even think 
of Stella and the doctor, and the wassailing) 
at Weekaborough. He could only think o} 
how he was to keep upon his feet. 

Eight bells. The pipes of the boatswain’s) 
mates penetrated the snaky nightmares o/ 
an upset inside, and he rolled out of his ha 
mock a‘: i clutched the stanchion beside hi 
He had learned to catch hold of the stanchion) 
first thing, but he fell headlong. Clutching i 
he became slowly aware of some curious! 
facts. He was dizzy and trembling as usual, 
and his head was aching, but he was not! 
retching. And the ship was steady. In the di 
light of the swinging lantern he reached wi h 
one hand for his coat and trousers and) 
dragged them on. Another midshipman! 
brought a basin of cold water and he soused 
his head in it. | 

“Storm blown itself out and we're ai 
chored,” whispered the other midshipman, 
a ginger-haired urchin just turned fifteen, 
Jonathan Cobb. 4 

“Where are we, Cobb?” croaked Zachary; 
stumbling up the ladder. \ 

“Sardinia.” 

They reached the deck and the icy air al 
most knocked the breath out of them; bu 
the stars, that had been hidden for nights on) 
end, were shining again and the whole world 
was bathed in moonlight. 


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Clinging to the rail, Zachary looked about 
him. The fleet was riding at anchor off the 
coast of Sardinia; the long, lovely shape of 
the island lay before him. 

Cobb was pulling at his sleeve. ‘“‘Look! 
There’s the admiral’s flagship. You can see 
the Nelson checker painted on her hull.” 

Zachary rubbed his knuckles in his eyes 
and stared at the Victory. He had never seen 
Lord Nelson, had never even wanted to, yet 
it meant something to him now that he was 
serving under him. 

Cobb was pulling at his sleeve again. 
“Come on! Come on!” 

The ship was coming to life. There was a 
racket in the galley, where the cook was 
lighting his fire. The watch was tumbling up 
with buckets, scrubbers, brooms, holystone 
and sand to clean ship. Cobb and Zachary 
went each to his station. 

A few hours later, when the boatswain 
piped to breakfast, the sun was rising in a 
clear sky, but it was starting to blow again, 
a bitter wind from the northwest. Yet the 
surge of cheerfulness, the sense that some- 
thing was about to happen, had come to 
every man on board. The sense of expecta- 
tion grew and mounted when two lookout 
frigates came flying into the roadstead like 
birds, and a signal raced to the masthead of 
the Victory: ““The enemy is at sea.” 


The end of this particular adventure was 
not yet, but for Zachary the ten months that 
led up to the end 
were entirely differ- 
ent from the months 
that had preceded 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Angel, youre in for 
a beautiful build up! 


If you want to measure up to your lovely holiday finery, leave it to 
Warner’s to make the most of your figure. 


evening at the end of September, the Victory 
quietly slipped in among them again. 

The atmosphere subtly changed. The days 
of waiting were now tingling with activity 
as Nelson moved his squadrons like chess- 
men, trying to tempt the enemy out and at 
the same time to prevent them escaping into 
the Mediterranean. October nineteenth, and 
the combined fleets of France and Spain had 
begun to come out. October twentieth, and 
the news had raced from masthead to mast- 
head, ““The enemy’s fleet is at sea.’’ But day- 
light that Sunday morning found the world 
shrouded in sea mist and they could not see 
them; they could only see at intervals the 
towering cliffs of Cape Trafalgar. 


Durinc the morning the mist lifted, the 
wind shifted, and voices proclaimed that it 
would be today. The afternoon passed, eve- 
ning came and the voices said it would be 
tomorrow. 

It was a queer night lit by strange lights 
and eerie with the boom of guns. The Eng- 
lish ships signaled the whereabouts of the 
enemy to one another with blue lights and 
gunfire, and at midnight Zachary’s frigate 
could see the orange glow of lamps from the 
stern-cabin windows of thirty-three men-of- 
war; and they were not English ships. 

October twenty-first, and just before dawn 
the English fleet altered course. They had 
drawn the enemy fleet well away from Cadiz 
and now they turned to the northeast, ready 
to attack. There was 
a slight mist, and a 
heavy swell that 
made Zachary feel 


that starry morn- 
ing. He was as sen- 
sitive as ever, he 
hated being at sea, 
his fear was still a 
demon that had to 
be ceaselessly dealt 
with, yet there 
seemed a light upon 
these days, lit by 
the born leader of 
men upon the flag- 
ship. 


The Little Princesses 


By Marion Crawford 


HE intimate, loving, authentic 
story of how Princess Elizabeth, 
with her younger sister, Princess 


Margaret, was brought up to be 
England’s future queen, by the 


woman who was their governess 


for seventeen years. 


The first of eight parts 
is in the January JOURNAL. 


seasick again, until 
he came on deck 
and saw, only a few 
miles away, the 
great ships whose 
lights they had seen 
at midnight, and in 
the beauty and ter- 
ror of the sight for- 
got himself com- 
pletely. 

After that he had 
no time to remem- 


A few hours after 
the signal they were 
off upon that chase 
of four thousand miles, all around the Medi- 
terranean and then to the West Indies and 
back, that was to be one of those failures 
that live in history more thrillingly than 
many victories. 

A midshipman who had had a classical 
education, even though he might be ex- 
tremely seasick, could not fail to be thrilled 
by the Mediterranean. Zachary looked with 
awe upon Scylla and Charybdis and the 
fires of Stromboli. He saw Tunis, Malta arid 
Crete, and in an interval between storms, ina 
calm sunrise, saw the coast of Greece with 
rose-colored rocks reflected in a mother-of- 
pearl sea. Then back again the length of the 
Mediterranean, past the coast of Spain and 
away to the West Indies. 


The routine of each ship went like clock- 
work, the days were leisurely, and for the 
first time Zachary knew that life upon the 
sea could be as gracious and friendly as life 
upon the land. The ship was home and his 
hammock in the cockpit was his own particu- 
lar corner of it, and he would lie there reading 
happily until he slept, oblivious of the noise 
around him. The night watches held no more 
terrors. 

Round again, homeward bound once more 
for Europe, and the old Superb still laboring 
after, all sail set to catch the enemy before 
they reached Cadiz. The enemy had five 
days’ start and they did not catch them.The 
Victory and the Superb sailed for England, 
leaving the rest of the fleet to watch for the 
enemy to come out again. 

Through those baking midsummer days 
they watched Cadiz as a cat a mousehole. 
They were keyed up to an almost intolerable 
sense of expectation, a small fleet waiting for 
battle with a much larger one. 

Nelson was in England for only twenty- 
five days, but the weeks of his absence seemed 
as many years to the waiting fleet: Then, one 





ber anything. The 
signal, ‘‘ Prepare for 
battle,” was flashed 
through the fleet, the drums beat to quarters 
and each man ran to his duty. 

By seven o’clock the English ships were 
sailing in two columns, Nelson and the Vic- 
tory leading the northern column, Colling- 
wood and the Royal Sovereign leading the 
southern, toward the five-mile-long curve of 
the enemy ships. They sailed steadily, with 
all sails set. The sea was smooth now, the sky 
clear of cloud. 

Then another signal flew from the Vic- 
tory’s masthead, the signal for close action, 
and in a very few minutes the enemy had 
opened fire. The two English columns sailed 
on, holding their own fire, for perhaps twenty 
minutes, until the two spearheads, the Vic- 
tory and the Royal Sovereign, had broken 
the enemy column, and one by one the great 
ships behind them sailed into the fight, 
sweeping out fanwise, each to attack her 
prey. 3 

The strategy of the battle, the perfect 
carrying through of a brilliantly conceived 
plan, was lost upon Zachary as upon other 
seamen taking part in it. For them, after the 
fury broke, it was merely hell. For months 
Zachary had been dreading this ordeal, and 
he found it worse than anything in his most 
lurid imaginings. 

Once Zachary saw two great ships locked 
in a death grip, drifting before the wind, and 
did not know that they were the Victory and 
the Redoubtable, and that down in the dimly 
lit red glare of the Victory’s cockpit Nelson 
at the moment lay dying. Another time he 
saw the vermilion and blue of an enemy hull 
looming right above their frigate like a great 
cliff; for a brief moment he could see the torn, 
smoke-blacked sails and the sharpshooters 
taking aim in the rigging; then the guns 
blazed again, the ship rocked and shuddered 
and the smoke once more blotted out the 
picture. 

(Continued on Page 69) 


67 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL December, 1949 


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(Continued from Page 67) 

The fight continued, becoming harder for 
those who were left as the ranks were thinned 
on the ships. Zachary obeyed orders instantly 
and accurately. He had known fear during 
the first terrible minutes of slow advance, 
but once the fight had begun there had been 

o more of that. Men toiled at the guns, in 


Pthe magazines, in the rigging, carrying the 


tory. Zachary found 


— 





wounded, flinging the dead and dying over- 
ard, running. messages, repairing under- 
water timbers. 

At sunset it was over. By sunset the last of 
the battle noises had died into silence, the 
stricken ships were being prepared for the 
night, and the wretchedness of exhaustion 
and reaction had each man in its grip. But 
they had won a great victory. Zachary, sit- 
ting on a coil of rope with his arms on his 
knees, told himself that over and over again, 
but could not seem to take it in. They had 
won a glorious victory. The fleets of France 
and Spain were defeated. England was safe 
now from invasion. The frigate, though 
badly battered, was still seaworthy. He him- 


) self had suffered no more damage than a 


slight flesh wound in his right arm and a 
splitting headache. He had every cause to re- 
joice. But he couldn’t, for Cobb was dead. 

The darkness deepened and the ship’s lan- 
terns shone out across the water. The Royal 
Sovereign had her full complement of lights, 
but somethingseemed 
wrong with the Vic- 


the senior midship- 
man beside him. 

“The Victory!”’ he 
said. 

“What’s wrong 
with the Victory?” 
asked the other 
crossly. 

“They've not lit 
the admiral’s lights.” 

The elder boy 
stared. Communica- 
tion between the ships 
was difficult. Their 
frigate knew nothing 
about the fight except 
that they had won it. 

‘“‘No .admiral’s 
lights,” he said stu- 
pidly. 

“No,’’saidZachary. 

They continued to stare, their faces gray 
in the waning light. Nelson was dead. 


thing 
or held dear 


string 


A few days after the news of Trafalgar 
reached Torquay the abbé was seized with an 
attack of grippe. One morning he found him- 
self with a sharp pain in his chest, extreme 
difficulty in breathing and a most irritating 
inability to get out of bed. He rang the bell. 

His landlady, Mrs. Jewell, surveyed him 
with a knowing eye. “ What you need, sir, is 
a good blooding. I'll send Jewell for Parker.” 

“You will do nothing of the kind,” said 
the abbé. “If a physician is needed, you will 
send for Doctor Crane of Gentian Hill, but 
for no one else.” 

He presently dropped into a restless, fever- 
ish sleep, and in his sleep the past was with 
him again. 


The window was wide to the early-morning 
sunshine and the scent-of the pine forest 
drifted through it. His mother was standing 
beside his bed. She laid her hand on his shoul- 
der and he opened his eyes to look at her. Yet 
when he did look she was no longer young; 
her face was white and ravaged, though she 
spoke calmly enough. “They are here, 
Charles.”’ 

He had lain down dressed the night before, 
and he was up in a flash and racing down the 
staircase to the hall below where his father 
and brothers were dragging heavy furniture 
and putting it against the door. None of their 
hervants were to be seen; they must have run 
away. 

The comtesse sat down on the stairs. “I do 
not think it is any good doing that,” she said. 
“Tf we resist they will certainly kill us, but if 
we do not resist they may have pity.” 

But her men did not even hear her. Every 
primitive instinct had been roused in them 


i Ok Kw Kk Kw OK. Kw RS 


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Here in her quiet room each simple 
That once she loved, used, handled 
Bespeaks her presence, as a viol’s 
Whispers a music lost upon the ear; 
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kK we wea K 


69 


by the mob they had seen through the win- 
dows, men with any weapon they had been 
able to lay their hands on, pikes, axes, hay- 
forks, flaming torches, cudgels, a mob gone 
mad with hate. 

They fired through the windows until the 
chateau was on fire, the door battered in and 
the mob upon them, and then they drew their 
swords. Charles saw his eldest brother die. 
He was fighting with one man when another 

~-wounded him in the thigh. Then a flung stone 
struck him on the head. A whirling darkness 
seemed all about him then, lit with flashes of 
flame. Against the darkness he saw his 
mother kneeling on the flagstones, holding 
her eldest son’s body in her arms. Then there 
was only the darkness. 


Ir seemed to possess him for a long time, a 
scorching darkness that was hot upon his 
body as the flames of the burning chateau 
had been, and shouted in his ears as the mob 
had done. Sometimes he’ shouted back, and 
when he did that he thought that his mother 
came to him and gave him a drink and then 
he was quiet. It seemed to go on like this for 
an eternity, and then slowly and intermit- 
tently the quality of the darkness changed. 
Sometimes it became cool and very quiet. 

He was lying flat on his back, and when he 
tried to move his head hurt. The scent of 
pines came on a cool breeze through some 
open window. And 
there were candles, 
two of them. 

He opened his eyes 
and, though the can- 
dles had been put out, 
the light was brighter, 
and outside in the for- 
est there was bird 
song. It was summer, 
he remembered. His 
mother was coming 
toward him slowly, 
carrying something. 
He spoke her name 
gently, a pet name 
that he had for her. 
She stopped then and 
looked up, and she 
was not his mother; 
she was a slim woman 
wearing a peasant 
girl’s gray dress, with 
dark hair cut short 
like a boy’s. She put down what she was 
carrying, and it was a cup of milk. Then she 
smiled. She was so young when she smiled 
that she looked like a little girl. Charles loved 
her then, at once and forever. 

‘What did you call me?” she asked. 

“Something I call my mother. I thought 
you were she.” 

Her smile died, but the compassion that 
took its place was so deep that it seemed to 
reach out to him and hold him, and because 
of it his grief did not quite overwhelm him 
then, nor destroy him in the days that fol- 
lowed. 

They were strange days of angry misery 
and hopelessness, in which the bewildering 
kaleidoscope of impressions that tumbled 
about him gradually fell into shape. He was 
lying on a hard bed behind the altar of the 
little church in the pine woods, he discov- 
ered, suffering from burns and concussion, 
and a wound in the leg. They had carried 
him here from the chateau, the curé told him; 
the church had seemed the best place to hide 
him. The old man was vague about the 
“they” who had performed this act of mercy, 
but the woman in the peasant’s dress, whose 
name was Thérése, answered his questions 
more fully when they were alone together. 


The curé had been away from the village 
when the mob had come to the chateau. Re- 
turning home, he had seen the smoke from 
the burning chateau, and had run there. He 
got in through a window and found the 
bodies of his friends. Finding Charles still 
alive, he had dragged him out. 

The curé slept in the vestry so as to be able 
to look after Charles at night. Thérése slept 
at the presbytery with the curé’s house- 
keeper. Who was this dear and brave woman? 
The curé, when questioned, ambled off to do 





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70 


something or other, and Charles as yet was 
unable to get up and follow him. Yet the day 
came when he was able. Limping, he followed 
the old man into the vestry. 

““Mon pére, who is Thérése?” he de- 
manded. 

“My son,” said the curé, “I will tell you 
about Thérése. Perhaps I should have told 
you before. Do you remember that Carmelite 
convent by the bridge? My sister was prior- 
ess there. Some weeks ago the Terror reached 
it. I will not speak of what happened. My 
sister and one novice, a young woman called 
Marie Thérése, were saved. They reached a 
farmhouse and there my sister was taken 
very ill. They sent for me and it was a great 
joy to us both that I could be with her when 
she died. There remained the problem of the 
novice Marie Thérése. They would not keep 
her at the farm, so I decided to bring her 
back with me.” 

““A novice,” said Charles. ‘‘She is still only 
a novice.” 

“The novitiate at Carmel is a long one and 
she is nearly at the end of it. Thérése has only 
one longing now, to get back to Carmel. She 
comes of a distinguished family and bears a 
great name, but is almost as alone in the 
world as you are. Her only living relations 
are a family of cousins with a chateau near 
Toulon. We both think that she should try 
and get to them.” 

Charles had nothing to say. He understood 
her now: the dignity and reserve that stiff- 
ened her compassionate friendliness. As a 
sick body to be nursed and an unhappy soul 
to be comforted he meant a great deal to her, 
but as a man nothing at all. 


Someone betrayed them. Charles was care- 
ful to keep hidden during the day, but as he 
got better and able to 
walk he would sometimes 
go out into the forest after 
dark. 

One night he wandered 
farther than usual. He lost 
his way going back, and 
when hereached thechurch 
it was daylight. He had expected to find the 
curé saying his mass, but there was no one 
before the altar except Thérése, kneeling 
upon the lowest step. She got up instantly 
and came to him. 

“Where have you been? Why do you 
wander about at night like this and exhaust 
yourself? Now, when you need your strength, 
you have not got it.” She spoke urgently, al- 
most with a hint of anger. 

“Where is the curé?”’ he asked. 

“They have taken him. They came here to 
take you, but he told them you had left.”” She 
put her hand on his shoulder, for he looked 
ready to dash wildly after the curé. ““There is 
nothing you can do now.” 

“No,” he said. ‘““They will take him to 
prison and perhaps he’ll die there like other 
priests who have helped and hidden worth- 
less men like me.” He looked at her. “Did 
they see you?”’ 

“Yes. We were here in the church when 
they came. He told another lie—for me. He 
said I was his servant.” She looked pitifully 
at Charles. “‘And I let them believe him. 
That was all I could do for him—let him save 
us both.” 


else to count. 


‘Tue hand that had been on his shoulder 
was now held in his and she did not pull it 
away. In spite of her composure he knew 
that she did most desperately want his help. 

“Shall I take you to Toulon?”’ he asked. 

Suddenly her control broke and she began 
to laugh and cry together, but the laughter 
was uppermost. ‘‘How in the world do you 
propose we should reach Toulon? Walk?” 

“Yes,” he said. 

“And what chance have we of arriving?” 

“One chance in a thousand. Shall we try 
it, Thérése?”’ 

He was an exceptionally resolute and 
quick-witted man and she was a disciplined 
woman, trained to endurance and obedience. 
Where others would have been lost they, by 
reason of what Charles called incredible good 
luck and Thérése called the providence of 
God, survived the sufferings of that time and 
reached Toulon. 


We do not count a man’s 
years until he has nothing 


December, 1949 


They did not go straight to Toulon, but 
turned aside to find the chateau where 
Thérése’s cousins lived. They found it empty 
and deserted. 

“They must have been afraid,” said 


Thérése with a touch of scorn. “Perhaps | 
they went to Toulon. We’ll follow them 


there.” 

They reached Toulon in Christmas week, 
together with many other refugees, and 
heard the ominous news that the English 
had evacuated the town. With some money 
that Charles had kept all this while he man- 
aged to rent an attic for Thérése in a filthy 
tavern near the harbor. Next day the Terror 
also reached Toulon. 

Thérése had been more shaken than she 
knew by the sight of her cousin’s empty 
chateau. Suddenly her courage and control 
broke. At night in the tiny attic room she 
wept uncontrollably. She lay in Charles’ 
arms that night, and sobbed herself into 
peace. 


Tw the morning there began that stampede 
for the boats in which so many lives were lost. 
That was the only way of escape now, by 
boat to Leghorn. Thérése was past caring 
what happened so long as she and Charles 
could die together, but Charles would not 
give up fighting for her while he lived. Some- 
how he got them into a boat, and it was 
chiefly owing to his skill and courage that 
the boat finally reached Leghorn. Charles 
collapsed as the boat reached the quay, and 
the man who helped Thérése lift him ashore 
was an Englishman to whom he had once 
been of service in Paris. This friend took 
them to England. 

Thérése was never again the strong woman 
that she had been. Yet she revived enough to 
lead a normal life and to 
marry Charles. He, a fine 
linguist, taught languages. 
They managed to make a 
living and a small home, 
two rooms in Orchard 
Street,and a child was born 
to them there. 

To please his wife, Charles had become a 
practicing Catholic, though not a very de- 
vout one, and now to please her he read the 
Christian apologists. She, to please him, 
studied Greek and let him put her through 
a course of his beloved classics. 

One night, arguing over Christian and 
pagan conceptions of love, each had written 
down sentences they liked on scraps of pa- 
per and passed them across to each other. 
Charles had written, “Love is the divinity 
who creates peace among men, and calm 


—EMERSON. 


upon the sea, the windless silence of storms, ~ 


repose and sleep in sadness. Love sings to all 
things which live and are, soothing the 
troubled minds of gods and men.” Thérése 
folded the bit of paper and slipped it inside 
the locket he had given her. She had written, 
“Blessed is the man who loves Thee, O God, 
and his friend in Thee and his enemy for 
Thee. For he alone loses no one who is dear 
to him, if all are dear in God, Who is never 
lost.’’ Charles, remembering how nearly she 
had died when the child was born, did not 
smile, but he too folded the paper and put it 
away in his pocketbook. 


Charles, through the same good friend whe 
had brought them to England on his ship 
was offered a post as secretary and tutor ina 
country house in Ireland. He accepted the 
offer, but when the time came to leave, both 
Thérése and little Marie were ill and could 
not travel. They decided that he must go 
without them and as soon as they were well 
again, and he had found lodgings for them, 
he would come back and fetch them. 

Charles found his work to his liking, and 
his employers let him have a small cottage on 
the estate for Thérése and Marie. He had just 
got leave to go to England and fetch them 
when a letter arrived from Thérése. She and 
Marie had recovered and there was no need 
for him to come and fetch them. The frigate 
Amphion was sailing from Plymouth to Ire- 
land with troops on board, and several offi- 
cers’ wives were sailing too. She and Marie 
had permission to go with them and were 
leaving for Plymouth immediately. By the 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


time he got this letter she and Marie would 
be on the sea. It was lovely September 
weather. They would have a good voyage, 
she was sure. 

But Charles, when he got this letter, felt 
no elation, only a most unreasonable fear 
that shadowed the days and nights until the 
day when there could be no more shadows be- 
cause the darkness was complete. 

Years later the abbé could not remember 
very much about the man who had gone 
back to Plymouth and tramped the streets 
asking questions of every man he met who 
had had anything to do with the tragedy of 
the Amphion. There had been friends with 
him, he believed, trying to help him. They 
took him to see the long lines of the graves, 
but they could not tell him which held the 
bodies of his wife and child. 

He went back to Ireland. Not far away 
there was a monastery, and he went there, 
and the monks nursed him through the 
physical and mental collapse that descended 
upon him. 


One day old Father Joseph asked what he 
meant to do with himself now that he was 
nearly recovered and must leave the mon- 
astery, and received in reply the poignant 
gesture of the hands with which a French- 
man can express his hopelessness with no 
word spoken. 

“Your wife turned from the religious life 
she had entered for your sake,” said Father 
Joseph slowly. “Has it not occurred to you 
that you might take upon yourself the vows 
she did not make? Give yourself to God in 
her place?”’ 

In the end it seemed to Charles the only 
thing to do. Not long after his ordination as 
priest Father Joseph died, and it was Charles 
who gave him his viaticum. 

But for the man who was now the Abbé de 
Colbert there was no warmth, no melting of 
his icebound winter. He went back to Lon- 
don and worked there as a priest, but he 
found it hard now to make contact with other 
human beings. His suffering seemed to have 
put him at a vast distance from them all. 

He was asked if he would go to Torquay 
and take care of the small community who 
worshiped at Torre Abbey; there were only 
a few of them and he would have ample time 
for scholarship; and in a mood of despair he 
went. 


Struggling against the weakness and op- 
pression, he had a sudden sense of warmth, 
companionship and growing light. He 
thought he was lying on the hard bed hidden 
behind the altar in the little church in the 
pine woods, and Thérése was coming toward 
him. 

‘““Thérése!”” he murmured. 

“Could you not even light a fire?” said a 
deep voice angrily. “The room’s like a 
vault!” 

“T’ve not had the time, sir,” said another 
voice indignantly. “‘With Jewell off to Gen- 
tian Hill to fetch you, who was to bring the 
wood in? I’ve but one pair of hands.” 

He opened his eyes and saw Doctor Crane 
bending over him. 

The doctor made his examination. ““ You 
are a very sick man,” he said bluntly. “But 
if you wish to live I can pull you through. If 
you don’t, no doctor on earth can do any- 
thing for you.” 

The doctor had brought the cold tang of 
the winter’s day with him into the room and 
that, together with the smell of strong to- 
bacco, of leather riding boots and the chrys- 
anthemum in his buttonhole, was clean and 
invigorating. Doctor Crane had pulled up a 
chair beside the bed, had sat down and was 
waiting. He was aware of the courage of this 
man, his patience and friendliness. Above 
all of his friendliness. 

“My good sir, I will try my best to do 
credit to your skill,” the abbé murmured. 

“Good,” said the doctor. 

Both men fought a hard battle. At the end 
of the week the abbé’s iron constitution as- 
serted itself, and in a few days the patient 
was recovering with astonishing rapidity. 

“Well, you’re through,” said the doctor 
with satisfaction one morning. “ But I do not 

(Continued on Page 74) 














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74 


1 ASY 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Christmas QUIZ. 


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(Continued from Page 71) 

trust your convalescence either to yourself 
or to Mrs. Jewell. As soon as you are fit to 
be moved you will come to me at Gentian 
Hill. I have seen Sir George and told him 
that you will be unfit for your duties until 
after Christmas. I understand that he knows 
a priest who will stay at the abbey over 
Christmas and take your place there.” 

“Thank you, I shall be glad to come,” said 
the abbé quietly. He looked at the man sitting 
beside him. “I am afraid your other patients 
have been neglected of late.” 

“All of them in the condition when a little 
neglect could do ’em nothing but good,” said 
the doctor. “Indignant with me some of 
them may be, but there are times when in- 
dignation can be a powerful stimulant. I’ve 
known patients whom I deliberately neg- 
lected get up in their indignation and be the 
better for it.” 

“Do your patients ever leave you?” in- 
quired the abbée dryly. 

“Frequently.” 

“Not those who have ever been sufficiently 
ill for you to have fought for their lives as 
you did for mine.” 

The doctor smiled. “No, not those.” 

“T wondered at times why you fought so 
hard.” 

“Doctors are fighting men,” Crane said. 
“You put up a good fight yourself, though 
you do not strike me as a man whose expe- 
rience has made him much in love with life.” 

“We Christians may 
not dismiss ourselves 
from life, failures 
though we may be. Per- 
haps least of all when 
we are failures.’”” The 
abbé stirred restlessly. 
“TI cannot leave this 
life until I have again 
made contact with my 
fellow men, doctor,” 
he said. 

The doctor nodded. 
“Did you ever make 
ata 

“T thought that I 
did,” the abbé said. “I 
was exceedingly gregar- 
ious as a young man.” 

“Only with your own kind,” said the doc- 
tor, stating a fact, not asking a question. 
“Not with the dirty, the ignorant, the 
wicked, the thieves; who so often turn out, 
upon intimate acquaintance, to be the best 
of us all.’’ A look of horror and distaste 
spread itself like a mask over the abbé’s fas- 
tidious features. ‘“You’ve a long way to go. 
But for the sake of your immortal soul I’m 
glad I saved your life.’ He grinned disarm- 
ingly at his outraged patient. ‘““To each man 
his own devil,” he said cheerfully. 


Biciiciadidiiet 


The abbé arrived at Gentian Hill a week 
before Christmas. 

Tom Pearse cooked him nourishing meals, 
kept the wood fires replenished and let him 
alone. The doctor supplied him with plenty 
of light literature and let him alone. Finding 
himself let alone, the abbé’s taut nerves re- 
laxed. He was happy and at ease after the 
first few days, and in the evenings he and the 
doctor talked long over the study fire. They 
spoke sometimes of Stella and Zachary. 
Stella had not been to the doctor’s since the 
arrival of the abbé—she was deep in Christ- 
mas preparations at the farm—but the abbé 
had not forgotten her during his illness, and 
Mrs. Loraine’s box had come with him to 
Gentian Hill. The doctor thought it would be 
a hard Christmas for Stella, for the ships 
returning from Trafalgar had brought a let- 
ter from Zachary telling them that his frig- 
ate was remaining in the Mediterranean. 


But on Christmas Eve, the weather being 
still fine and his patient having gained 
strength amazingly, the doctor suggested a 
visit to Weekaborough Farm. 

Stella and Hodge were sitting in the 
Weekaborough kitchen, Stella stitching at 
her sampler. 

The kitchen looked magnificent, Stella 
thought. Fir and holly decorated the dresser 
and all the shelves, and the grandfather 


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clock had a branch of yew. The great table, 
pulled back against the dresser, was loaded 
with food. Arranged in rows at the back were 
rabbit pies, mutton pies, pigs’ trotters in 
brawn, a round of cold beef and a huge 
ham sprinkled with brown sugar. In front 
were apple pies, mince pies, sillabubs, Dey- 
onshire splits, a saffron cake and mounded 
dishes of Devonshire cream and candied 
fruits. The great wassailing bowl stood ready 
with its ladle, and the holly-trimmed platter 
was waiting for the Christmas bread. There 
were ale and cider, and Mother Sprigg’s 
homemade damson wine, elderberry wine 
and sloe gin. Throughout Christmas Eve, 
Christmas Day and Boxing Day the front 
door of Weekaborough would stand wide in 
welcome to all who might come. 





















































“Srevia! Stella! Tom Pearse has just 
driven into the yard and the doctor and some 
friend are coming down the hill.” 

It was Mother Sprigg, calling down the 
stairs. Stella rolled up her work, put it away 
in the cupboard and shook out the folds of 
the new frock. It was soft pink wool, and she 
had a brown ribbon sash to wear with it. 

The doctor’s loud rat-tat sounded at the 
front door. 

“T’ll go,” cried Stella, and ran to bid him 
welcome. ‘‘God bless you, sirs,’’ she said, as 
Mother Sprigg had taught her to say to all 
who came at Christmas, “‘and send you a 
happy Yuletide and a prosperous new year.” 
Holding out her skirts 
on either side, she curt- 
sied. 

“You remember 
M. de Colbert, Stella?”’ 
the doctor asked. 

But she had evi- 
dently not forgotten. 
Her thin brown face 
was alight with pleas- 
ure as she looked up 
at the abbé. ““Welcome 
to Weekaborough, mon 
pere.”’ 

He took her hand, 
looking down at her, | 
but he did not say a 
word. The doctor, di- 
vesting himself of his | 
greatcoat, looked at the couple curiously. 
Why should the child’s smile have made the 
man look for one moment as though mor- 
tally stricken, and then in the next, as he 
smiled back, almost as radiant as the child | 
herself? | 

“Stella!”’ the doctor cried almost sharply, | 
and she looked up and laughed, a merry girl | 
who had just been given a Christmas pres- 
ent, a brown paper parcel that contained she | 
knew not what. Yet even when met by the 
glow and warmth of the kitchen, and Father | 
and Mother Sprigg’s greetings, the doctor | 
remained shaken. 

With the arrival of fresh neighbors he was 
abruptly himself again. Stella and the abbé 
were sitting in one of the window seats, ob- 
livious of the laughter and talk around the 
fireplace. Stella was unpacking her parcel. 

The paper fell away and the box of carved 
cedarwood and inlaid ivory lay in her lap. 
She gave a small cry of ecstasy. “A work- 
box!’’ She lifted the enchanting little cover 
and saw the colored silks inside. She took out 
the emery cushion like a strawberry, the sil- 
ver thimble, the scissors. She lifted each 
treasure and held it, murmuring to herself 
before she put it back again. 


“Well, my dear heart, did you ever see 
anything so lovely!”” Mother Sprigg was A 
standing in front of them. mM 

Stella looked up at her. ““M. de Colbert it 
has given it to me.” h 

“T hope the child has thanked you nicely, 
sir,” said Mother Sprigg, and there was a ( 
tiny edge of sharpness to her voice. “Stella, 19 ¥ 
have you thanked the gentleman for his nl 
gift?”’ ‘ 

Stella turned, her face suddenly scarlet h 
with distress. ‘‘No, mother, I didn’t.” i 

“Well, of all the ungrateful girls!” te 

Her voice was so sharp that tears came}§}), 


suddenly to Stella’s eyes. Not knowing what 
she did, she slipped her hand into the @bbé’s, 
(Continued on Page 76) 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


~] 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 74) 
half for protection, half to show him how 
sorry she was that she had not said thank 
you. He gripped her hand tightly. 

““Madame, she was not ungrateful. Never 
have thanks been more charmingly ex- 
pressed.” 

Everyone became very merry, eating and 
drinking, laughing and talking with amazing 
heartiness, and the doctor perceived that the 
entertainment would soon be no longer to 
the abbé’s taste. ‘‘We’ll slip away,”’ he said. 
“Stella, come with us to the garden gate.” 

Stella was glad to slip away too. Wrapped 
in her cloak, she walked sedately down the 
garden path between the two. The moon had 
risen and the stars were bright. 

“Stella,” said the abbé, “the workbox be- 
longed to a very old lady, a friend of mine 
who lives at Torre. She gave it to me for you. 
Will you come with me one day to visit her?”’ 

“Thank you, I will come whenever you 
wish,”’ she said. Then she curtsied to him. 
“Good night, sir. A happy Christmas.’’ She 
turned to the doctor and curtsied again. 
“Good night, sir. A happy Christmas. Good 
night, Tom. A happy Christmas.” 

She stood at the top of the steps and 
watched them climb into the waiting gig. 
Her small lifted face looked white in the 
moonlight. Her cloak fell in straight folds 
to the ground. Behind her the warm light 
streamed from the 
open parlor door, 
but it did not seem 
to have anything to 
do with her. She be- 
longed to the shad- 
ows of the garden, 
to the stillness and 
the strange shapes 
of the clipped yew 
trees. 

The doctor and 
the abbé drove home 
in silence. The doc- 
tor’s thoughts were 
with Zachary off in 
the Mediterranean: 
the abbé was think- 
ing of Thérése. 


a great many 


The sunshine of a 
May. morning filled 
Mrs. Loraine’s parlor, where she and Stella 
sat sewing. 

‘Just six months ago today, Stella, since 
you came to me,” said Mrs. Loraine. 

“Yes, ma’am, and two years and four 
months since mon pére first brought me to 
see you.” 

While she stitched, Mrs. Loraine retraced 
in her mind the steps that had brought Stella 
to her home. 

“Stella, I wish you need not go home,” 
Mrs. Loraine had cried out one day, after the 
abbé had brought her to tea and they were 
taking their leave. It had been a real cry of 
distress, for the evening stretched before her 
empty and lonely. 


Sre ta, tying her bonnet strings, had con- 
sidered this. Weekaborough would always be 
to her the dearest place on earth, and there 
would never be another foster mother like 
Mother Sprigg, but there was in Mrs. Lo- 
raine and her little house a quality of fastidi- 
ous beauty that satisfied something in Stella 
that had not yet been satisfied, and there 
was no doubt in her mind that Mrs. Loraine 
needed her. 

“Would you like me to live with you, 
ma’am?”’ z 

“Yes, Stella.” - 

“Well, I could not live with you always 
because of Mother Sprigg, but I could live 
half the time with you and half with Mother 
Sprigg.”’ 

“We'll think about it,’ the abbé had inter- 
vened, and no more had been said that night. 

Mrs. Loraine had talked it over with the 
abbé, and the abbé with the doctor, and the 
doctor had approached Father and Mother 
Sprigg. 

“My Stella a little maidservant?”’ had 
ejaculated Mother Sprigg. “It surprises 
me, doctor, that you could even think of 
such a thing.” 


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December, 1949 


The doctor explained that though she 
would be paid a little for her services, her 
duties would be light: dusting, washing china 
and arranging flowers. And Mrs. Loraine 
would teach her accomplishments that could 
not be learned at Weekaborough. These 


would include playing the spinet and the art 


of conversation both in French and English. 

The thought of his Stella chattering 
French and playing the spinet like a lady en- 
tirely won Father Sprigg. So it had come 
about, and Stella these last six months had 
grown in body, mind and spirit. 


Stella finished embroidering a green dol- 
phin with golden fins, and Mrs. Loraine put 
her feet up on the sofa, while Stella read 
aloud from a little book of French fables. 

Araminta came in with the announcement 


that the hired chaise was waiting. Mrs. Lo- — 


raine intended this morning to visit the 
Cockington almshouses with a basket of 
comforts for the inmates. 


Sue and Stella went upstairs to put on 
their bonnets, while Araminta added tea, 
peppermint and sugar to the basket in the 
hall. 

The chaise was hired from the Crown and 
Anchor. They had the hood down today, it 
was so fine and warm, and only a light rug 
across their knees, and Mrs. Loraine carried 
her summer parasol 
of gray silk. 

“You look beau- 
tiful, ma’am,”’ said 
Stella, and indeed 
in her gray mantle 
and gray velvet 
bonnet, and sitting 
very upright on her 
seat, Mrs. Loraine 
was a regal figure. 
Stella herself, wear- 
ing a new green 
cloak and a green 
bonnet trimmed 


KNOW: 


published . 


also a pleasing 
sight. 

They drove 
through Cocking- 
ton village with 
its whitewashed 
thatched cottages and its fourteenth-century 
forge with a large pond in front of it. Then 
they turned in through the gates of Cocking- 
ton Park. The church and almshouses as well 
as the manor were within the park. 

The chaise drew up in front of the alms- 
houses. There were seven of them and they 
were nearly two hundred years old. They had 
two rooms each and were all under one roof, 
but each had its own separate herb garden in 
front enclosed within a stone wall. 

The old woman whom they were visiting 
was Wilmotta Bogan, always called Granny 
Bogan. 

“You must not mind what Granny says, 
dear,’’ Mrs. Loraine whispered to Stella as 
they got out of the chaise. “‘She can say sur- 
prising things. And as she does not care for 
children she may be a little short with you.” 

They went up the narrow path through 
Granny Bogan’s herb garden and Mrs. Lo- 
raine knocked. 

Light steps were heard, and the door 
opened. Stella found herself looking straight 
into the bright eyes of a little old woman no 
taller than herself, whom she was sure she 
had seen before. sins 

Granny Bogan had the wrinkled parch- 
ment skin and nutcracker nose and chin 
of her eighty years, but her beady black 
eyes were so bright and her tiny figure so 
trim that she looked more like a child than 
an old woman. Stella looked at Granny 
Bogan and then curtsied to her. 

Granny Bogan bobbed to the quality, led 
them in and dusted a chair for Mrs. Loraine, 


but the humility of her actions was not | 


echoed in her demeanor as she stood before 
her visitor, her little claws of hands folded at 
her waist. It was the dignified Mrs. Loraine 
who appeared slightly at a disadvantage. A 
pungent steam was issuing from the kettle on 
the fire and she sneezed. 

(Continued on Page 78) 


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4 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 76) 
“Bless you, ma’am,”’ Granny Bogan con- 
gratulated her. “‘That’s one devil gone out.” 

Mrs. Loraine laughed. “Sit down, Granny.” 

Granny Bogan sat down while Stella took 
out the packets of tea, peppermint and sugar. 
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said briskly. She 
sounded grateful, but not obsequiously so. 

The small, low-ceilinged, stone-flagged 
room was as clean as a new pin. A bright 
wood fire burned on the hearth, and in the 
large iron kettle that hung over it from a 
chain some strange concoction was brewing. 
On a rag rug before the hearth sat a black 
cat that took not the slightest notice of any 
of them. The furniture consisted of a dresser, 
an old oak chest that served also as a table, 
the two chairs and the stool. So many 
bunches of herbs hung from the beams over- 
head that one could scarcely see the ceiling. 

“A stolen potato carried in the pocket 
would cure you, ma’am.”’ Granny Bogan was 
saying. 

Mrs. Loraine laughed. ‘‘I don’t steal, 
Granny.” 

Granny Bogan produced a withered ob- 
ject from her pocket. ‘‘I took a pocketful the 
last time I weeded at the court,’’ she said. 
“T’ve still half a dozen left. Take it, ma’am. 
And Ill give you a bottle of my vervain mix- 
ture. A teaspoonful in a wineglass of water 
night and morning.” 

Mrs. Loraine accepted the potato. ‘How 
Doctor Crane would laugh at me!”’ she said. 

“No,” said Stella. ‘He uses vervain him- 
self. He says it’s the holy herb of the druids. 
He uses hellebore too.” 

Granny Bogan turned to her eagerly. “‘ You 
know Doctor Crane, child?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Stella. “I live at Gen- 
tian Hill.” 

“He’s a good man. He helped me once 
when I was in trouble. But for him I’d have 
lost my greatest treasure.” 

“What is that, ma’am?” asked Stella 
eagerly. 

But Granny Bogan, opening one of the tins 
on the dresser, appeared not to have heard 
her. Turning round, she held out a small 
muslin bag with some dried leaves inside. 
“Take it, child. You see far, but there may 
come times when you'll need to see farther 
yet, into the future, maybe, or into your 
lover’s heart. Then on the night of the full 
moon soak a few of those leaves in the water 
from a fairy well and bathe your eyes, and in 
your sleep you'll see what you will see. But 
you must love with a single heart.” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Stella, taking 
the little bag. “‘Is it the herb of grace? Is it 
rue?” 

“How did you know, child?” 

“My mother at Weekaborough Farm 
grows it, and uses it to bathe sore eyes. But I 
don’t think anybody at the farm ever uses it 
to see into the future.” 


Tuere’s not many knows its real use,” 
said Granny Bogan, “‘and you must use the 
water from a fairy well, at the full moon, and 
you must love your man with a single heart. 
There’s many a lass thinks she loves a man 
when all the time it’s herself that she’s loving, 
herself decked out in the finery he can give 
her, with a ring upon her finger and a body 
sleek as a tabby cat’s with his cherishing, 
and H 

Mrs. Loraine arose hastily and said she 
thought they ought to be going. 

“Such a lass would see nothing if she 
bathed her eyes all night,’’ went on Granny 
Bogan. ““Must you be going, ma’am? I’m 
thanking you kindly for the comforts. . . . 
And as for you, child—come again and come 
alone.” 

“She’s a queer old woman, dear,’ Mrs. 
Loraine said as the chaise drove off. “‘And if 
I were you I should throw away the packet 
of rue.” 2 

“Are you going to throw away the stolen 
potato, ma’am?” asked Stella sweetly. 

Mrs. Loraine had a sense of humor. They 
looked at each other and laughed. 





It was not until Midsummer Day, when 
she was once more with Mrs. Loraine, that 
Stella woke up in the first light of dawn and 
knew that she was going again to Cocking- 


ton, and going alone. She dressed quickly 
and crept noiselessly downstairs. She felt no 
pricking of conscience, for she had never 
promised Mrs. Loraine she would not go to 
Cockington. 

She ran across the road to the holy well, 
sat down on the low parapet, dipped her 
hands in the water and bathed her face. The 
water was ice cold and the clear drops that 
fell from her fingers were like diamonds. The 
trees were shrouded in a gray mist, but the 
tower of the church, and St. Michael’s 
Chapel upon its pinnacle of rock, soared free 
of it and seemed to catch the flames of the 
coming sunshine upon their summits. A wild 
rapture went through her. She got up and 
ran down Robbers’ Lane. 

The sun had fully risen by the time she 
reached Cockington park. A breeze had come 
in from the sea and the elm and chestnut 
boughs swayed above the rippling flowers 
and grasses, birds sang and the sound of 
tumbling water from a stream that ran 
through the park was loud and joyful. Knee- 
deep in grasses and moon daisies, Stella stood 
and listened. 

There was a low chuckle behind her and 
she swung around. It was Granny Bogan, 
wearing a battered sunbonnet and cloak and 
holding a large basket. 

“Washing your face in the dew, my 
maid?” asked Granny. 

“T’ve washed it already at the holy well, 
ma’am.”’ 

“Saint Elfrida’ cures boils, but not pim- 
ples,”’ said Granny. “Fairy dew is best for 
pimples.” 

“But I’ve not got boils or pimples,” Stella 
told her. 

“Prevention is better than cure,” said 
Granny, “‘and where will you find the man 
to kiss a pimply face?” 

Stella, for the sake of peace, plunged her 
hands in the grass and rubbed them over her 
face until her cheeks were rosy. 

“That’s better,” said Granny. 

All the time she was darting up and down, 
filling her basket with valerian. 

“What do you use valerian for, Granny?” 
asked Stella, helping her. 

“Apply the leaves, my honey, to fresh 
wounds, and they heal in the twinkling of an 
eye.” 

They had followed the stream to the walls 
of Cockington Church, where it swerved 
aside and disappeared into the woods be- 
yond. 

“Tf you want to see the treasure the doctor 
saved for me, it’s hid in the church tower,” 
said Granny Bogan. 

“The church tower!” 

“My neighbors at the almshouses do not 
mind their own business,” said Granny. As 
they walked up the path to the church door 


December, 1949 


the old woman went on, “When I die, I’ve 
neither chick nor child to whom to leave my 
treasures. You shall have the two books and 
the other thing also, and my blessing with 
them. Now, don’t look scared, child. I was a 
black witch once, but I put that evil from 
me, and now I’m a white witch and can do 
you no harm. Ask your friend the doctor. 
He’ll tell you.” 

They had reached the dim old church. In 
the stained-glass windows the apostles 
looked down at them benignly. The walls 
were plastered and covered with hatchments 
and coats of arms. 

Stella and Granny Bogan climbed the 
tower stairs. Halfway up, Granny stopped 
and opened a low door, and inside was a bare 
room like acell, lighted by one small window. 
There was a fireplace with its chimney in the 
thickness of the tower wall. There was a 
table in the room, and a three-legged stool. 

Granny Bogan went to the fireplace and 
put her arm up the chimney. Stella was not 
at all surprised. Every farmhouse in Devon 
had loose stones in the chimney, with a cup- 
board inside. 


Granny kept two books up the chimney, 
and something rolled up in a piece of linen. 
These she laid on the table, and, unfolding 
the linen, revealed what Stella thought at 
first was a very large knobby parsnip. Then 
she took a hasty step backward. 

“Nothing to be afraid of, child. It’s naught 
but a mandrake.” 

But at this Stella took yet another step 
backward, for she knew all about mandrake. 
It grows in Germany, and above ground it 
has a broad green leaf and a yellow flower 
and looks wholesome enough, but below 
ground its root has a human shape and it 
cries aloud when men dig it from the earth. 
If considerately treated—washed in wine, 
wrapped in silk, bathed every Friday and 
clothed in a little new white smock every new 
moon—it acts like a familiar spirit and fore- 
tells the future. But growing only in Ger- 
many, it is hard to come by. Only witches 
possess it. 

“Tt’s done no harm for a long time, child,” 
said Granny Bogan. “‘When I was a black 
witch I lived in a cottage out at Smoky. One 
dark night a farmer who thought I’d put the 
evil on his pigs—and I had too—came with 
his lout of a son and beat me nearly to death, 
and took away my stockingful of gold and 
my mandrake. I lay there groaning in my 
cottage and not a soul came near me. I’d have 
died there had not Doctor Crane heard what 
had happened. Every day he came, and was 
as tender with me as though he’d been my 
son. But I made no progress for weeping and 
fretting for my mandrake. So the doctor went 

(Continued on Page 80) 


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LADIES’ 


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HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 78) 

to the farmer and so put the fear of God into 
him that he gave back the mandrake. And 
the doctor put the fear of God into me too. 
He stood by my bed, thundering at me, till I 
shook for fear and vowed I’d put the black 
magic away from me and be a white witch 
until the end of my days. And I did too. I do 
nothing with the mandrake now but ask it 
some wholesome question now and again, 
and grate a little powder off it to mix with a 
soothing sirup for those who need to sleep 
deep.” 

Stella remembered her Shakespeare. 
“Poppy and mandragora, and all the drowsy 
syrups of the world.’’ But still she did not 
like the mandrake. She was glad when Granny 
Bogan wrapped it up again and turned to the 
books. 

The first was of the type in which ladies 
wrote their diaries, but in it Granny Bogan 
had written her rec- 


December, 1949 


“ More treasure-trove in the basket?” asked 
the doctor, eying it. 

“Yes,”’ said Stella. ““A mandrake and two 
books.” 

She poured out in a flood all that had 
happened, and the doctor gave her story his 
silent attention. 

“Nothing to be afraid of, honey,” he said 
when she’d done. “I know Granny Bogan 
well and she is now a good as well as a wise 
woman; she’d give you nothing that could 
harm you.” 

“But the mandrake!”’ cried Stella. 


"Tuey had reached the top of the hill and 


the doctor drew the gig to the side of the © 
lane, dropped the reins and let Aesculapius — 
“Let’s have a look at the 


crop the grass. 
mandrake.” 
Stella dived into her basket and produced 
the mandrake in its linen wrapping. 
“There he is,” said 





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ipes for healing medi- 
cines, salves and lo- 
tions from herbs. 

“T’ll always keep it 
safely,’’ Stella prom- 
ised. “But, Granny, 
how did you learn to 
make all these medi- 
cines?”’ 

Granny Bogan 
gave her cackle of 
laughter. “‘From a 
child I’ve loved all 
flowers and herbs and 
growing things. I 
learned much from the 
old gardener at my 
father’s home, but the 
most precious re- 
ceipts I learned from 
the Good People 
themselves. You’re a 
country girl, aren’t 
you? Did you ever see 
the Good People?” 

““Sometimes_ the 
goblins—when I was 
little.” 

“Not the others? 
Well, they’re hard to 
see. They’ve novoices 
that we can hear, but 
they know how to 
make themselves un- 
derstood whenthey’re 
a mind.” 

Granny closed the 
herb book and opened 


kK KKK KK KK & 


2 
Cf itn Cae 


By Margaret Widdemer 


As I went down my village street 
The wind blew glittering and 
light 
And one last church bell quivered 
sweet 
And wreath-hung doors stood 
kind and bright 


And past the hedgelines’ ruffs of 
snow 
As by each little house I came 
Like shining tulip buds arow 
I saw the window-candles flame, 


And round a silver-shining tree 
Between the starlight and the 
snow 
Our children all sang merrily 
That Christ and joy were come 
below: 


And Christ was there and joy was 
there, 
Still we could love and still 
believe: 
I bent my head and said my prayer, 
“T thank You, Lord, for 
Christmas Eve!” 


the doctor, and un- 
wrapped the man- 
drake and set it on his 
knee like a baby. 
“Don’t say ‘he’!’’ 
implored Stella. “It 
makes it soundalive.”’ 
The doctor laughed 
and wrapped the root 
up again. Then he be- 
came grave. ‘‘Re- 
member your Shake- 
speare? ‘There is 
nothing either good 
or bad, but thinking © 
makes it so.’ That’s © 
the root of the whole — 
matter. Think there’s © 
a demon in this bit of — 
root and you’ve made ~ 
the thing potent for — 
evil. And the other 








way on. Is that} 
clear?” 
“Yes,” said Stella, 


and took the man- 
drake back. “‘I’ll keep 
it in my room to 
frighten away the 
mice.” 

The doctor laughed 
and picked up the — 
book of simples. Aes- 
culapius went slowly 
on, snatching at 
mouthfuls of grass 
when he felt like it, 
but his master was 





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the other. The center 
of each page was cov- 
ered with exquisite 
writing, too, but the 
ink was so faded and 
the letters so curiously shaped that Stella 
could make out nothing except that the 
book was written in Latin. 

“What is it, Granny?” 

“T can’t tell you, child. I found it there in 
the chimney cupboard two years ago. That 
was when I came up here to find a safe hiding 
place for my mandrake and my herb book. 
Now close the book, for it is yours, and get 
back to Torre for your breakfast. And here’s 
my mandrake and the book of simples. They 
are yours too. Take them home. I'll sleep 
easier tonight, knowing them in safe keep- 
ing.” 

Stella hesitated. ‘‘Couldn’t they stay here, 
ma’am?” 


“Tp be easier if you took them, love. But 
speak of them to no one, child, except, if you 
wish, to the doctor.” She got up briskly and 
led the way out of the little tower room and 
down the stairs. 


All through the day Stella’s thoughts were 
in a turmoil and she longed for the evening, 
when Doctor Crane would drive her back to 
Weekaborough. 

The longed-for moment came at last and 
she was sitting beside him in the gig. At her 
feet was the wicker basket in which she car- 
ried her clothes and few treasures. It hada 
lid, and the lid this evening did not shut 
tight on the contents. 


KOK eK KOK K ae 


too absorbed to 
know what he was do- 


closed the book and 
handed it back. 


“You’ll soon know more than I do about _ 


the healing powers of the earth,’”’ he told the 
girl. 

He picked up the second book. It absorbed 
him as much as the other had done. 

“What is it?”’ Stella asked. 


“Some sort of an old tale about this coun- 


try in which we live, but that is all I can 
make out. The writing is difficult. Keep the 
book and show it to your friend the abbé. 
He’s a fine Latinist.”’ 


Then he whipped up Aesculapius and they | 


bowled home to Weekaborough. 


Zachary, lying in his hammock with his 


eyes shut, could hear the crackle of the fire, 
see the play of the light upon the brass pans 
and Stella’s dark head bent over her plate of 
rabbit pie. He could actually smell the pie, 
its fragrance rising above the loathsome 
smells of the after cockpit. 

“What are you grinning at?” growled a 
surly voice beside him. 

Zachary opened his eyes and looked with 
amusement at the mound of bones and rags 
and ill temper heaped untidily in the next 
hammock. This was Mr. Midshipman Mi- 
chael Burke, who now filled the place in his 
life left empty by Cobb. Zachary had not the 
love for him that he would always have for 
Cobb, but he had filled the aching vacuum. 
In this new friendship the roles of protector 

(Continued on Page 82) 


ing. At last the doctor © 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 80) 
and protégé were reversed; it was Zachary 
who kept his paternal eye on Mike. 

Mike was born to trouble. His courage, 
linked to a flaming temper, led to brawls and 
disturbances of every kind, and his sense of 
justice did not permit him to accept the 
brutal punishments of the age in a manner 
calculated to soothe the ruffled feelings of au- 
thority. He was a townsman born and bred, 
a roisterer. He loved noise. All the treasures 
he had collected in his seafaring life were in- 
struments of noise. The bull-roarer which Sol 
had given to Zachary was the joy of his 
heart. So totally at variance were their inter- 
ests that sometimes the two friends marveled 
at their friendship. But they were both Irish. 
They had the same code. 

“At the smell of rabbit pie,” said Zachary. 

“Can’t smell anything but the usual foul 
stink.” 

“The pie I smelt was in Devonshire.” 

“What a fool you are,” growled Mike, and 
composed himself to slumber. 

He was a few months older than Zachary. 
His shambling collection of bones was mea- 
gerly covered with flesh, and when he stood, 
tall, round-shouldered and awkward, looked 
upon the point of falling apart, yet he was 
immensely strong and powerful. His clothes 
were mostly in rags, but he wore them with 
a clumsy elegance that was part of his 
breeding. 

“We're on the Thames, Mike,”’ murmured 
Zachary. ‘London tomorrow. Gentian Hill 
next week.” 

A snore was the only answer. Mike was 
asleep and Zachary was free to indulge in the 
heavenly revelry of his un- 


December, 1949 


Yet from the start of the evening’s enter- 
tainment he was uneasy. For a beginning, 
Mike insisted upon putting Zachary’s bull- 
roarer in his pocket. 

“Let that thing alone!” Zachary implored 
irritably. 

But Mike was not in an obliging mood and 
thundered down the stairs and out into the 
street with the bull-roarer still in his pocket. 
Zachary followed in a bad temper, and they 
walked in silence to the eating house of Mike’s 
choice. Devouring beefsteak and onions 
washed down by porter, and assailed already 
by the pangs of indigestion, home suddenly 
seemed to Zachary very far away. 


The door swung open to admit half a dozen 
noisy young revelers, officers on leave like 
themselves. They looked round for a mo- 
ment, saw two of their kind and bore down 
upon them with whoops of joy. 

Up till the early hours of the morning the 
night was gloriously rowdy and quite harm- 
less. Among them they had plenty of money, 
and the amusements of the town were many. 
All but Zachary had digestions of cast iron 
and practically unflagging energy; should en- 
ergy flag for a moment it could be instantly 
revived by liquid refreshment. In between 
the visits to Leicester Fields, Haymarket and 
Vauxhall Gardens they wrenched a few han- 
dles off respectable front doors, yowled like 
cats, and played leapfrog over the stone posts 
along the pavements. 

It was this last amusement that led to 
trouble. Leapfrogging was the prerogative of 
the street urchins, not of the gentry, and a 
row of posts stood conveniently, not far from 

an alley leading to one of 


leashed dreams. Nothing ———— the pitsof darkness that so 


could stop the return to 


haunted Zachary. He saw 


Weekaborough next week. b Sin has many tools, but a the posts, he noticed the 


He wished it was not nec- 
essary to spend three days 
with Mike in London first. 


them all. 


lie is the handle which fits 


alley, and knew misgiving 


—ouiver WENDELL HoLmes, VEN before he saw the 


flying figure of Mike lead- 


Mike, in duty bound, had _u §=6oing his battalion into ac- 


to pay a visit to his de- 

tested guardian at Weymouth. In spite of 
his hatred of the country, he was considering 
Zachary’s suggestion that he should later 
visit Gentian Hill, but he had vowed that 
he would do neither of these things unless 
he could have his fling in town first, and 
Zachary knew that he must keep his eye on 
him while he did it. It was an obligation of 
friendship that could not be avoided. 

They did not know at Gentian Hill that he 
was at the moment between the shores of 
England; they thought him still in the Medi- 
terranean. He smiled, picturing the joy of his 
unheralded return, and then his mind slipped 
back over the years that had passed since 
Trafalgar. He had found out how to live this 
life of the sea. He still hated being a sailor, 
and yet he had now mysteriously become 
one. 


The next two days passed harmlessly, 
though for Zachary with a great deal of exas- 
peration. Mike’s idea of pleasure was not his 
and he was impatient to be quit of London 
and to be on the coach again, homeward 
bound for Devonshire. 


Yet Mike’s whirlwind methods of getting 
about gave him a view of the London of this 
period that he never forgot. The gilded 
coaches, with liveried coachmen on the high 
draped boxes, and lovely painted ladies and 
bewigged gentlemen glimpsed inside them, 
made their way like bright phantoms from 
another world through the turgid crowd of 
beggars, pickpockets, clerks, businessmen 
and shoppers. Peddlers cried their wares, 
ragged urchins screamed derision at the top- 
hatted, monocled young men swaggering 
along as elegant as peacocks. From the open 
door of every eating house came a roar of 
conversation and the fumes of porter and 
roast beef. At night the town became a roar- 
ing cavern of darkness lit by flaring smoky 
lights. 

Zachary hated London by night more 
than by day. He was thankful, when on Sat- 
urday Mike dragged him out for a last eve- 
ning’s revelry, that it was the last. Tomorrow 
would be Sunday, and on Monday he’d be on 
his way home. 


tion. Some sort of under- 
ground message must have conveyed itself 
to the slum beyond, for in five minutes a 
band of young roughs had come surging out 
of the darkness, and the fight was on. 

Battles between privileged youth and the 
underdogs were of common occurrence in the 
London streets, and this one would have 
fought itself out to the usual conclusion of 
everyone becoming incapacitated by nothing 
worse than bleeding noses and blackened 
eyes, had not Mike suddenly thought of the 
bull-roarer. It struck him that the glorious 
din of it might do something to scare the en- 
emy and clear the befuddled heads of his own 
side, who were getting distinctly the worst of 
the battle. He produced the treasure from his 
pocket, twisted the string round his finger 
and swung it. 

The effect upon the enemy was immediate, 
but not quite what Mike had intended. They 
were not country boys and none of them had 
seen or heard a bull-roarer before. They saw 
the small brown thing whirling at the end of 
its string, such an instrument of glorious 
noise as they had never beheld before, and 
they coveted with a desire that could not be 
denied. As one boy they set upon Mike and 
his treasure. 

The onslaught was too much even for 
Mike; he slipped and fell, and a ragged scare- 
crow of a boy leaped upon him and dragged 
the bull-roarer out of his hand. As he turned 
the light of a flambeau fell full upon his face, 
wild and dark, lean with hunger and taut 
with misery. Something about his face stabbed 
Zachary with a sudden memory; it was him- 
self that he saw, himself as he had been on 
the night when he had climbed up to the sta- 
ble window at Weekaborough. Then in a 
flash the boy was gone, racing off with the 
bull-roarer down the dark alley; and not only 
with the bull-roarer—he had Mike’s purse 
too. 

In a moment Mike was on his feet again, 
tearing after, Zachary after Mike, those of 
the warriors who were not by this time inca- 
pacitated yelling at their heels. 

Zachary was dimly conscious of the horror 
of the dark alleys through which he was pass- 
ing, of the filth underfoot in which he slipped 
and stumbled, of the terrible underworld 








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creatures screaming at them from dark door- 
ways. There was no light in this dreadful 
place, except the occasional gleam of a gut- 
tering tallow candle stuck in a broken win- 
dow, but the moon had risen and its faint 
light illumined the two flying figures ahead 
that he knew he must keep in sight lest they 
be lost eternally and he with them. 

The end of it all came with surprising sud- 
denness. 

They reached what seemed the end of 
an alley, blocked by a door in a wall, and 
the dark boy flung himself against the door. 
He had expected it to give way, but someone 
had apparently bolted it upon the other side. 
He leaped back and flung himself against it 
again, but uselessly. There was no more he 
could do. He turned with his back to the door 
and faced them, his fists ready. The bull- 
roarer and the purse he had stowed away in 
the pockets of his ragged breeches. His back 
was to the door and he would die before he 
gave them up of his own will. 

“Let him alone, Mike!”’ yelled Zachary. 
“Let him alone!” 

But Mike’s particular demon of hellish an- 
ger had got him and would not let him go. He 
looked back once over his shoulder and Zach- 
ary saw the murderous look in his eyes that 
made him seem a stranger. He leaped, but 
Zachary leaped quicker and was between the 
two, the dark boy knocked backward be- 
tween his own body and the door. 

Mike was sent staggering by the blow of a 
fist on his jaw, and for a moment did not 
grasp the fact that it was Zachary he was 
fighting and that his real opponent had van- 
ished. When he did grasp it, the realization 
that it was Zachary who had robbed him of 
his quarry added bitter hurt to a rage that 
had long ago passed beyond his control. 


‘THERE was nothing Zachary could do now 
except fight for his life. His panic steadied 
and he fought. He was not Mike’s equal as a 
fighter, but he was sober and Mike was not. 
He was aware of a ring of spectators, of yells 
of encouragement, of whistling and stamp- 
ing, hoots and groans. He had quite forgotten 
that he was fighting Mike, to protect whom 
he was staying in London. 

And Mike was lying at his feet with his 
head in a pool of blood. His eyes were shut 
and his face was a greenish-gray color in the 
moonlight. Mike was dead and he had killed 
him. 

While he fought he had been deaf to what 
was happening about him. He had not heard 
the shrill whistle and the sound of pounding 
feet as the roughs fled before the approach of 
the officers of the watch. He realized now 
that it was very quiet. There was no one here 
but himself and Mike and the officers of the 
watch. 

“T killed him,” he said quietly as the hand- 
cuffs snapped round his wrists. “I killed him 
so that he should not kill the other fellow.”’ 

He did not look at any of them; he looked 
only at Mike. Even when they were taking 
him away down the alley he still saw Mike, 
and the voice in his head was talking to him: 
I couldn't let you kill him. You'd hate to kill a 
half-starved fellow who'd never had a chance. 
You only went for him because you were in one 
of your rages and didn’t know what you were 
doing. Thad to stop you, Mike. What else could 


I do? 


Then he was lying on the floor of some dark’ 


and filthy conveyance, bumping along over 
the cobbles. There were three other men, and 
4 woman, With him. The woman was sobbing 
and one of the men was swearing, but the two 
others were quiet. His wits were beginning to 
return and for a full five minutes he saw not 
Mike’s face, but the huddled shape of the 
sobbing woman. He pushed himself up from 
the floor by his hands and heard the clink of 
his chains. So they were going to prison. He 
had been told about London prisons. They 
were places of unspeakable filth and horror, 
and you waited for your trial for weeks or 
months. And sometimes they forgot about 
you altogether. , 

" His brain reeled. Was Mike dead? He did 
not know. And if they forgot about him in 
this dark abyss into which he had fallen, he 





would never know. 


(To be Concluded) 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





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Holiday fun begins at home. Plan your menu for easy serving. 


Nersal 


Perhaps a lot of you feel as we do about 
New Year’s Eve: The synthetic hilarity 
of public celebrations doesn’t fit our mood; 
we don’t care to greet the New Year “across 
a crowded room” no matter how gay and 
bright the place may be. To us this one very 
special night of the year is a time for counting 
blessings, adding up the score and turning to 
the future in a spirit of confidence and content. 
And we like to spend it in the company of a few 
old and dear friends, in the warm, familiar 
atmosphere of our own home—but with no lack 
of gaiety, the genuine sort, and all the pleasant 
heart-warming ingredients of good cheer. 
So I’m going to give you a menu for a 
home party of this kind, a menu so carefully 
planned that when (Continued on Page 86) 


By RUTH MILLS TEAGUE 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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HOME 














JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 84) 
serving time comes there will be nothing for 
you to do but set out the food. You should 
have to work on New Year’s Eve? Goodness! 

For the appetizers we’ll have two spreads: 
one has a chicken base and the other is 
a cream-cheese-and-chutney concoction. 
Neither is rich, and since we’ll be nibbling at 
them all through the evening, that’s a good 
idea. There will be plenty of crisp wafers on 
the hors-d’oeuvre tray, and some gherkins, 
stuffed and ripe olives, pickled onions or 
whatever relishes you like best should be 
there too. 

The supper will begin with a wonderful 
hot soup, mulligatawny. This is a hearty 
soup but not rich, and I think just maybe it’s 
the best soup in the world. My recipe for 
mulligatawny derives from India, which has 
first claim to this dish, but I’ve added some 
improvisations of my own. 

After the soup we’ll have cold lobster 
soufflé mousseline and rolled bread-and- 
butter sandwiches. The soufflé platter 
will have a generous garnish of cooked vege- 
tables, marinated in French dressing, whole 
shrimp, lettuce and slices of hard-cooked 
egg, so what more do we need? Well, 
coffee, of course, and some homemade cookies 
most of us have around during the Christ- 
mas season. 

We don’t want a real dessert with this sup- 
per—just a gesture toward something sweet. 
No doubt you have your own favorites in 
the cooky department, but I’m going to give 
you a recipe for mine—Scotch shortbread. 

Now to the cooking, and most if not all of 
it should be done the day 
before. These recipes will 
serve ten. 


CHICKEN SPREAD 


Pll talk about the cook- 5 you can use whatever p 

5 3 going to say. —ANON. 

ing of the chicken when I portion of haddock to lo| 
give the recipe for null-- we 86 ster suits you. The fille 


gatawny. For the spread, 

we ll need 2 cups ground white meat mea- 
sured after it is ground the first time. Put 
it through the finest blade of grinder three 
times in all, add 2 tablespoons chicken 
broth and 6 tablespoons mayonnaise and 
work it with a wooden spoon until thor- 
oughly blended and smooth in texture. 
Stir in 8 tablespoons very finely chopped 
sweet pickle, 3 tablespoons chopped parsley, 
1 tablespoon grated onion, and salt and red 
pepper to taste. If it seems too stiff for 
spreading—some chickens are drier than 
others—soften it with a little chicken broth. 
Any more mayonnaise would dominate the 
delicate flavor of the chicken—and I hope 
that your mayonnaise will be homemade. At 
a convenient time the day of the party put 
the spread in a serving dish, sprinkle with 
chopped parsley and garnish with strips of 
pimiento. Keep it in the refrigerator until 
you arrange your hors-d’oeuvre tray. 


CHUTNEY SPREAD 


Let 9 ounces cream cheese stand at room 
temperature, and when it’s soft enough to 
work add !4 cup Indian chutney, cut into 
small pieces, 4 tablespoons finely chopped 
English walnuts or pecans, 2 tablespoons 
chopped pimiento, 14 teaspoon curry powder 
and | teaspoon lemon juice. I think a drop or 
two of garlic juice improves the flavor, but 
that’s up to you. I’m apt to think garlic im- 
proves the flavor of everything but ice cream. 
Store in refrigerator in the dish in which it 
will be served. 


MULLIGATAWNY SOUP 


Cut a large stewing chicken into pieces and 
put it into a stewing kettle with 2 teaspoons 
MSG (mono sodium glutamate) or Chinese 
seasoning powder. Cover with boiling 
water—and use plenty of water, because 
we'll need 11 cups of broth for the soup. 
When boiling point is again reached, cover 
kettle, turn down heat and simmer until 
chicken is tender. After first hour’s cook- 
ing, add salt to taste. Let chicken cool in 
broth, remove meat from bones, return bones 
to kettle and cook half an hour or so longer. 
Strain broth, and when cool remove grease. 
The soup can be entirely finished the day 
before and certainly the chicken should 


The imprudent 
flects on what he has said; 
the wise man. on what heis 





































































December, 19 


be cooked then. Reserve breast for chie 
spread and cut enough of the other piece 
into slivers to make 2 cups. 
Put 3 tablespoons butter or margarine in 
skillet and add 1 clove garlic, finely mincer 
and %% cup dry uncooked rice. Cook ove 
moderate heat, stirring often, until rice b 
gins to brown. Add 1 cup finely chopped gg 
ion and | cup finely chopped carrot and cd. 
tinue to cook until onion and rice are golde 
brown. Bring 11 cups broth to the boilir 
point and put in contents of the skillet. Add 
teaspoon curry powder moistened in a litt 
broth or water, 14 teaspoon saffron, and sa 
and pepper to taste. Cook until rice is ter 
der and add the 2 cups chicken slivers and 
cup light cream or top milk. Blend 4. tabl 
spoons cornstarch with 14 cup milk and po 
into the boiling soup, stirring constantly. 
soup boil 2 or 3 minutes and it’s finish 
Serve with thin buttered Melba toast. 


LOBSTER SOUFFLE 


Fresh, frozen or canned lobster can be use 
for the soufflé, and the lobster can be con! 
bined with haddock with fine results—esp 
cially where your pocketbook is concerne 
Lately ve been using some very good pr 
cooked and frozen lobster that is put up j 
cans, and I’ve found it not only in fish ma 
kets and frozen-food shops but in th 
chain stores. This is a pretty good indie) 
tion that it must be generally available, b 
cause my shopping is done in a small tow 

not in New York City. Each can contains: 
or 8 pieces of claw meat carefully remove 
and very pretty for decoration of the sou 
If you use live lobst« 
or raw frozen lobster me: 
it will have to be boiled 
the usual way. You'll ne¢ 
8 cups sea food in all ar 


man re- 


of haddock, fresh or fri} 
zen, should be steamed in the top of 
double boiler until they are white ar 
firm. Some liquid will come out of the fis 
as it steams and this should be straing 
and used in the sauce. Cut the lobst 
into fairly small bite-size pieces and bred 
the haddock into pieces the same size. Say 
the lobster-claw meat for decoration. 
Melt 4 tablespoons butter or margarir 
and blend in 8 tablespoons flour. Measure tl 
broth from the cooked haddock and a 
enough canned beef bouillon to make 2 cup 
If you like, 44 cup Madeira may be subs 
tuted for 14 cup of the bouillon. Put this inj 
stewing pan with | cup tomato purée 
sauce, | cup milk, | tablespoon MSG, 114 te 
spoons sugar, | teaspoon salt and 14 teaspoc 
red pepper. Bring this to the boiling poi 
and add it to the flour and butter, stirriy 
constantly. Cook over direct heat or 
double boiler until sauce is thick ar 
smooth. If there should be lumps—and the 
won't be if you don’t forget to stir—stra 
sauce through a sieve. After boiling point 
reached let sauce cook 2 minutes longer. 
Soak 3 envelopes unflavored gelatin 
4 cup bouillon and heat over steam un 
gelatin is entirely dissolved. Put the h 
sauce into a large bowl, add gelatin a 
beat | minute to be sure gelatin is even 
distributed through the sauce. Set bowl 
cold water and change water often to cc 
the sauce as quickly as possible. Yo 
have to stir occasionally during cooling pre 
ess, scraping sides and bottom of bowl. Wh 
the sauce is thoroughly chilled and has beg) 
to congeal, beat for 5 minutes with rota 
beater. Whip 1 cup heavy cream until st 
and add this and the sea food, stirri) 
until well blended. Now taste for final seaso 
ing. You may want to add more red pepp 
and I’m sure you'll want more salt, but i) 
safer to do the extra salting when the mixty 
is cold. The tomato purée will give the souf 
a delicate pink color, but if you want, 
heighten the color add a few drops of ¥ 
vegetable coloring. : 
For the mold, use a spring-form cake pa 
without tube, 9 inches in diameter and 
inches in depth. Grease interior well wi 
salad oil and spoon in the soufflé. Do 
(Continued on Page 88) 








—_— 


- St 


(itctaas| | 
19 Taaat bee 


American Christmas, how rich it is—blending, like 
a fine recipe, the foods and customs of those many 
lands from which our forebears came! Spritz from 
in Scandinavia, and Gaelic mistletoe ... carols from 
ik France... Santa ans from Holland . . . the German 
jum Christmas Tree .. .! And now, for a pine h of sheer 
wig) delight, add these prized Lithuanian pastries. 


b a 


‘mo 
oll Lithuanian Butter Pastries 
obs (Recipe makes 24) 
| 4 lb. Meadow Gold 4 tsp. sugar 
vied Butter bo tsp. salt 
1 3-oz. package Cream 1 cup all-purpose flour 
Cheese 1 can skinned apricots 





1. Cream the butter with the Cream Cheese. 

2. Add 3 tsp. of the sugar, '4 tsp. salt, and the cup 
of all-purpose flour, sifted. Mix thoroughly. 

th 3. Chill in refrigerator one to two hours. 

. 4. Add 1 tsp. of sugar to the can of skinned apri- 

9 cots. Cook to a mash (about 10 minutes). 

a 5. Roll dough out thin. Cut into 2-inch squares, 

6. Place a spoonful of apricot mash in center of 
each square. Fold over corners of square toward 
the center. 





wn 7. Bake in moderate oven (400°) about 20 minutes. 

af I know you'll like these Lithuanian dainties even 
| better if you try making them with Meapow GoLp 

og Butter! You'll find, as I have, that Meanow Gotp 


keeps its fresh bouquet and delicate flavor when 
melted—a very exacting test of butter quality! And 
you'll find that Meapow Gotp keeps its exquisite 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


UViealtime Adee 


FOR DECEMBER: How to make Lithuanian pastries . . . recipe for 
old-fashioned oyster dressing ... party treats from fairyland. 


goodness twice as long, because in many localities it 
comes wrapped in flavor- “saving aluminum foil. I’ve 
discovered that once you try it, you'll always there- 
after prefer Meapow Goxp! 


Fit eee 


in Santas eye 






If your family’s Santa is like most fathers, he has a 

‘strong weakness” for stuffing —the steaming, savory 
old-fashioned kind that mae turkey dinner com- 
plete. And here’s a recipe for one—guaranteed to 
make Christmas Dinner a high spot, even for 
Santa Claus: 


Meadow Gold Oyster Stuffing 

1 tbsp. salt 

34 tsp. pepper 

1% tsp. poultry 
seasoning 

1% to 2 cups Meadow 
Gold Homogenized 
Milk 


Cook onion and celery in butter until golden, stirring 
occasionally. Cook oysters in their own juices until 
the edges begin to curl. Meanwhile, toss seasonings 
with bread cubes. Add onion, celery, butter and 
oysters. Mix lightly. Add milk slowly, stirring lightly. 
Add more seasonings if desired. Stuffs a 16-pound 
dressed turkey. 


34 cup onion, minced 

3 cups diced celery 

1 cup Meadow Gold 
Butter 

1 pint oysters 

3 quarts bread cubes, 
firmly packed 


I hope your town is served by a Meadow Gold dairy. 
For I know you'll like Meapow Gotp Mik to cook 





by Beatrice 
Cooke 





with and to drink. It’s homogenized (a process the 
Meadow Gold people were first to use!) which means 
that there’s cream in every drop. It’s no wonder that 
children love delicious Meapow Gotp Mux, babies 
find it more digestible. 


7h ggg Dy eer 
Z Guip- 


A big job, isn’t it, being 
the family? s Sianaher One 
gift-hunter and meal-maker 
all at the same time? But 
I’ve found that getting a 
meal after shopping is no 
problem at all—if you've a 
packaged LaCwoy CHINESE 
Dinner on the shelf! It’s a 
savory, ready -to-serve 
Chow Mein Dinner all in 
one carton. Gives you a tin 
of Chow Mein Noodles, a bottle of Soy Sauce, and a 
tin of Chow Mein, whith is rich in Water Chestnuts, 
Bamboo Shoots, Bean Sprouts, Celery, Pimentos 
and Onions. The Chow Mein comes with chicken, 
with beef, or meatless, as you prefer. Pick up a pack- 
age today, do! The family will cheer the goodness; 
you ll cheer the convenience and economy ! 





Would you like a wonderful free book of 
Chinese recipes? Just send a request today to 


LaChoy Food Products Division, Beatrice Foods 
Co., Archbold, Ohio, Dept. J-8. 


Speaking of easy-fix foods. have you tried CHox 
Instant Hot Chocolate? The only preparation I know 
which will make a rich cup of hot chocolate when 
you simply add hot water! That's because chocolate, 
sugar and whole milk are already in Cuox. No extra 
milk is needed —Cuox is as thrifty as it is delicious! 


Straight from a fairy tale— these party treats! 
Planning a holiday party? You'll make grown-ups’ eyes 
shine and children’s eyes positively dance —when you sur- 
prise them with these fairyland delights: 


Me Id 


ICE CREAM AM TARTS 


The pie, which will cut into six husky wedges, is made of 
creamy-rich Mreapow Gotp Vaniita Ice Cream with a 
variety of fresh fruit ice cream fillings. Comes individually 
packaged in a candy-striped box with a window top. The 
tarts in your choice of flavors, come four to a box, or you 
may buy them singly. Like the pie, they’re made of pure 
Meapow Gotp VANE , Ice Cream with fruit ice cream 
fillings, and are topped with scrolls and whorls of thick 
Meapow Gotp Wutrpep Cream! I assure you, no sugar 








castle in your fairy books was ever so exciting! Do ask 
to see them today —anywhere you buy your Mrapow 





ld Ice Cream Pie and Tarts make wonderful any-meal desserts. Gop Icr CREAM. © 1949, Beatrice Foods Co. 


Luxurious, yet economical, Meadow Golc 





88 


TO SPARK UP YOUR MENUS, USE | 


BinB Mushrooms 


FRESH, HOTHOUSE MUSHROOMS 


in 
Butter 













. BinB Sliced 
Mushrooms Add 
A L A 

to Chicken a la King ot 


BOERS 











LICED 


Sy TY 


Lae 


a 


ail 7) 
aL eee AY 


BinB Chopped Mushrooms 
add richness to spaghetti 
sauce, gravies, meat loaf. 


Enjoy all 3 styles— 
broiled in butter 
and ready to use 


BinB Mushrooms are freshly- 


picked hothouse mushrooms, 
broiled in creamery butter to a 
natural brown color, then packed 
in mushroom broth 

Three ready-to-use styles 


BinB Whole Mushroom Crowns 
BinB Chopped Mushrooms 
BinB Sliced Mushrooms 


You'll save time by using BinB 
Mushrooms already prepared as 


called for in your favorite recipes. 5 BinB 
erve in 


Whole Mushroom Crowns on 
steaks, chops, or on toas' 


ONE OF THE QUALITY FOODS OF GROCERY STORE PRODUCTS CO.: 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 86) 
smooth the top—make it look as fluffy as 
you can. 

Now the decorations—and here you can 
go as fancy as you like, because this is a 
festive dish for a festive occasion. An ar- 
rangement of bright red lobster claws in the 
center with a border of small shrimp is very 
pretty, and if you want your soufflé to look 
more Christmasy you could add some ac- 
cents of green pepper and red pimiento. 
Put the finished job in the refrigerator and 
don’t worry about unmolding. The side of 
the pan will spring off easily and the soufflé 
can be slid from the bottom of the pan onto 
the serving platter. 


VEGETABLES 


Cook 3 cups diced cucumbers, 3 cups diced 
carrots and 3 cups fresh or frozen peas in sep- 
arate kettles. Use as little salted water as 
possible in cooking the vegetables, and be 
careful not to overcook them. Drain, and 
when cold pour some French dressing 
over each and score in refrigerator. 


MOUSSELINE SAUCE 


Mousseline sauce is cold hollandaise com- 
bined with whipped cream. Here is the recipe 
for hollandaise. With a rotary beater, electric 
or hand, beat 3 egg yolks, 44 teaspoon salt 
and 44 teaspoon red pepper for | minute. 
Have ready 4 pound 
melted butter or marga- 
rine, 14 tablespoons 
heated lemon juice and 4 
tablespoons boiling water. 
Beating constantly, add 
these three ingredients 
a little at a time and al- 
ternately. When all have been used, transfer 
sauce to top of double boiler and place it 
over bottom of double boiler, in which there 
is a small amount of boiling water. The 
boiling water must never come in contact 
with the top of the double boiler, Beat mix- 
ture rapidly with a wire whisk, scraping bot- 
tom and sides, until the sauce is smooth 
and thick—about 5 minutes. Remove from 
heat and beat a little longer. When cold, 
store in refrigerator and when thoroughly 
chilled fold in 34 cup heavy cream which has 
been beaten until stiff. (When hollandaise 
sauce is to be served hot, let it stand over, 
but not in, water which is hot but not boil- 


ing.) 


To serve the lobster soufflé, remove spring 
side of pan and with the help of a spatula 
transfer from bottom of pan to the center of 
serving platter. Surround the soufflé with 
marinated vegetables, salad greens, slices 
of hard-cooked egg and shrimp. The shrimp 
can be fresh, frozen or canned and you can 
use them in any quantity that suits you. If 
your serving platter is flat—which mine 
wasn’t for this occasion—the vegetables 
would look very pretty arranged in 
small lettuce cups around the souffle. 

Serve the mousseline sauce in separate 
bowl, and if you like you can decorate the 
soufflé with some of it. It’s quite stiff and 
behaves like a dream when squeezed through 
a pastry tube. 


ROLLED BREAD-AND-BUTTER 
SANDWICHES 


To make rolled sandwiches you must use 
fresh bread, thinly sliced, with every bit of 
crust removed. If you like you can mix some 


CHRISTMAS AT 


(Continued from Page 61) 


you can have the party as small as you 
please. A flexible feast. The one we are set- 
ting before you here takes a little time, a 
little planning and a little work. But if you 
know of any worth-while adventures along 
this line that don’t require these three in- 
gredients, you’re a better girl than I am. 
Anyway, here’s a honey of a buffet. And 
when you have read, marked, learned and 
inwardly digested the receipts for same, 
you'll be all set to go ahead and have a 
Christmas buffet party—a party that will 


Genius: A man who shoots 
at something no one else 
can see. and hits it. 


make this Christmas season memorable. And 
you see if I’m not right. 


On a snowy afternoon. Light the fire and] 


chairs and have a little gossip. For it’s teqj- 




























































December, 1949 | 


cream cheese with the butter or margarine | 
for the spread. Be sure that the top surface | 
of each slice of bread is entirely covered with 
a generous coating of the spread, then roll 
tightly. Wrap the rolls firmly in wa 
paper or cellophane, putting 6 or 8 rolls in | 
each package, and store in refrigerator. The 
spread will harden when it’s cold and they 
rolls will retain their shape. 


SCOTCH SHORTBREAD 


Sift together 2 cups cake flour, 144 cup con- 
fectioners’ sugar and 1 tablespoon corn= 
starch. Put this in a bowl with 44 pound 
salted butter and work with your fingers un-_ 
til thoroughly blended. Be sure that the but- 
ter is very cold at the start and work quickly | 
so that it doesn’t become warm and oily. The 
result will be a stiff mixture, not at all like a_ 
cake or cooky batter. Put it into a 9-inch- 

square cake pan and pat it down with your 
hands until the surface is smooth. Prick the } 
entire surface with a sharp-pronged fork. 
Don’t drag the fork across the dough, but use 
a trembly motion so the prongs will penetrate 
the surface. Bake 50 minutes in a moderate, 
325°F., oven. It should be the color of rich | 
cream hee done. While it is still hot, cut 
into squares, slender oblongs or diamonds, 
and when they’re lukewarm remove them 
from the pan. When cold put them in a con-— 
tainer with an airtight lid. These crisp—and 
boy, are they delicious—_ 
cookies will keep for some 
time, but they must be 
kept away from the air. 


Service. No matter how | 
much help you have, you 
wouldn’t expect them to | 
dance attendance on New Year’s Eve; 
and with this supper you won’t need any 
help but your own. Well, you might assign | 
a few carrying-in jobs to your husband 
or, if he isn’t handy around the kitchen, 
to one or two of your friends. 

Before guests arrive, have your dining 
table arranged for buffet service, or if you’re |! 
going to serve in the living room, have dishes, 
silver and napkins on trays or a tea wagon. 
The crackers can be in the oven and every- 
thing else that is to go on the hors-d’oeuvre | 
tray will be on serving dishes in the refrig- 
erator. 

The soufflé platter can be completely ar- | 
ranged and waiting in the refrigerator with 
the sandwiches and mousseline sauce. Some- | 
times I get a little self-conscious when I talk | 
so glibly about putting things in the refrigera- 
tor. I knew perfectly well that not all refrig- 
erators are monsters, but with planning and | 
manipulating even a little one can hold a ter- 
rific amount of food. If yours simply refuses — 
to accommodate the platter, you'll have to— 
arrange it at the last minute, but with every- | 
thing ready and at hand you can make short | 
shrift of that job. | 

About an hour before you are going to” 
serve, put the soup kettle on an asbestos | 
mat over very low heat, or in a pan of boil- | 
ing water over moderate heat. If you have 
a big soup tureen you’ll certainly want to. 
use it: soup ladled out of a big tureen in 
front of your eyes always tastes better; it 
does, really. 

So you’ll have nothing serious to do about | 
your supper until just before you eat it, | 
which is as it should be. New Year’s Eve is | 
no time for worry and effort; it is a time for 
happiness only, and may yours be perfect! | 


THE JOURNAL 


let the logs blaze high. Draw up the easy 


time. And a snowy afternoon. Teatime at the 

JOURNAL is just as much fun—only we don’t 

have a blazing log fire. But we can enjoy 

everything else, and our guests are very nice 

guests indeed, the kind that feel at home and 
(Continued on Page 90) 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


rhag 


| Holiday Co oky 
Inspiratio 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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(Continued from Page 88) 

have a good time. So part of our Christmas 
celebration at our JOURNAL home is made up 
of intimate little parties, larger ones, as wit- 
ness our buffet luncheon, and teas when our 
friends drop in for that cup of hyson and 
that—well, you know—conversation. Do I 
make myself clear? I trust so. 


So now to the real things. Your receipts 
are here and you are there. Remember that 
here we are all agog, doing the same things 
for the same reason. We are entertaining as 
we would and do in our own homes. Only we 
are having, also, Christmas parties at our 
JOURNAL home—and I may add that invita- 
tions are seldom refused, and the staff stick 
right by on these days when parties, as well 
as pages, are part of our plans. 

So happy doings to you. Best of luck and 
everything. Anda very wonderful Christmas. 


These are the receipts 
for th» Buffet Party: 


CHICKEN-HAM-AND-MUSHROOM 
CASSEROLE 


Place 2 (4-414 pound) roasting chickens in a 
large pan or roaster. Add | can chicken 
broth; makes gravy more and better. Then 
add 2 cups water, | teaspoon salt, 1 tea- 
spoon pepper, a 
handful of celery 
leaves and 2 onions. 
sliced. Cover and 
cook until chicken is 
very tender. Remove 
from broth to cool. 
Take the meat from 
bones in as near whole 
pieces as possible. Cut 
breasts into 4 pieces. 
upper joints into 2— 
leave leg meat as it 
is, but be sure to cut 
out all the gristly 
parts. Put skin and 
bones back in broth. 
Add 2 cups water and 
cook for 1 hour more. 
Strain. Cool the broth 
and skim off fat. 

Wash 1% pounds 
mushrooms; slice, 
using stems as well 
as caps. (Save out a few caps to sauté sepa- 
rately to garnish top of casserole.) Sauté rest 
of mushrooms in 3 tablespoons butter or 
margarine. 

Cook 6 ounces noodles in boiling salted 
water according to the directions on the pack- 
age. Drain and rinse with boiling water. 

Now melt % cup butter or margarine in a 
saucepan. Sauté 2 tablespoons minced onion 
in it. Blend in 34 cup flour. Gradually add 1 
quart light cream and | quart of the chicken 
stock. Cook until thickened, stirring con- 
stantly. Season with 14 teaspoon dry mus- 
tard, 2 teaspoons salt and 44 teaspoon pep- 
per. Add the cut-up chicken, the sautéed 
mushrooms, the noodles and 114 pounds 
thin-sliced baked or boiled ham cut into 
small slices. The canned ham comes in mighty 
handy here and no waste either. Taste mix- 
ture now for seasoning. 

Pour into a large casserole or 2 smaller 
ones. Sprinkle top with 144 cup almonds that 
have been blanched, cut into strips and 
lightly toasted. Also sauté the mushroom 
caps you saved out in a little butter or mar- 
garine and arrange those on top too. Bake in 
moderate oven, 350° F., about 45 minutes. 


If you like getting the business end of this 
casserole done early in the day, you can get 
the whole thing ready to bake hours ahead. 
Chickens can be cooked the day before—and 
the ham, whichever you use, will just natu- 
rally be got ready the day before if you’re 
as forehanded as I think you are. The mush- 
rooms could be sliced, too, but do these last. 
But don’t make the sauce or put everything 
together until the day you plan to serve it. 
There’s enough for twelve good appetites 
here—allowing for second helpings. Whether 
you buy or make your rolls, split and butter 
them ahead of time sothey can be heated in the 
last few minutes the casserole bakes. By cut- 


K) OS KK ARE OR ee 


ai 
FOUWVEMUPS 


By Georgie Starbuck Galbraith 


Twilight and tears and rain 
And the echoing word 
“good-by”’ . 
These you left me, and pain 
Dark as the rain-dark sky. 


fs avocadoslices. (These 


Twilight and rain and tears 

And the word “good-by”’ will be 
Forever and all the years 

Held in your name for me. 


KO RK eee, KX 






























































December, | 919 


ting chicken and ham into easy-to-eat-size 
pieces that can be eaten with a fork, and 
buttering the rolls, knives can be eliminated, 
which simplifies buffet service. 


SPICED APRICOTS 


Very good whole spiced apricots can be 
bought in cans. Chill as many cans as you 
think you will need. Drain before serving and 
stick a clove in each one. The juice or sirup, 
by the way, is very good to save and use for 
basting baked ham. Also for jellied things 
later on. 


TOMATO ASPIC 


We make many variations of this aspic 
when serving it at different times with the 
chicken-ham-and-mushroom casserole. A 
combination of cooked and raw vegetables, 
cooked peas, carrots, raw celery, pepper and | 
tomatoes is good. This time we used avocado. © 


Sprinkle 4 envelopes unflavored gelatin over 
34 cup cold water. Let stand 5 minutes. 
Meanwhile, heat 7 cups tomato juice, adding 
a few celery leaves, | bay leaf and 3 table- 
spoons grated onion, 3 tablespoons vinegar, 
| tablespoon salt and | tablespoon sugar. 
Simmer 10 minutes. Strain. Add softened: 
gelatin to hot juice and stir until dissolved. 
Chill until thick and sirupy. Cut a large 
peeled and pitted avo- 
cado into thin slices. — 
Pour lemon juice 
over the slices to keep 
them from darkening. 
Arrange the slices in 
a pattern in the bot- 
tom of a 10-inch ring 
mold. Pour in a little 
of the tomato mixture 
and chill until firm. 
Add any leftover 


you might dice if you 
like them that way.) 
Pour in rest of to- 
mato mixture and 
ehill until firm. 
Serves 12. 

This can be made 
the day before. In 
fact, it is a good safe 
bet to make it the 
day before. Keep it 
well chilled and cover it with wax paper. 


ROQUEFORT-CREAM DRESSING 


Everyone likes this. Cheese-lovers rave. 
Non-cheese-lovers become addicts. So go 
ahead. You can’t go wrong on this for the 
aspic. 


Cut out the root ends of several green on- 
ions; dice and then chop very fine, tops and | 
all. You will need 14 cup. (Use a combination 
of finely chopped Bermuda onion and chives 
if you can’t get fresh green onions.) Add to 2 
cups mayonnaise; grate 2 cloves garlic into 
this and add }4 cup chopped parsley. Mix 2 
tablespoons anchovy paste with | cup thick 
sour cream and add to mayonnaise. Thin 
this mixture with 14 cup of the best vinegar 
and 2 tablespoons lemon juice. Crumble 14 
pound bleu or Roquefort cheese and beat 
into dressing. Season to taste with salt and 
pepper. Chill. The base of the dressing with- 
out the onion and parsley can be made the 
day before. Keep it in the refrigerator and 
whip it all together the last thing. 


CHILLED PINEAPPLE CAKE 


This belongs to the icebox-cake family and 
is a good choice for a buffet party, since it is 
made the day before. Also, it’s terribly good. 


For the filling: Beat the yolks of 3 eggs un- 
til thick. Add 6 tablespoons sugar gradually, 
beating well until the mixture is thick and 
the color of lemon. Drain 1 No. 2 can crushed — 
pineapple. Add 3 tablespoons of the sirup t 
the egg mixture. Cook in the double boiler 10™ 
to 15 minutes or until it is thickened. Stir as 
you would any custard. Don’t let up a sec- 
ond—but stir. Cool. Cream 34 cup butter or 
margarine and add gradually 1 cup powdered 
sugar. Beat until it is light. Add the cooled 
(Continued on Page 92) 


Te mart) 


Now’s the time to know more pork cuts be- 
cause: the best pork supply in years brings you 
big values in pork. 
Yes, ma’am, you can really please ’em with 
pork—the fragrance of pork cooking, the yield- 
ing tenderness of pork under the fork and the 
flavor of pork in the eating make everybody 
glad they’re home and hungry. 
- Here are some of the cuts you'll want to look 
for—the meaty shoulder butt roast (its one very 
small bone makes its thrifty price all the more 
surprising.) Pick meaty porx hocks, spareribs 
and first-cut chops or for the homey, 
midweek meals that 1 


( 


steaks 


1 


Ge 


AMERICAN MEA T INSTITUTE 


Headquarters, Chicago 


RTs Cg 
Sty) 


let 


are Oh 
TTT 


eae 


Ree dal sty 


Then there’s the smoky fragrance of ham, the 
lean-streaked goodness of bacon. No one food 
comes in so many flavors as pork—and pork 
supplies so many of the things that are needed 
for health. Pork is one of our richest, most 
highly digestible sources of .the B vitamins 
(thiamine and niacin), complete body-building 
protein and food iron. 

So plan more meals around pork now! 











a 
STM This Seal means that all nutritional statements 
COUNCILON made in this advertisement are acceptable 
2S io the C il Food. d Nutriti f th 
SWELL = to the Council on Foods an utrition of the 
%, Sy American Medical Association. 


4 MEDICAL Ao” 


- Members throughout the U.S. 


Get this handy 
buying, cooking guide, 
only 5¢ 


“Basic Pork Cuts and how 
to cook them” is a purse-size 
booklet showing 27 basic 
pork products in full color 
along with description and 
cooking information. Take 
it to market with you— 
aids in identifying and 
selecting cuts. Just send 
5¢ and your name and 
address to the Ameri- 
can Meat Institute, 
30x 1133, Chicago 
77, Illinois. 








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- aR EX SLs 


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a jov to use! 


This economical new table-setting 


does away with dishwashing 


... does away also with laundering of 
table linens . . . worry over spots and 
breakage. SERVISET is, in fact, today’s most 
welcome new meal-serving convenience... and 
very inexpensive! Available in a variety of 
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SERVISET PATTERNS: 





BITTERSWEET 
BOUQUET 
CANTERBURY 
HAPPY BIRTHDAY 
HALLOWEEN 
THANKSGIVING 
MODERNE 
RAINBO 

SHIP 

CARMEN 
CHRISTMAS 
NEW YEAR 


™ 


9g? 


(Continued from Page 90) 

custard and beat well once more. Beat 3 egg 
whites and a pinch of salt until stiff but not 
dry. Fold into the custard mixture. Add the 
drained crushed pineapple and | tablespoon 
lemon juice. Fold it in—don’t beat. This is 
the filling. 
For the cake part: Use your favorite white 
layer cake. | use my Delicate White Layer 
Cake. But since the layers should be split 
and very thin, divide the batter into 3 
nine-inch layer pans and bake 25 minutes 
instead of 30 to 35 minutes—so there will be 
6 split layers. That way you have more filling 
in the cake. Put the layers together with 
plenty of filling between and chill in the re- 
frigerator overnight. The day of the party 
frost cake with whipped cream that has been 
sweetened and flavored with vanilla and al- 
mond extract. Decorate the cake with pieces 
of canned or crystallized pineapple. See what 
we did? And cover the sides with coconut. 

We find this menu easy to increase, and 
by making up more casseroles, salads and 
cakes have served as many as 75 people. 


And these are the receipts 
for the Tea Party: 


CHICKEN-TOASTED ALMOND 
SANDWICHES 


Chop very fine enough cooked chicken to 
make 34 cup. Add 6 tablespoons mayonnaise, 
\% cup almonds that have been blanched, 
chopped very fine and then toasted, 2 table- 
spoons finely minced celery, 4 teaspoon salt 
and a dash of pepper. Mix well, adding a lit- 
tle more salt if it needs it. Some like a little 
curry, and if you like curry, try it here—4 
teaspoon or so. Makes | cup spread. Spread 
15 thin slices of bread, first with softened 
butter, then with chicken filling. Spread 15 
more thin slices bread with softened butter 
and lay on top of the slices spread with 
chicken filling. Cut off edges. Cut each large 
sandwich into 4 small sandwiches. Makes 5 
dozen 114’ square sandwiches. 


WATER-CRESS SANDWICHES 


Cream 4 cup butter or margarine. Add 14 
cup finely chopped water cress, 1 teaspoon 
erated onion, 34 teaspoon Worcestershire 
sauce, 4 teaspoon salt and a little pepper. 
Cut thinly sliced bread into 2-inch rounds. 
With the same round cutter cut a new 
moon on half the rounds. Maybe you have 
a new-moon cutter. If you have, use that. 
Spread the full circles with water-cress 
butter. Top with the new-moon halves. This 
quantity will spread 3 dozen small sand- 
wiches. If this isn’t enough, only your time 
and patience running out can stop you from 
going on and on—increase the quantities and 
make more and more. 


HOLIDAY SANDWICHES 


Slice white bread thin and cut into rounds 
in three sizes. (There are little sets of gradu- 
ated cutters that are handy for such things.) 
Spread the largest round with soft butter or 
margarine and then with deviled ham. Cover 
this with the second-sized round. Spread this 
second slice with avocado paste, made be- 
forehand and in this way: Mash a ripe, peeled 
avocado. Add to the mashed pulp the juice of 
half a lemon and a little onion juice. Put 
through a sieve and blend well. Season with 
salt and pepper. After the spread is on the 
round, sprinkle with a little more lemon juice 
to keep the color bright. Now place the tiniest 
round and leave it right out in the open. 

It’s easiest to get all your rounds of the 
largest size cut and spread, then go on to the 
next, and lastly to the tops. Then you can 
put the spread rounds together like lightning. 
This makes about 30 sandwiches, which 
should be enough. Better to make more of 
the less fussy kind. 


ROQUEFORT PECANS 


Crumble 3 ounces bleu or Roquefort cheese 
and cream together with | three-ounce pack- 
age cream cheese. When well whipped to- 
gether, spread on the flat side of pecans. Put 
another pecan on top, sandwich fashion. 
Press together. Chill. This amount of filling 
makes 5—6 dozen Roquefort pecans. And 
very good eating they are. 


December, 1949 


Fruitcake is Christmas cake. Fruitcake is 
a tradition. Everyone has some way of her 
own to make the Christmas cake. You’ve 
had many receipts from me, but this remains 
our favorite—the one we make every Christ- 
mas. Whatever receipt you use, cut those 
raisins, chop those nuts, use fresh spices and 
bake your cakes a long, long time, if such be 
the. way of it. 


FRUITCAKE 


Cut into small pieces 4 pound candied 
lemon peel, 4 pound candied orange peel, 
1% pounds mixed candied fruits, 4 pound 
citron. Mix with 44 pound raisins (sultana, if 
you have them). Let stand overnight in 6 
tablespoons pineapple juice. The following 
day combine with 14 pound filberts, toasted, 
and 14 pound blanched almonds, dredged 
with flour. 

Cream | cup shortening. Add 1 cup sugar 
and cream until light and fluffy. Add gradu- 
ally 14 cup honey. Then gradually add 5 
eggs, beaten, and cream well. Sift together 2 
cups general-purpose flour, | teaspoon salt, | 
teaspoon baking powder, | teaspoon allspice 
and | teaspoon cloves. Add to the creamed 
mixture. Beat until smooth. Stir in the fruits 
and nuts. Mix very thoroughly. 

Prepare pans by lining with several thick- 
nesses of greased brown paper. Pour in the 
cake mixture, filling pans three quarters full. 
Bake in slow oven, 275° F., about 3% to 4 
hours. Time depends on the size of the pan. 
Keep a pan of water in the oven during the 
entire baking time. Itis best to bake this cake 
two weeks in advance, as you do any fruit- 
cake. And keep it wrapped up in wax paper: 
or if such is your custom, in a cloth kept 
damp with sherry or brandy. Makes 2 loaves 
or | large 5-pound cake.» 


VANILLA BALLS 


Cream 34 cup butter or margarine. Beat in 
V4 cup cream and | teaspoon vanilla. Sift to- 
gether 134 cups flour and 6 tablespoons pow- 
dered sugar. Add this gradually to creamed 
mixture. Mix in 1 cup chopped walnuts or 
pecans. Chill. Pinch off pieces of dough and 
rol] into small balls. Place 2 inches apart on 
greased cooky sheets. Bake in a slow oven, 
325° F., for about 20 minutes. Take from 
cooky sheets. Roll cookies in vanilla sugar. 
Vanilla sugar: Add | tablespoon vanilla to 1 
cup confectioners’ sugar. Mix well and press 
it through a sieve. Allow it to dry. Might 
do this before you make the cookies so that 
sugar will have time to dry. Saves time, saves 
waiting. Makes 314 dozen cookies. 


CANDIED GRAPEFRUIT PEEL 


Peel as many grapefruit as you wish to use. 
We used 2. If the outer skin of the grapefruit 
seems hard, grate the surface before peeling, 
but don’t scrape it as if you hated it. Cut the 
peel into strips or petals. Add enough water 
to peel to cover it. Boil 15-20 minutes. Drain 
and repeat with fresh water twice more—3 
times in all. Measure the drained peel, and 
for each pint of peel add 2 cups sugar, 114% 
cups water and 1% teaspoon salt. Cook slowly 
in open kettle until sirup is quite heavy. Do 
not let it overcook or caramelize. When done, 
remove from heat and for each pint of peel 
and sirup add 14 envelope unflavored gelatin 
that has been softened in 2 tablespoons cold 
water. Stir well to dissolve gelatin. Let peel 
stand in sirup until thoroughly cool. Then 
drain and roll pieces in sugar. The addition 
of gelatin to the peel keeps it nice and soft 
inside. Above quantity makes 100 pieces. 
And may I say this is the erystalized peel to 
end all peel? The receipt was given to us by a 
generous friend. Once tried—always used. 


Parting wish. And so, again, a Merry Christ- 
mas to you all. You’ve sent me so many 
friendly greetings to cheer me on my way 
through the years that it seems a very small 
wish to make. But what can I say? Only that 
the wish is from my heart and must reach 
you this way because I have no other way. 

Have a wonderful time. And when you 
trim the tree think of all the trees, all the 
tinsel, all the lights that are glistening over 
our land. And be very glad that it 7s our land. 
And let us keep it so. 


Again—Merry Christmas. THE END 



















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93 


HOUSE UPON A ROCK 


Continued from Page 35) 

For the war, which had been designated 
World War II, as if to imply that there 
would be a Wor Id War III and perhaps IV, 
was Many years past, and in the Rockwood 
\ eterans Hospital at Rockwood, New York, 
the four young men who occupied Ward 2C 
were thinking a great many thoughts. 

It is conceivable that the four young men 
who originally came from Manhattan, Chi- 
cago, Georgia and Westchester County might 
never have met if it had not been for a ma- 
chine gun, a grenade, a mine and an 88 which 
were respectively fired, hurled, planted and 
discharged by other young men from Frank- 


| furt, Bayreuth, Linz and Oppenheim. 


The four young men were in their ward as 
usual. It was white and spotless, contained 
the necessary number of beds, aluminum 
wheel chairs, crutches, lockers, tables with 
games, magazines and newspapers. 

Sammy Gold, once a girdle salesman, also 
once a street-corner tie salesman, pool shark, 
rumba dancer, Lindy expert, was sprawled 
out on his bed. Lt. Mary Wilson, an Army 
nurse in her late thirties, was bent over his 
bed massaging the muscles about his spine 
with alcohol-soaked hands when Sammy said: 

“Don’t be bashful, lieutenant. A little 
lower. The taxpayers pay you for this.”’ 

Sammy closed his eyes as though the 
pleasure he was enjoying was more than he 
could possibly endure. He was dark, of 
medium height, lean, almost wiry, and had 
black kinky hair and a small mustache. 

Sammy, in Sammy’s own words, was once 
irresistible. Models, debutantes, stenog- 


| raphers, dance hostesses—none could resist 


Sammy's line, technique and bank roll. Of 


s He who seeks only for applause 

from without has all his hap- 

piness in another’s keeping. 
—GOLDSMITH. 


course, the three others knew Sammy never 
had had a line, technique or bank roll. But 
they encouraged him to maintain his illusion 
of what he had been like when he could walk. 

“A little lower,’ Sammy repeated as 
though his voice were emerging from a haze. 
“You know something, lieutenant? That’s 


| the best substitute for sex I found yet. 


Harvey, the runt of the ward, w ho was 
propped up in the bed next to Sammy’s, ran 
the harmonica he was playing clear out of 
his mouth and said in his Southern accent, 
‘There is no substitute for sex, Sammy.” 

Harvey or Shorty or Rebel, as he was al- 
ternately called, had carrot-red hair, a 
freckled balloon-shaped face, a furrowed 
brow and a constantly bewildered, worried 
expression. His lack of height made him look 
like the perennial office boy. No matter how 
he tried, he could never look more than nine- 
teen or twenty, even at twenty-seven. 

In basic training they wanted to make a 

clerk out of him. Overseas, he always felt 
that the other guys felt sorry for him. 

No matter how much Harvey had wished 
at times that he was a clerk back in division 

headquarters, he had to prove he had as 
aot guts as any of them. In his heart he 
was sure that the breaks were always against 
him because he was “poor white trash.” 
That was something they never let you for- 
get in Georgia. 

He had a natural talent. Old Josh Lee, the 
porter in Sam Weldon’s drugstore who gave 
him piano lessons after store hours, kept tell- 
j if I could play Dixieland 
you, I wouldn’t be wasting my 
time whipping up sodas. You got it, son. 
Playing the piano comes naturé al to you. 

Har rvey knew he’d never get the chance 
anv more to find out if Old Josh was right. 
But eae the fellows would be talking 
about women and you couldn’t talk about 
men without thinking about dancing and 
- and wondering where you would be 
vou weren't stuck in a hospital. 


ntinued on Page 97 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL December, 1949 


es aba 
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL December, 1949 


FOR HAPPY HOLIDAYS AT HOME 


”“Al-Fam/y Drink’ 








OPYRIGHT 1949 BY THE SEVEN UP COMPANY 


Ae i did ! sk 
Be: Ei, Goa bebe tt...;tlabat yaa! 


eae 


(Continued from Page 93) 

Harvey slowly brought the harmonica up 
to his mouth and went back to playing Star- 
dust and imagined he was sitting at a grand 
piano, leading a hundred-piece orchestra on 
the stage of Radio City Music Hall. The 
music of the harmonica filled the ward. 

Sammy said, “Listen to the Rebel, lieu- 
tenant. A big operator from the plantations. 
For one night he had a three-piece orchestra 
that played at a wedding in the Bronx. That 
makes him an authority on sex. You know 
what this reminds me of? The time I per- 
sonally captured Munich. I found a little 
Fraulein . . . h’m-m-m,” he grunted. 

At that point Bill Kurowski joined the 
conversation. “Why don’t you lay off that 
talk, Sammy?” Bill was blind and he was 
reading a Braille edition of Reader’s Digest. 

Maybe it was the story he was reading, 
but he couldn’t stop thinking about the 
waitress in the one-arm joint at the Chicago 
end of the haul and the night he took her 
home. He remembered how he had tried to 
kiss her good night. 

“Let me go, you big baboon!” 

“Rosie, I love you.” 

“Let me go. If you had half as much brains 
as you had muscles, you’d still be a dope.” 

“Rosie, I want to marry you.” 

“Let me go. Every time you touch me, 
I feel sick to my stomach.” 

And now he remembered how, after that, 
sometimes when he was driving the truck for 
Kelly and Jones Trucking and Moving Com- 
pany, he’d think so much of having a wife of 
his own to come home to, he’d play around 
with the idea of twisting the wheel and tak- 
ing the truck and himself over the mountains 
outside Harrisburg and get it over with. 

He turned the page of ‘* 
the Reader’s Digest. “Why 
don’t you lay off that 
talk, guys?” he said. “You 
know that ain’t no way to 
talk in front of a first 
lieutenant.” 

Lieutenant Wilson 
smiled wryly. “Oh, don’t mind me, gentle- 
men—go right ahead,” she said. 

“T still love you, lieutenant,” Sammy said 
to her. “I’d marry you tomorrow.” 

She cupped her hand and flooded it with 
additional alcohol. ‘‘Thanks, but I have a 
husband. One Congressional Medal of Honor 
winner is all I can afford to support.’”’ She 
slapped the alcohol on Sammy’s spine. “* Well, 
which one of you heroes is next?” 

Jimmy leaned forward in his wheel chair, 
his arms resting on his lifeless legs. * Why do 
you waste your time with us, lieutenant? 
Haven't you heard? The country’s back to 
normal.” 

She looked at Jimmy. He was such a good- 
looking youngster. Tall, slender, boyish. She 
always associated him with Rockefeller 
Center and bars, bright career women like 
his wife, Maggy, and in-laws who were con- 
gressmen, and a house in Westchester, and 
Martinis before dinner. 


seen grow. 


Sue always thought if there was a typically 
American male face, Jimmy had it. It was 
clean-cut and Anglo-Saxon. She knew Jimmy 
didn’t have to remain in a veterans’ hospital. 
He had the means to have the proper care 
and attention at home, but he refused, as he 
put it, to be a burden to his wife. More than 
once when Maggy visited him—in fact, only 
that afternoon—she had heard him try to 
convince her she ought to get a divorce or an 
annulment, and when she finally left, there 
were tears in the eyes of both. 

“The trouble with Jimmy,” Sammy phi- 
losophized, putting on the top of his pa- 
jamas, ‘‘is that he don’t appreciate how well 
off we are. Three meals a day, no housing 
problem, comes the next war all we got to do 
is sit in a hospital and buy bonds.” 

“Look.” Lieutenant Wilson said, folding 
her arms, “if you characters expect any 
sympathy from me What about it, 
Bill? Could you use a massage?” 

Bill stood up and removed the top of his 
pajamas. “Lieutenant,” he said, feeling his 
way around the table and wheel chairs 
toward his bed, ‘‘to have a beautiful tomato 
like you touch my back ——”’ 





No man fears what he has 


—AFRICAN PROVERB. 




















OF 


Sammy shook a cigarette out of the pack- 
age. “The truck driver’s working his racket 
again. First he goldbricks his way through 
three hundred and ten days of combat. 
Nothing to do for twenty-six hours a day but 
figure how to stay alive ——” 

Jimmy folded his newspaper until it re- 
sembled a plank of wood. “Why don’t you 
stop talking war, Sammy? Nobody’s inter- 
ested in the war any more.’ He hurled the 
newspaper violently against the white wall. 


What he read in the papers about the cold z 


war and hot war and all the wars and mur- 
ders sickened him. ‘‘A bunch of brave men 
with stiff upper lips attached,” he shouted. 
“For what?’’ He gripped the sides of his 
wheel chair, tried desperately, pathetically 
to force himself up to his feet. “Oh, God! 
Get me out of this chair!” 

“Stop that, Jimmy!” Lieutenant Wilson 
said without raising her voice. “Stop that 
nonsense and pull yourself together.”’ 

Sammy broke his cigarette in half. “Let 
him blow his top, lieutenant. He thinks more 
than we do. Blowing his top is good for him.” 


‘Tue strain and tension left Jimmy’s body 
and he buried his face in his trembling 
hands. “I’m sorry, fellows. I don’t know why 
I keep reading the newspapers. If I had any 
religion left, I’d give them up for Lent.” 


According to the best information avail- 
able, just about that time Father Francis 
Xavier Casey came into the ward flashing a 
deck of ordinary playing cards. 

The father was a man of about forty with 
gray, thinning hair and a red cherubic face. 
When he smiled, the corners of his mouth 
looked as though they might eventually 
reach the tips of his ears. 

The father would have 
liked to return to his parish 
in New Hampshire. His 
Church of Our Virgin 
Mother wasn’t exactly 
Notre Dame, but then 
Father Casey’s ambitions 
were always limited. All that evening the 
father had thought how much he would have 
preferred doing the work of his Heavenly 
Father in the state of New Hampshire. But 
someone had to look after the kids who were 
still left in the hospitals. 

“T’m an Irishman,” he said as he entered 
the ward, holding up his deck of cards, 
“‘who’s looking for a nice, clean, cutthroat 
game of gin. Is there a man in the house with 
enough guts and dough to take me on?” The 
father removed a bottle of red wine from his 
hip pocket and placed it on the table. “I 
enjoy a special delight in taking heathen 
capital.” He nodded toward Jimmy. “Some- 
thing bothering our prize heathen, Mary?” 
he asked. 

“No, everything is just fine, father,” 
Jimmy said. ‘‘ My father-in-law is still mak- 
ing his speeches in Congress. Maggy’s still 
working.” 

‘“‘What do you expect a pretty, intelligent 
girl like Maggy to do, Jimmy?” Father 
Casey asked. ‘Take the vow? Running your 
business is good for her. I had a long talk 
with her today. Here.’’ He poured the wine 
into paper cups. “It’s from the bishop's pri- 
vate stock. Why I should be wasting good 
Burgundy on an atheist like you ——” 

Jimmy sipped slowly. ““ You know, father, 
you’re one of the few real Christians I’ve 
ever known.” 

The father passed the cups around. 
“Oh, there are more of us about, Jimmy. 
Just open your eyes and you'll see them.” 

“I’ve had my eyes opened, father,” Jimmy 
said. ‘I took a trip to Europe. I’ve seen 
all the evidence I want to see that neither 
the Father, the Son nor the Holy Ghost cares 
what becomes of the human race.” 

Sammy grinned. “Sounds sacrilegious to 
me. 

Father Casey cleared the table in the cen- 
ter of the ward of its games and sat down. 
“He’s the kind I’m best at converting, 
Sammy,” he said, shuffling the cards. ‘‘ Well, 
who’s my sucker for the evening?” He 
picked up the deck. “‘I only need five to 
pay for the new stained-glass window in the 
chapel. What about it, Rebel?” 















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December, 1949 


ook. six different flavors... 


98 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


by AL 
CAPP 


Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. 


“Thanks, father, but I came up to Yankee 
territory for my career. I can’t afford to neg- 
lect my career. Any requests?”’ 

“Yeah,” Sammy said. ‘Don’t play Dixie.”’ 
He punched his pillow. “I think I’ll turn in. 
Good night, citizens.” 











OH, HAPPY SADIE 


S0B27— AH GOTTA 
MARRY OP 







HAWKINS DAY”. 





“May God rest on your pillow, Sammy,”’ 
the father said with deep compassion. 

“Thanks, father,’’ Sammy replied. “And 
in the words of momma, a good Shabbus to 
you.” He closed his eyes. 

Father Casey dealt the cards. ‘Well, I 
guess that leaves you, Jimmy. No reason 
why I should have any qualms about taking 
an atheist’s money. They say you’re loaded 
with the stuff. A fiftieth cent a point?”’ 

Harvey lowered his harmonica. “‘It’s go- 
ing to take you a long time to get that win- 
dow paid off, father.’”’ He began to play 
Summertime. 

Jimmy tossed the jack of clubs. “The 
father’s got time, Rebel. We’re not going 
any where.” 


Tue father studied the jack and decided to 
do nothing about it. He discarded a king of 
hearts. ‘I wish you wouldn’t be talking like 
that, Jimmy. It’s bad for my morale.” 

Jimmy picked up the king. “I guess I 
haven’t much of that stuff left, father. It’s 
not that I’m feeling sorry for myself. It’s 
just this being the forgotten men.” 

“You haven’t been forgotten, Jimmy.” 

“T’m not talking about families, friends, 
delegations from the D.A.R. on Memorial 
Day. It’s just—well, read the headlines. 
Why can’t they at least make us feel we 









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traded our arms and legs and eyes for some- Port Wine 
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“What?” father protested. ‘“‘You’re in Onion 
cahoots with the devil.” 
“No alibis, father,’’ Bill said from his bed. 


“‘Just score it honest.” 


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“Father,” Jimmy said rather thought- iy yy 
fully while the father was dealing out the 1a Notion Cheese heat fom Amerizah eirylianit 


second hand, “‘how does one go about getting 
in cahoots with the devil?” 

“You ought to know. How many years 
did you spend at Princeton?’’ He carefully 
placed the nine of hearts on the table. 

Jimmy picked up the nine of hearts. “No 
fooling, father. How would one go about 
trading one’s soul for four bodies in good 
condition? How did Faust go about striking 
his bargain with Satan?” 

“Til bring you the collected works of 
Goethe in the morning.” 

“That’s gin.” 

“No! Such luck isn’t possible!” 

Jimmy looked at the father while he was 
recording the score. “Father, I'll strike a 
deal with you.” 

“Tt’s not the principle,’ Father Casey 
complained, wetting his thumb and dealing, 
“it’s the money.” 

Jimmy gathered up his cards. ‘“ You use 
your personal contacts with the Lord and 
get Him to intervene on our behalf.” 

“My contacts aren’t that good. You'll 
have to speak to the Holy Father. Play.” 

“And I’m willing to offer one atheistic soul 
for a miracle, father.” 

There was a pause. Then Father Casey 
said, ‘I think we’d better proceed with our 
gin game, Jimmy.” 

“But why not, father? Where in this 
universe could God find worthier subjects 
for a miracle? You do believe in miracles, 
don’t you, father?”’ Jimmy said, dropping a 
deuce. 

The father picked up the deuce and a 
broad grin traveled across his face. “ Natu- 
rally, I’m a rational man.”’ He spread his 
cards out in front of Jimmy. “Three points.” 

“Sorry, father. Two.” 

“No! I don’t believe it!” 

“Just think of the possibility, father,” 
Jimmy said while the father was examining 
the hands. “‘ Millions of men and women, all 
over America, all yearning really and truly to 
believe. And why aren’t the churches doing 
a better business on Sundays?”’ 

Father Casey gathered up the cards and Sed OS te eae 
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“But I’m dead serious. Think what one 
modern miracle could do for Christianity.” 
“Don’t mind him, father,” Bill said. “He 
sed to be a high-pressure advertising man.” 
Father Casey discarded a ten of hearts. 
*T don’t know what he’s complaining about. 
He has all the saints working for him now.” 
“But think, father,” Jimmy said, picking 

p the ten, ‘think what a miracle could do 
to restore the world’s faith... .That’s gin.” 

“Again?” Father Casey tossed in his 
eards. “I’ve had enough.” 

“You couldn’t keep the Christians out of 
church,” Jimmy continued. “And I repeat: 
ook at the material God has for a miracle— 
ight in this ward.” 

The father’s voice was gentle. “Don’t you 
think, Jimmy, it might be enough of a mir- 
acle that the four of you are still alive? Did 
you ever expect to return alive?” 

“T never did, father,’’ Bill said reminis- 
cently. 

“Did you ever read Bill’s citation, father?”’ 

Jimmy asked. ‘‘What did Lazarus do that 
warranted his being brought back from the 
dead? Did he rush a Heinie machine gun 
‘that had his platoon pinned down in the 
ihedgerows? Or take Sammy there. Name me 
one Biblical character that stuck it out in a 
burning tank to cover what was left of a bat- 
talion of infantrymen. Or that half-pint 
Confederate musician ——’’ 

Harvey lowered his harmonica. ‘There 

yas nothing to it. Every time the Krauts 
counterattacked, I remembered all the 
mwomen back home who were counting on me 
to defend their honor.”’ 

“In case I haven’t thanked you before, 
Rebel ——’”’ Lieutenant Wilson said with a 
smile. ‘That does it, Bill.” 

“Thanks, lieutenant.” 

She presented Bill with 


his pajama top. ‘You get % With a mirror of brass you 
} ean adjust your hat, but 


with antiquity for a mirror 
you can predict the rise and 


between the sheets, hand- 
some. Time for lights out.” 
“It would be so easy 


99 


And then he was in the blue convertible 
with Maggy beside him. The top was down 
and her head was resting on his shoulder. 
They had enjoyed the play, probably, be- 
Cause 1t was a musical, and the drinks and 
the sirloin after the show had rounded out 
the evening nicely. Now they were on their 
way to their home in New Claremont. 

“You know, Jimmy,” Harvey said, his 
voice drowsy with oncoming sleep, “you got 
something in that miracle idea.”’ 

_ “What would you do, Shorty,” Bill asked 
in a monotone, “if you could walk again?” 

“IT think,” Harvey said, “‘I’d spend the 
first couple of months just walking. Then I 
think I’d get a band together. I’d like to 
spend the rest of my life with my band mak- 
ing the rounds of hospitals like this.” 

“IT think,” Bill said, “I’d go back to 
school, so I could learn how to write, so I 
could write a book.” 


Sammy opened his eyes slowly. “What 
kind of book, Bill?” 

“I thought you were sleeping, Sammy.” 

“You can’t sleep when you start think- 
ing, Rebel.” 

Bill turned and the bedspring squeaked 
its protest. “I already got the title: It’s a 
Stinking Life When You Ain’t Got Eyes.” 

“Me,” Sammy said, ‘“‘me, I’d like to open 
up a gym and swimming pool for kids. Some- 
where on the East Side. I’d like to get ’em 
young. What about you, Jimmy? You just 
been sitting over in the corner. What would 
you do—if you could walk again?” 

“T think,” Jimmy said as though he were 
measuring each word, “I think I’d be satis- 
fied if I could just make love to my wife 
again.” 

He closed his eyes and 
leaned back in his wheel 
chair and how long he 
sat there he didn’t know. 
It was so easy for one 


80. fall of empires. | —conrucius, _ thought to lead to another, 
or Him, father,’’ Jimmy and why this whole busi- 
said, so softly he cold —_———— EE =o ness of God and His re- 


barely be heard. ‘“‘A few 

yords, a gentle knowing movement of His 
cosmic hands. It isn’t too much to ask—is 
it, father?” 

“It isn’t too much to ask at all, Jimmy. 
Please don’t quote me to the bishop.” 

“Aren’t you going to kiss me good night, 

a’am?”’ Harvey asked Lieutenant Wilson. 
| She placed her lips against Harvey’s fore- 
head. “That'll have to hold you, cutie. My 
husband’s a jealous man... . You're next, 
Jimmy.” 

“I’m not very sleepy, lieutenant,” Jimmy 
said. ‘““Couldn’t I stay put awhile?” 

Father Casey nodded to the lieutenant. 
“T'll drop back to bed the heathen down.” 

“Check,” she said. She touched the switch 
on the wall and the lights disappeared. 
“Good night, heroes.” 

Except for the glow of the street lamp, the 
ward was now completely dark. Father 
Casey placed his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder 
and said, “You keep right on, lad. Don’t ever 
stop asking.” 

Bill’s voice penetrated the darkness. 
“Easy, Jimmy. I think he’s trying to sneak 
you into the faith.” 

“Nothing to worry about, Bill. Nothing 
less than a miracle could do it.”’ 

“You drive a hard bargain, Jimmy,” 
Father Casey said, “but it could happen.” 

“Sure it could, father,”’ Jimmy said. “ Why 
don’t you try using your contacts?” 

“I might. I might even wander over to the 
chapel and light a candle for you four.” 

“Don’t forget to give my regards and 
sympathy to God.”’ 

Father Casey shook his head. He left the 
ward determined to pray harder than ever. 

That was at 11:06 p.M., daylight-saving 
time. 


, Wy that time, the theaters and the movie 


fouses were emptying. Sitting in his wheel 
Chair in the darkness of the ward, Jimmy 
Could see the crowds pouring out of the 
theaters and movie houses. He could hear 
the orchestras in the night clubs and could 
Smell the Scotch and sodas and the perfume 
of the women. 


i e 


lationship to people should 

have taken hold of him tonight was a phe- 
nomenon he couldn’t quite understand. 

But what he had said to the father was 

true. All men wanted to believe. No one ob- 


“jected to pain as long as there was justice, to 


agony as long as there was hope. And it was 
hope—above all, hope—that men needed. 

It would be wonderful, he thought, if the 
doors to the ward would suddenly open and 
God or Jesus or one of the angels or saints or 
disciples would make an appearance. Faith 
would become a fact, hope a reality. God 
would make another one of His alleged ap- 
pearances upon the earth, and once and for 
all time the eternal question would be an- 
swered. 

“Would it, my son?” he heard a Voice say. 

For the moment Jimmy was startled. He 
opened his eyes and thought he saw a figure, 
or what seemed to be a figure, outlined by the 
street lamp, standing in a glow of warm light 
in the blackness of the ward. Of course. It was 
only Father Casey, returned to help him into 
bed. 

Jimmy relaxed with a grateful sigh. ““How 
did you know what I was thinking about, 
Father Casey ?”’ 

“Tt is not Father Casey, my son,” he 
heard the Voice say. 

It was as though a shell had landed in the 
center of the ward and the ward was rocking 
with its explosion. Jimmy could feel the per- 
spiration erupt on his face, his body. This 
was paralyzing fear. 

Slowly the Figure he saw, or thought he 
saw, took form and shape. He seemed to be 
tall and majestic and He was clothed in white 
and when He spoke His voice was so under- 
standingly gentle, Jimmy could hear his own 
heart above it. At first Jimmy was convinced 
it was all a hallucination. Ds 

“No! I don’t believe it. I’m imagining 
you. 
~ “You expressed a desire to be healed, my 
son,” he heard the Voice say. “Are you still 
prepared to offer one atheistic soul for four 
bodies wholly healed?” 

Jimmy, barely able to utter the words, re- 
plied, “Just name the terms, any terms.” 

















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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Tt is only required that you live as a 
Christian.” 

““Those would be the only terms?” Jimmy 
asked incredulously. 

“The only terms, my son.” 

“But what must one do to live as a 
Christian?” 

“Tt is all in the Book.” 

“By the Book,” Jimmy said hesitantly, 
“You mean the New Testament?” 

Jimmy was sure he saw the Figure nod His 
head. 

“But there’s been so much disagreement. 
Each church, denomination, sect has its own 
interpretation.” 

“The tenet of the Book, the Brotherhood 
of Man, is not subject to interpretation, my 
son.” 

“Tf this isn’t a dream,” Jimmy said des- 
perately, “let us walk and see and live like 
other people again, and I promise by all I 
hold sacred in life ——” 

“Tt is no longer necessary for you to re- 
main in that chair, my son.” 

No, Jimmy thought, it couldn’t be true. It 
was all a fantasy. Then, as though hypno- 
tized, he pushed himself upward to his feet 
and found that he was able to stand. Almost 
instinctively, he made a dash ‘or the light 
switch on the wall, but he fell and crumpled 
up on the floor. He could barely breathe. 
Perhaps he had just fallen out of his wheel 
chair. He willed that his legs move under 
him and they responded. There were blood, 
muscle, feeling, locomotion in them. He 
rushed to the wall and pressed the switch 
and the ward was bright with electric light 
again. Except for Sammy, Harvey and Bill, 
there was no one else in the ward. 

Sammy stirred and tossed. “Say, who put 
on the light? ... Jimmy!” Sammy sat up. 
“What are you doing on your feet?” 

“Don’t ask questions,” Jimmy said, cover- 
ing Sammy’s mouth with his hands. “‘Keep 
your voice down. I don’t want them to get 
excited in case it’s a false alarm. Listen to 
me, Sammy—get out of bed.” 

“Are you nuts?” 

“Don’t argue,” Jimmy pleaded. “Just do 
what I say. Please. Peel off your blanket and 
head toward me.” 

“This is a nightmare.” 

“I’m not sure what it is, Sammy. Only, 
please. For my sake. See if you can walk.” 


Mecuanicaty Sammy placed one foot on 
the floor, then the other. “They work, 
Jimmy,” he cried. ““They’re as good as new.” 
Deliriously he embraced Jimmy, kissed his 
cheek and when he was able to talk again 
said, ‘‘What’s happened, Jimmy? What’s 
happened to us?” 

“T’m not sure yet. Wake up Harvey. I'll 
take care of Bill.” 

Bill was having a terrific dream. He was 
wheeling his truck through the Grand Can- 
yon and explaining the sights to a beautiful 
blond hitchhiker. He had his arm about her 
waist and she was telling him that she didn’t 
mind how stupid or ugly he was. “‘I still love 
you, William,” she said. “I want to marry 
you and look after you the rest of my life.” 

“Let me sleep this one out,” he begged as 
Jimmy shook him. “Give me a break.” 

“Bill,” Jimmy said, “Bill, wake up!” 

“Open your eyes, Rebel,’ Sammy said, pat- 
ting Harvey’s face. ““You hear me?” 

Harvey yawned and covered his mouth. 
“What gives? ... Jimmy! Sammy!” 

“Don’t ask questions, Rebel,” Jimmy said. 
“Start walking.’ Then he returned to shak- 
ing Bill. ‘Bill! Bill! Can you see me?” 

Bill, covering his eyes with his hands, cried 
out, “The lights! No! No!” 

“Yes, Bill,’ Jimmy assured him. “Yes.” 

It seemed as though the walls of Ward 2C 
would collapse under the pressure of the com- 
bined exultation. Harvey, after taking a 
few steps, picked up Jimmy’s hand and kissed 
it with fervent gratitude. Bill moved out of 
his bed as though he were a sleepwalker. He 
touched the wheel chairs, the beds, looked at 
the faces of his buddies, and each face he 
touched delicately with his large fingers. 

Finally he said, “You guys are beautiful. I 
never knew you guys was so beautiful.” 

Harvey scratched his stubbled hair. “But 
that isn’t possible.” 


“What do you mean it isn’t possible?” 
Sammy said argumentatively. “It happened.” 

“Look at them stars,” Bill said, standing 
at the window. “Look at that moon! What a 
beautiful world!” 

“Think of it,” Sammy said. “We’re regu- 
lar members of society again.” 

“You think we ought to call the doctors 
and tell them we’re okay?’’ Harvey asked. 

“What?” Sammy exploded. “And get tied 
up with regulations for a couple of months?” 

“T want to get out of this hospital and 
look at the world again,” Bill said, staring at 
a distant light moving up the river. “‘I don’t 
want to wait for anybody’s okay.” 

“It’s your party, Jimmy,” Sammy said. 
“What do you think we ought to do next?” 

“We could go to my house for the night.” 

“Just wait’ll momma hears,’ Sammy said. 
“T got to phone my old lady.” 

“You can do that from the bus station at 
Rockwood,” Jimmy said thoughtfully. ““We 
could be in New Claremont in a couple of 
hours. Maggy will be tickled to have you.” 

“Don’t you think we ought to tell the 
colonel we’re leaving?” 

“He’d never give us a pass, Rebel,” 
Sammy said. “Not until this whole business 
went through channels. What do you say, 
Jimmy?” 

“T have a wife who’s been waiting for me 
for seven long years. Let’s have the clothes.” 

Sammy rushed to the lockers and tossed 
out their clothing. “This is the only way to 
live,’ he said while they were dressing. He 
noticed Jimmy was hesitating. ‘“‘What’s 
wrong, Jimmy? Why ain’t you putting on 
your pants?” 

“T just remembered.... Have we a Bible?” 

“Here’s one that little old lady from the 
Gideon Society left last week.” 

“Swell,” Jimmy said. 

And so, at five minutes before midnight, 
they left, after each of them had made up his 
own bed and policed his part of the ward. 


Two hours later a man named Ed Smith 
stood at a window thirty-six floors above 
Rockefeller Center sipping coffee out of a 
cardboard container. He strolled over to the 
battery of Teletypes and picked up a few of 
the typed scrolls being spawned by the ma- 
chines. That was the trouble with the news- 
paper game, he thought. It was as mecha- 
nized as canning beans. 

The phone at his desk rang and Ed Smith 
sat down in his swivel chair and picked up the 
receiver. “Smith talking.” 

“A buddy of mine said you folks pay re- 
wards for hot news tips.’ 

“What’s on your mind, son?” 


December, 1949 


The voice identified itself‘as Private First 
Class Glenniwell at the Rockwood Veterans 
Hospital. “You won’t use my name?” 

Ed assured him that he wouldn’t. 

“T have to talk fast. I thought you’d be in- 
terested in knowing that tonight, a few hours 
ago, right in this hospital, four veterans dis- 
appeared.” 

“What about it?” 

“But you don’t understand. Three of these 
fellows were paralyzed from the waist down 
and one was blind. They just disappeared.” 

“‘What do you mean, disappeared?” 

“Vanished. Colonel Fairchild—he’s the 
head of the hospital—he’s half out of his 
mind. There he is coming down the corridor 
with some FBI men. I can’t talk any more. 
Don’t forget my name. Glenniwell. Good-by.” 

“Hello... hello!’”’ Ed leaned back in his 
chair. Stories about veterans weren’t so good 
as they were a few years ago, but they were 
still worth some space as fillers. He brought 
the receiver up to his ear. “Phyllis,” he said, 
visualizing the girl at the switchboard, “‘get 
me Steve McCormick.” 

“Mr. McCormick isn’t, going to like being 
wakened at this hour, Mr. Smith.”’ 

“When the next war breaks out he can go 
back to war-correspondent hours.” Ed Smith 
rather enjoyed the thought of getting Mc- 
Cormick out of bed at two o’clock in the 
morning. 


“For pity’s sake, Mac!”’ his wife moaned. 
“Will you answer that phone? Don’t pre- 
tend you’re sleeping. You have no considera- 
tion for me, the children ——” 

“That’s right,’ Mac said, reaching for the 
phone in the dark. “‘That’s me. A hundred 
and twenty-five bucks a week of everlasting 
inconsideration.”” He pushed his hair back. 
“Hello!” He listened, protested. ‘Their 
friends probably dropped in to take them for 
a ride, Smitty. .. . But you can’t do this to 
me, Smitty. I’m in bed. I’m sleeping.” But 
in the end he said, “‘Okay. I’ll stick my nose 
into the hospital,” and hung up. 

“Who was it, dear?” his wife asked. 

“Smitty.”” He pushed the button on the 
table lamp. “‘I have to drag over to Rock- 
wood.” 

“That’s too bad, dear,” she said, turning 
over in the bed. ‘‘ Be quiet when you go down 
the stairs. Don’t wake the children.” 


That was what marriage and children did 
to a man, Mac thought as he backed the 
jalopy out of the garage. What was he? A fat 
leg man for a wire service. All that remained 
was the fear of being called into an office 

(Continued on Page 103) 


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(Continued from Page 100) 
someday and told, ‘‘We’re sorry, Mac, but 
you know how it is in this game. Younger 
men pushing their way up. We can’t very 
well offer you a smaller salary... . Well, you 
know how it is, Mac.” 

The car finally grunted up the winding 
road toward the iron gate that led into the 
hospital cOurtyard. Two MP’s stopped him 
and Mac flashed his press card. 

“Let him through, Phil,” the corporal 
said. 

Mac parked his car, picked up his cane and 
walked into the Rockwood Veterans Hospital. 

The corridor next to the information desk 
was crowded with sleepless, agitated, con- 
fused doctors, nurses, patients in maroon 
bathrobes, state troopers, local police. 

A lanky, spindling soldier approached 
Mac. “I’m Pfc. Glenniwell, sir.”” He motioned 
to Mac to follow him. ‘Talk about excite- 
ment! The FBI can’t make head or tails.” 

Glenniwell thought his tip was easily 
worth fifty bucks. Mac gave him five. 

Mac found Colonel Fairchild behind a 
desk in an office well filled with flags, photo- 
graphs of commanding generals and framed 
citations. The colonel, a baldheaded medical 
officer, was nervously talking into the phone. 
When Mac introduced himself, he abruptly 
terminated his conversation. 

“How did you people learn about this?” 

Mac pulled up a chair, crossed his legs and 
yanked out a pencil and some copy paper 
from his inside pocket. In his youth he had 
discovered that a pencil and paper had the 
same effect upon the average man as a rub- 
ber hose upon a tongue-shy suspect in the 
back room of a police station. “I was under 
the impression, colonel, that the Army was 
aware of the omnipotence of the press.” 

The colonel mopped his forehead with his 
handkerchief. ‘“‘I have nothing to conceal, 
McCormick. As soon as the disappearance of 
the four men was reported to me by Father 
Casey ——” 

“Father Casey?” 

“He’s one of our chaplains here. He was 
the last known person to have been in the 
ward.”’ The colonel continued mopping his 
neck while filling Mac in on the details. 

Mac made notes. The colonel was most co- 
operative. Mac sympathized with him. “Let's 
see if I have this right, colonel,” he said: 
“Sometime about eleven last night, Lieu- 
tenant Wilson, an Army nurse, turned off 
the lights in Ward Two-C. According to her, 
three of the men were in their beds. The 
fourth, Jimmy Richardson—that’s the son- 
in-law of Congressman Watkins of New 
York; I know the congressman—remained 
sitting in his wheel chair. About a minute 
later, Father Casey followed her out of the 
ward. When he returned approximately an 
hour later, the ward was empty. The ward 
was thoroughly policed and the four beds 


- were made up, but no additional clues have 


been discovered.” 

The colonel wiped the inside of his collar. 
“That’s substantially correct, sir.” 

“What’s your explanation, colonel?” 

The colonel stood up and paced the floor 
of his office. ‘“‘I’d give ten years of my life to 
have one.” 

“May I have a look at that ward?” 

“This will make us look very bad,” the 
colonel said as he escorted Mac up the stairs. 
“Four disabled war heroes missing. If I could 
find the slightest evidence of any dereliction 
of duty ——” 5 

“T’ll make mention of that,” Mac said. 
“No dereliction of duty, according to Col. 
John Fairchild.” 


Tue colonel introduced the two FBI 
agents to Mac as Mr. Kairns and Mr. Leach. 
“Have you made any progress, gentlemen ? < 
“The bureau doesn’t deal in opinions, 
Kairns said. ‘‘Only facts. We know they're 
gone. They couldn’t have walked out. Obvi- 
ously they must have been carried out.” 
“Would you say,” Mac asked, ‘that the 
evidence points to kidnaping?”’ 
“That isn’t possible,” the colonel insisted. 
Mac went to the clothing lockers. Not a 
bad story. ‘‘This Father Casey, colonel. Ex- 
actly where was he between eleven and 
twelve last night?” 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Kairns referred to his notes. ‘‘In the chapel 
in the north wing of the hospital.” 

“Could I interview him?” 

The colonel looked at Kairns. “‘Have you 
any objection?” 

Kairns filled his leather brief case with his 
notes. ““I have no objection, colonel.” 

The colonel volunteered to escort Mac to 
Father Casey’s quarters. 

When they entered Father Casey’s room, 
they found the father sitting in a brown 
leather chair. He stood up respectfully. The 
colonel explained that McCormick was a 
newspaperman. 

“IT would personally appreciate, father,” 
the colonel said, ‘“‘any additional informa- 
tion you could give him.” 


x KW Wie Re oe 


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of Chen. 


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By Bernard D.N. Grebanier 


On Jesus’ day when in the night 
The silent great snows fall, 
Then fare you forth with lantern’s 
light 
To them that own no stall. 


Take marchpane sweet and anised 
cake 
To children lone who peer 
Through festive windows while you 
take 
Your fill of Christmas cheer. 


And take the lost and whimpering 
dog 
A succulent meat bone; 
Take brittle twigs and seasoned log 
To the shivering old crone. 


Take sun-dried hay to the quaking 
steed, 
A cloak to the naked man; 
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Gold oats for the ass’s pan. 


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To the cat ’neath chilly rafter; 
And take stale bread where field 
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Nor do them harm thereafter. 


To him who’s known but sorrow’s 
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Take spray of berries red; 
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Who thought that song was dead. 


x * * x*«wkKwekK YK 


“T’m sorry, colonel, but I have no addi- 
tional information.” 

““What’s your theory, father?” Mac asked. 

The father fixed his eyes on the stars out- 
side his window. “I think,” he said slowly, 
“that America has long needed something 
like this to happen.” 

Twenty minutes later, the Teletypes of 
2894 subscribers tapped out: 


Rockwood, New York. Four disabled veter- 
ans, distinguished heroes of World War II, have 
disappeared from the Rockwood. Veterans Hos- 
pital. The four men, three partially paralyzed 
and one totally blind, disappeared from their 
ward last night under circumstances that have 
the authorities completely baffled. A theory 
that the four missing heroes might have been 
kidnaped is being investigated by agents of 
the FBI. 

Col. John Fairchild, commanding officer of the 
hospital, in an exclusive statement to Stephen 
McCormick, of UNS, declared: “Tf those four 
young men are not returned to this hospital 
within twenty-four hours, I can promise the 
greatest man hunt in the history of our nation.’ 

Add Rockwood: Father Francis Casey, a 
chaplain at the hospital, after publicly stating, 


“America has long needed something like this 
to happen,” refused to elaborate upon his state- 
ment. 


He is being questioned, pending further in- 
vestigation. 


At a quarter to three that morning, the 
maple-lined streets of New Claremont were 
almost completely deserted. The four of 
them walked in silence, quietly, inhaling the 
sweetness of the night as though they were 
strangers from another world. 

When they reached Jimmy’s two-story 
remodeled white Colonial cottage, he led 
them around the back way into the garden. 
As they stood there, staring at the house, 
Jimmy said, ‘‘This is it, fellows.” 

Sammy said, ‘““Why don’t you go in, 
Jimmy? We'll wait out here.” 

“T guess I’m a little nervous, Sammy.” 

“But you got to expect your wife—I mean 
people—to be a little surprised at first,” 
Sammy said. “After all, how many miracles 
have there been lately?” 

“Why isit, Jimmy?” Harvey asked. “‘Out- 
side I know we looked like everybody else, but 
in my head I can’t stop thinking . . . what if 
all of a sudden we’ll wake up ——’”’ 

“God wouldn’t play a dirty trick like 
that,” Bill said. ““Would He, Jimmy?” 

“No, Bill,” Jimmy assured him, taking a 
key out of his pocket and placing it in the 
lock. ‘‘He’s not that kind of God. Not ac- 
cording to what I read on the bus.” He 
turned the key. ‘It still works,” he said, 
and walked into his house for the first time 
in seven years. 


He switched on the lights in the living 
room and it was all there. The water colors 
Maggy had painted the summer they spent 
on the Cape, the bar he had built in the 
closet, the record player which was his par- 
ticular baby. And there they were together, 
he and Maggy, on the mantelpiece with skis 
on their shoulders and snow-covered Mount 
Hancock in the background. Nearby was the 
cup he had won in the New Claremont 
Open. Next to that was his Congressional 
Medal of Honor mounted above his citation. 

He looked at the door that led into the 
bedroom, into their bedroom, took a deep 
breath, placed his hand on the doorknob. 

He decided he would wake her up by kiss- 
ing her. The only difficulty was that when 
he entered the bedroom, he didn’t find her in 
their bed. 


The garden was without sound, and 
Sammy, Harvey and Bill sprawled out on the 
lawn. Contemplating the millions of stars 
above them, they felt completely relaxed. 

Sammy raised himself slightly on his el- 
bows. “‘ Momma would sure like a layout like 
this. The closest she ever got to the country 
was a bungalow once in Coney Island.” 

“Why didn’t you phone her from the bus 
station?”’ Harvey asked. 

“TI figured I’d let it go until morning, 
Rebel. I figured if I told her in the middle of 
the night, I’d take ten years off her life. 
Momma ain’t got that many years left.” 

The moon disappeared behind the cloud 
for a brief moment and then burst full upon 
the garden again. 

“Shorty,” Bill said, chewing on a blade 
of grass. 

“Yeah, Bill.” 

“Remember the girl I was sitting next to 
on the bus?” 

“T thought that little redhead with the 
hatbox on her lap would slap your face for 
the way you stared at her.” 

“That’s the one I’m talking about,” Bill 
said. He couldn’t get his mind off her. 

The bus was going over the Bear Moun- 
tain Bridge when he first began talking to 
her. All of a sudden she looked at his Purple 
Heart and smiled and said she had a brother 
who was wounded in the Aleutians. That was 
how she knew what a Purple Heart was. 

“My name’s Patricia Van Horn,” she said. 
“What’s yours?” 

He told her. 

“T’m a dance instructress at the Jan 
Arthur School of Dancing. Do you expect to 
get out of the Army soon?” 

“T hope to be getting out.” 

(Continued on Page 106) 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL December, 1949 


“FRIENDSHIP 
TREE" 


It’s one of many sparkling new 
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place. Watch your friends beam when they see their | 
cards displayed this clever way! 


a x bs 


BRIGHTEN DOORWAYS, ARCHES with chains of cards 
taped together on backs as shown. 
Tape end of chain to molding or 
woodwork, never to wallpaper or 
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Pee 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





i dreamed 


I went skating 


m figure 
aid nfor 
h Wonderful! Be e bra could do 

| uc 

el m i e 
A figure | never knew how my form, gives 2 
spectacular ‘denform. Improve could skate $° 
; 

“il I tried 7 wondertul if only ao g bra wil 

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lift | eae = dream, at least, !S 

“i / 
reamily' = form. ite satin 
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Jenform $ lif 

a: Maic upll less, 
Sho designed for young ilection! For strap 
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te hint © es, It § cut 

This is only 2 ie eet or fuller figu fue deep-dow" 4 
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lines, Y° 


(Continued from Page 103) 

“Are you interested in dancing?” 

“T don’t do it too well.” 

“Oh, that’s nothing to worry about. 
You're entitled under the G. I. Bill of Rights 
to pursue any course of study you like that'll 
prepare you for a career.” 

“T never gave it much thought.” 

“Besides,” she continued, ‘outside of pre- 
paring yourself for a profitable career, learn- 
ing how to dance can be an awful lot of fun.” 

Bill still had her business card, as she 
called it. He wanted to ask her what she was 
doing later, but he couldn’t leave the guys. 
He asked her if it would be all right if he 
called her tomorrow, for a free-trial dancing 
lesson, 

“T wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t 
want you to take me seriously, silly.” 


Now he couldn’t forget her smile. He 
wished it would be tomorrow right away. 

“Rebel,” he said, ‘“I made a date with 
here 

Harvey screwed up his forehead. ‘‘ You 
did?” 

“You think Jimmy will be sore? I ain’t 
sure whether there’s anything in the Bible 
about talking to girls. If he doesn’t even want 
you to say Jeez fe 

Sammy quickly covered Bill’s mouth with 
his hands. ‘‘Don’t say it, Bill. Whatever 
you're thinking, don’t say it. We’re all doing 
fine so far.” 





Jimmy stood at the opened French doors. 
“It’s all right to come in, fellows.” 

He watched them stand up and file past 
him into the living room. They walked 
slowly, as though they were in a museum. 

“Gosh,” Harvey said, “it’s quite a room.” 

“T know,” Jimmy said. “Maggy did the 
decorating.” 

“How did she take it?’”” Sammy asked. 

“She’s not home. She must have gone out 
with friends. What about a drink?” 

Bill was never one to say no. “‘Is it O. K., 
Jimmy? Is it according to the Book if we 
take a drink?” 

“Drinking the fruits of the Lord’s vine- 
yards is right down the alley,’ Sammy said 
with authority. “Right, Jimmy?” 

“Right, Sammy,” Jimmy said with a 
smile, on the way to the bar. He felt let down 
that Maggy wasn’t home to welcome him, 
but after all, she had no way of knowing. 

They lifted their highballs, bit into their 
potato chips and drank their Scotch and 
sodas. When they had finished, Jimmy led 
them upstairs and showed them where they 
would spend the night, or as many nights as 
they liked. 

While this was taking place, Stan Morton, 
a disk jockey, suddenly interrupted a record- 
ing of Perry Como to bring a special news 
bulletin concerning the disappearance of four 
disabled war heroes from a veterans’ hos- 
pital at Rockwood, New York. 

It was now 3 o’clock A.M., Daylight Saving 
Time. 


Probably the first person in New Clare- 
mont to hear the news over the radio was 
Maggy’s mother. Lucille Watkins was a vic- 
tim of insomnia. She tried to solve the prob- 
lem of her insomnia with the assistance of a 
portable radio and a pair of headphones. 
Whenever she couldn’t sleep she did her best 
to relax in bed with such programs as the 
Milkman’s Parade and Stan Morton’s Music 
Until Dawn. 

Lucille made it a practice to have only 
lovely, relaxed thoughts when the soloists 
and young crooners sang their romantic love 
songs. Sometimes she imagined they were 
singing solely for her benefit. Now she was 
just about to warn Perry Como, who was 
crushing her in his arms, that under no cir- 
cumstances would she consider being un- 
faithful to her husband, when Stan Morton 
broke in with the news bulletin. 

When Stan identified one of the four young 
men as Jimmy Richardson, of New Clare- 
mont, Lucille woke the congressman. She 
recited what she had heard over the radio. 

The congressman ran his hand through 
his shock of gray hair. He was a large, 
physically impressive man. He was well 






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aware that he looked more like a senator 
than a representative. Everybody knew how 
much he wanted to be a senator. And he 
fully realized the extent of his wife’s disap- 
pointment in him. He knew that in large 
measure he was responsible for her insomnia. 

“Aren't you going to do anything, Joseph?” 

e asked. “ They’re repeating the bulletin.” 


Peshe placed the earphones over his ears. 


The congressman was convinced. “In a 
crisis like this, my dear,” he said, slipping his 
feet into his slippers, “‘it’s essential that one 


| maintain one’s presence of mind. We have to 
| do what’s best for Maggy.”’ 


Lucille waddled across the room in her 
nightgown. She reached for the phone, but 
the congressman was opposed to calling 
Maggy at that hour. 

“Tf Maggy’s sleeping, you’ll only succeed 
in shocking her if she doesn’t already know,” 
he argued, “and there’s no saying what 
she’ll do by the time we get to her house.” 

“T suppose you're right,’’ Lucille said. 


The night wind rushed past her cheeks 


b and hair, and Maggy, resting her head 


against the red leather covering of the con- 


vertible, listened to Dan and Helene. Her 
friends were at it again. 
“All right, all right,’ Dan shouted. ‘So 


| you were a Powers model once. You had a 


line in a Broadway play that ran two nights. 
You don’t care about real estate. Who asked 
you to marry me?” 

“You did, dear,’ Helene answered. “At 
the time it seemed better than living in a 
brownstone. Now, I spend most of my time 
wondering what made me think that.” 

““Marry a poor girl,’ 


talking for a while? Really, 
you bore me.” 

“Aw, shut up! You give 
me a pain.” 

And so it went. For how 
long, how many hours, 
days, years? Maggy won- 
dered. And the moral of the story was that 
no woman, no matter how desperate she 
was for love, companionship, security, had 


any business marrying an older man like Dan: 
with a ruddy face, a robust physique, a pro-' 
| truding stomach, no matter how much real 


estate, stocks, bonds, property he owned. 

“What’s wrong with your marriage,” 
Maggy said, “is what’s wrong with every- 
thing today. We're living in the great age of 
cynicism, the great age of double talk. 
Everybody loves the little people. But off the 
record they’re considered naive little morons 
who'll buy anything. We all play the game 
and the Jimmys are still in the hospitals 
and the world’s almost exactly as they left 
it—only more so.” 

She felt like crying, but there were no more 
tears in her. Not after the session that day 
with Jimmy in the hospital. She had done so 
much crying. Then Dan and Helene had 
barged in on her and insisted she go out with 
them. She had resisted for a while, but 
finally succumbed, and now the evening was 
over, as unsatisfactory as all the evenings 
that had preceded it for seven years. 


Waren they reached her house on Belle 
Meade Drive, Dan parked and she led them 
through the front door into the living room. 

Helene grabbed her arm. ‘Make some 
coffee, Junior,” she said to her husband. 

He disappeared into the kitchen. 

“Make it black, and quick,” Helene called 
as Maggy moved about the room. “Where 
do you stock your bicarbonate?” 

“There’s some in the bathroom.” 

For a moment after Helene had gone, 
Maggy didn’t quite know what to do with 

erself. She went to the French doors and 

as standing there, looking out into the 
‘moonlit garden, thinking what might have 
been if only there had been no war... when 
Jimmy came down the stairs. 

She didn’t see him and he hesitated. Then 
the walked across the room until he was 
‘directly behind her and said as softly as he 
"possibly could, “Hello, baby.” 





them seems to us peculiarly 
ridiculous—contempt for the 
age one lives in. —HENRY JAMES: 

Quoted in American Portraits, by 
Gamaliel Bradford (Houghton, Mifflin Co.). 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Without turning she said, “Jimmy,” and 
then she swung around and, seeing him 
standing, cried, “Jimmy! Jimmy!” and they 
embraced and kissed each other frantically. 
Finally, holding him close as though she 
were afraid to release him even for a mo- 
ment, “It 7s you, isn’t it, Jimmy? I’m not 
drunk? I haven’t lost my mind? I’m not see- 
ing a ghost, am I, darling?’ 

“No, Maggy,” he assured her, placing his 
cheek against hers. ‘‘You’re not seeing a 
ghost. I’m here. I’ve come home.” 

Before she could ask more questions, Dan 
came in from the kitchen and Helene en- 
tered from the bedroom. They were both in- 
stantly paralyzed. 

““He’s come home, Helene,” Maggy 
sobbed. “‘He can walk. He’s all right. He’s 
come home.” 

“Maggy, please,’ Jimmy said. “Hello, 
Helene. Dan. . . . Maggy, baby, please.” 

“Let me have my hysterics, darling. I 
don’t know what’s happened. But I’m 
happy,” she said, bringing his mouth down 
to hers and kissing him again. 


Anp while they were kissing, the congress- 
man walked in with Lucille; Sammy, Har- 
vey and Bill, dressed in Jimmy’s striped pa- 
jamas, came down the stairs to ask Jimmy 
how he thought they looked as civilians; 
and Stephen McCormick parked a tired 
jalopy outside the cottage. 

Mac wasn’t sure what had prompted him 
to drive to New Claremont at that hour. It 
could have been that he was following a 
newspaperman’s instinct. 

When he was finally allowed into the house 
by Congressman Watkins, 


. my first wife always said. Mac saw a young man in 
“A poor girl will appreciate the uniform of a sergeant, 
you. She'll be grateful.’”’ ° Most forms of contempt his arm about the waist 

“Why don’t you stop are unwise: but one of of a young woman, sur- 


rounded by three other 
young men in pajamas. 
He saw Jimmy pick up 
a phone, heard him say, 
“Long distance? Would 
you please get me the 
Rockwood Veterans Hos- 
pital? I’d like to speak to Father Francis 
Casey. . . . Person to person.” 


A mild breeze drifted through the window 
and stirred the flags back of the colonel’s 
desk, but the beads of perspiration still 
formed on his forehead and neck. 

“Yes, general,” he said into the phone. 
““T know. I’m fully aware of the repercussions 
if they’re not found.” He tried to put some 
indignation into his tone. “You can’t say 
that, general. There’s not a single iota of 
evidence that there’s been any dereliction of 
duty. . . . Well, I haven’t had any sleep, 
either.” Indignation was replaced by weary 
resignation. “Yes, general. Yes, sir. I know 
what this can do... I'll keep you posted 
if there are any new developments.” 

The colonel replaced the phone on its 
cradle. He pounded the key of the interoffice 
phone on his desk. “Sergeant,” he shouted, 
“T gave you an order twenty minutes ago to 
locate Father Casey and send him to my 
office.” 

When Father Casey, holding his beads in 
his right hand, entered the office a few min- 
utes later, the colonel said: 

“Where have you been, Casey?” 

“Tn the chapel, colonel. Praying.” 

The colonel gripped the sides of his desk 
with both hands. “Father C asey,” he said, 
“they're not interested in faith in Washing- 
ton. Faith doesn’t win votes. If these were 
ordinary veterans, nobody would care. But 
among them they hold two Congressional 
Medals of Honor, three Distinguished Serv- 
ice Crosses, four Silver Stars, and Richard- 
son’s father-in-law is a congressman.” 

““May I return to the chapel, colonel?”’ 

“Father Casey, for the last time! What 
did you mean when you said, ‘America’s 
long needed something like this to happen’? 

“T’m afraid I was indulging in a form of 
wishful thinking,” the father replied. 

“Father Casey,” the colonel said, “I’ve 
always considered myself a patient man. 
But either you'll tell me what you know 

(Continued on Page 109) 








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108 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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December, 1949 





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— = 


(Continued from Page 107) 
or ——” The telephone rang. He grabbed 
the phone angrily. “Stay right where you 
are, Casey. . . . Hello, Colonel Fairchild 
speaking.” 

“This is the long-distance operator. I have 
a long-distance call for Father Francis Casey 
from Mr. Jimmy Richardson at New Clare- 
mont, New York. Person to person.” 

“Tl take it!” 

“Tam sorry, sir. It’s person to person.” 

“T’m the superintendent of this hospital.” 

“I'm sorry, sir,” the operator said. 

The colonel extended the phone to Father 
Casey. He could barely restrain his anxiety. 
“Tt’s for you, Casey. Richardson.” 

“What? Glory be!” The father took the 
receiver and placed it against his ear. 
“Hello. . . . Yes, this is Father Francis 
Casey. . . . I’ll wait, operator. . . . Hello. 
Hello, Jimmy!” 

The colonel leaned forward. ‘“‘Are you sure 
that’s young Richardson? Get his serial num- 
ber. Ask him where he is. Find out if the 
others are with him.” 

Father Casey was aware only of Jimmy’s 
voice. ‘Go on, lad. And then? .. . You mean 

you actually saw? You heard?” 
| “Saw what? Heard whom?” the colonel 
| asked. 

“T was hoping, praying, Jimmy. In fact, it 
was my first thought. But actually to have 
| something like that ee 
“Something like what?” the colonel de- 
/ manded. 

“Of course I'll get it straightened out with 
the colonel, Jimmy. I’ll be in New Clare- 
mont just as soon as I’ve seen the bishop. 
Naturally I’ll have to make a full report to 
him. Howare the other kids 
feeling? And Maggy?... 
| Wonderful. Remember me 
to them. Good-by.” He 6 

hung up slowly. Not one 
| blessed miracle—but four! 

The colonel clenched 
his fists on his desk. 
“Father Casey,” he said. 
“For absolutely the last time, how did 
those four men get out of that ward?” 

“They walked out, colonel.” 

“What? That would’ve taken a miracle!” 

Father Casey pressed his hands together 





and closed his eyes. ‘“That’s exactly what it’ 


took, colonel. Four of them.” 


“T’m not drunk, Smitty,’’ Mac whispered 
into the phone. “I’m upstairs in Richardson’s 
study. I’ve got the door locked. I tell you a 
miracle has hit America. . .. Smitty, you kill 
this and you'll be pulling a boner that'll 
make you immortal. Don’t argue. Just get it 
on the wires. On my responsibility. . . . How 
do I know what the significance is, Smitty? 
Get Kaltenborn to interpret it for you. Mean- 
while get a few statements from some cardi- 
nals and ministers. . ... That’s right. The 
church’s attitude.” 

A half hour later the first newspapers with 
the story hit Times Square. 

“Extra! Extra! Read all about it!” a 
newsboy in his fifties shouted. ‘Miracle 
Strikes America! Missing Heroes Found 
Healed! Congressional Medal of Honor 
Winner Claims Three-Minute Conversation 
with God! Extra! Read all about it!” 

Those who were still up at five o’clock that 
morning did. And reacted accordingly. 


‘THe sun edged over the horizon and the 
sky above Westchester County reluctantly 
emptied itself of its stars and galaxies. Towns 
and cities along the Eastern Seaboard were be- 
ginning to stir when Bill, buttoning his khaki 
shirt, came down the stairs and tiptoed his 
way out into the garden. The garden was 
covered with a hazy half-light and the silence 
was complete. 

Bill sat down on the lawn and watched the 
dawn take shape. 

Then Sammy appeared at the door to the 
garden wearing Jimmy’s striped pajamas and 
barefooted. Leaning against the door, he said, 


A woman is the only thing 
I am afraid of that I know 
won’t hurt me. 

—ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“T know. It’s beautiful.” He looked up at 
the sky, “Gee, itis, ain’t it?’ Sammy stepped 
out into the garden as though he, too, were in 
a trance. 

Harvey finished tying his shoelaces. He 
was nervous and worried. He had that funny 
feeling in his stomach. The one he always got 
when he used to stand outside an agent’s of- 
fice waiting to ask for a job. He stood up, 
went down the stairs into the garden. 


ce 

‘Ths would be a fine time,” he said, “to 
catch pneumonia and drop dead.” 

Sammy gestured with his hand. “Our of- 
ficial worrier from the plantation’s just ar- 
rived.” 

Harvey walked through the mist. “It’s 
sure quiet out here, isn’t it? That’s how it 
used to be sometimes just before a jump-off.”’ 

“He’s making us feel good, again.” 

“What do you think’s going to happen, 
Rebel?’ Bill asked. 

“T don’t know. I wish I did. But you saw 
how the congressman and his wife looked at 
us, like we weren’t really real.” 

“Leave it to a musician to imagine,” 
Sammy said. 

“And Jimmy’s friends, that Mr. and Mrs. 
Arnold. And that newspaper reporter.”’ 

“Why don’t you relax, Rebel, and enjoy 
the dawn?”’ Sammy sighed. “You know, 
gentlemen, I never thought after Lorraine 
I could ever enjoy fresh air again.” 


How delightfully pleasant, Jimmy thought. 
Slowly he opened his eyes and stared at the 
silk canopy above their double bed. He 
reached out for Maggy, but she was gone. 

Suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps 
all that had transpired 
was a dream, a fantasy, 
and that he was back in 
the hospital. 

Slowly, cautiously, he 
ran his hands along his 
hips, his thighs. He dug 
his nails deep into the flesh 
of both legs, and the pain 
was magnificent. His legs were alive. He 
turned his face and inhaled the perfume of 
Maggy’s pillow and he hurriedly jumped out 
of bed. 

He put on his bathrobe and slippers. 
Hearing the shower, he went to the bath- 
room door, saw Maggy in the glass-enclosed 
shower. She was wearing a white bathing 
cap. She shouted above the splattering water, 
“Good morning, darling. I’ll be right out.” 

He watched her in all her lovely nakedness 
for a few seconds, threw her a kiss, returned 
to their bedroom. His gray tweed suit was 
laid out over a chair meticulously, a monu- 
ment to Maggy’s loving care, complete with 
rayon shorts, plaid socks, brown Scotch- 
grain shoes and a white monogrammed shirt. 
Over another chair, right beside his, were 
Maggy’s things. 

One by one he picked them up, mostly for 
the sake of simply touching them. Then he 
proceeded to her dressing table, handled 
perfumes, powders, her hairbrushes and 
combs. 

Maggy came out of the bathroom, wrapped 
in a large white bath towel. “Did I wake you 
up, darling?” she asked, shaking out her hair. 
“T tried to be as quiet as I could. I was plan- 
ning on surprising you and your friends. Not 
just an ordinary breakfast, but —— What 
are you doing, dearest?” 

“Wondering how any man would ever 
want to wake up in a room that didn’t have 
a woman in it. May I?” he asked, picking up 
a large powder puff and box of dusting pow- 
der from the dressing table. 

“Would you, darling?” she said, turning 
and lowering the towel over her shoulders. 

He powdered her shoulders and back as 
had once been their established custom. 
Each time he applied the powder he first 
applied a kiss. Z 

She said, ‘‘Was your home-coming every- 
thing you hoped it would be, dearest?” 

He swung her about and, pressing her 



















109 





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tightly against himself, said, “How can I 
ever thank Him, baby? How?” 
“We said we’d go to church regularly, 


darling.” 






“The birds aren’t even up yet, Kurowski. 

What do you think you’re doing?” 
“Sleep’s a waste of time, Sammy. Any- 

thing you do with your eyes shut is a waste of 


time. Did you ever see a dawn like that?” (Continued on Page 111) 





December, 1949 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 






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(Continued from Page 109) 

“There must be something more I can do, 
Maggy.” He placed his cheek against hers. 
“Baby,” he whispered, “I’ve got to do some- 
thing for God.” 

Before she could answer him, their bed- 
room was flooded with the pentrating sounds 
of police sirens. 

“What’s that, darling?” she said, and 
rushed to the window, drew the curtains 
apart. “Look, Jimmy, look! People. Hun- 
dreds of them. And state troopers.” 

The doorbell rang. 

Out in the garden, Harvey jumped to his 
feet. “The MP’s.”’ 

The doorbell rang again. 

“Jimmy,” Maggy said, “they can’t take 
you back, can they? I couldn’t stand to lose 
you again.” 

“There’s nothing to worry about, baby.” 
He kissed her and went into the living room. 

Maggy gathered up her clothes and dashed 
into the bathroom. Sammy, Harvey and 
Bill, seeing Jimmy at the front door, came in 
slowly from the garden. 

“We couldn’t sleep,” Harvey explained. 


| “Then we heard ——” 


The doorbell rang for the third time. 
“What do you think, Jimmy?” Bill asked 


| worriedly. “Are we A.W.O.L.?” 


Jimmy rubbed the back of his neck. ““We 


might as well find out.” 


Sgt. Vito Bonzi, of the New York State 


| Police, stood outside the door and glanced at 


/ mobs—he had _ handled 
them all. But there was 


his wrist watch. It was ten minutes past six. 
He pushed his stubby finger against the bell 
for the fourth time. 
Nothing surprised Ser- 
geant Bonzi. Presiden- 
tial candidates, round- 
the-world fliers, rioting 


» 


tion. 


something special about 
the-crowd around this 
house, and he didn’t want 


_ trouble. Not with the governor himself put- 


other pals, 





ting in a call to headquarters. Besides, one 
of these guys used to be a buddy of his. 

When Jimmy opened the door, Sammy 
saw him and shouted, “Bonzi!”’ 


Bonzi exclaimed, ““Sammy!” The two. 
men punched each other’s arms with violent 


affection. 

“Jimmy,” Sammy said, “I'd like you to 
meet one of the best tankers in the Fourth 
Armored. . . . And these are a couple of my 
Bonzi—Bill Kurowski, Har- 
vey pF FSP 

Bonzi explained he was checking in at 
headquarters when the bulletin came over the 
Teletype. “‘Then the governor called. I told 
the captain Private First Class Sammy Gold 
was a personal friend of mine, and if he 
didn’t give me the detail ——’”’ 

“What detail, sergeant?” Jimmy asked. 

“We got orders to throw a cordon around 
this house until the national guard arrives.” 

“The national guard?” 

“The governor got a call from Washington. 
Washington don’t want this house carried 
away by the souvenir hunters. They’re start- 
ing to arrive.” 

“Are all those people out there just to look 


at us?” Bill asked incredulously. 


“That’s only the advance guard. By to- 
Morrow, the New York, New Haven and 
Hartford will be running excursions. I heard 
H. V. Kaltenborn on the radio. He predicted 
what happened to you guys, if true, would 
have more effect on the future of the human 
race than the A-bomb.” 

“You mean,” Sammy said, ‘“‘we’re that 
famous, commentators are talking about us?” 

“Mamma mia, would I like to be in the 
Spot you guys are in.” 

“What would you do, sergeant?” 


ASH in while the cashing’s good. By to- 
fight they'll be tossing all kinds of offers at 
you.” He stopped at the front door. “ What 
do you want me to do about the reporters?” 
“What reporters?” Jimmy asked. 
“There'll be reporters,”’ Bonzi said matter- 
of-factly. ‘Reporters, newsreel cameras, mi- 
crophones, television trucks.” He opened the 
door. “There they are.” 


At the last moment there 
is always a reason not exist- 
ing before: namely, the im- 
possibility of further vacilla- 


LADIESZOME JOURNAL 


That was when the congressman and } 
Cormick appeared in the doorway, firmly 
the grasp of the state trooper Sergeant Bo” 
had left on guard outside. 

“Take your hands off me, young man,” f- 
congressman demanded. “I’m Congrek 
many ts 

“I don’t care if you’re the Vice-Presiden 
the state trooper replied. “I’ve got my 


ders. Nobody goes into that house.” OE 
It’s all right, officer,” Jimmy said at 
door. ‘‘He’s my father-in-law.” 3s 


The congressman straightened his ruffe- 
coat and the stack of newspapers under 
arm. ‘“Thank you, Jimmy. Shall we go 1 
side, McCormick?” They walked into t@ 
living room just as Maggy entered. 0 

“I was only carrying out orders,” the stdS 
trooper said. 0 

“You don’t carry out orders on congreet 
men!” Bonzi barked. i 
The congressman waited until the door hi! 
shut behind the two state troopers. Then 1 
said, ‘“Er—good morning, gentlemen.” 
looked at the four of them, added, “‘I”S 
been trying to phone you since ——” T& 
broke off when he noticed the phone was @ 
its cradle. ‘‘No wonder the line was busyt 

“I removed it before we turned in 
Maggy said. “Well, what is it, Jimmy?” - 

“You haven’t seen the morning papers2 
the congressman asked. Without waiting fe 
answers, he handed newspapers to Jimn™ 
and Maggy, to Sammy, Harvey and Bill. § 

“Mind if I help myself to breakfast? 
Mac asked, going across the room to the bz 

And while the st 
climbed higher they re: 
the headlines and t 
story by Stephen 
McCormick. 

Then Harvey sa 
“Holy mackerel! Lis} 
to this editorial on 
front page, Jimmy! . 
*‘Historically,’’’ Hary 
read aloud, “‘‘it is too early to come to de 
itive conclusions as to the significance 
the miracle that occurred last night at 
Rockwood Veterans Hospital. . . . An im 
diate resolution from the Congress of 
United States expressing this nation’s g1 
tude to the Almighty does not seem ou’ 
order.’”’ 

The congressman cleared his throat. 
already spoken to Congressman Hall, Jin?™ 
I’m leaving for Washington within the ho 

Mac refilled his glass. ‘“The congresst 2S 
is thinking of putting you boys on rails ¥“ 
touring you—like the Freedom Train.” !S© 

“Er—Jimmy,” the congressman said. 
should like to clarify my position.” the 

Mac poured himself another drink. “L_. 
both clarify our positions, congressman. 24 
He’s asked me to go to work for him asy _ 
public-relations counsel, Jimmy.” 

“But that’s ridiculous,’’ Maggy protes the 
“Jimmy doesn’t need a press agent.” 

“T’ve had more experience in these r the 
ters, Maggy,”’ the congressman said. ic a 
lieve me, never in our history have pe@° 
been in such need of renewing their fai CU 

Jimmy walked to the window. The cro h 
seemed to be coming from all over. ““Tt the 
just about what I said last night.” ae 

The congressman was delighted. He’ 
lowed Jimmy to the window. “‘There’s n, oe 
ing sacrilegious about public-relations r’ e 
son. Every institution employs them fe 
days.” He hesitated. ““You do have a Bible 
of view you'll like to present to the Amer ae 
people, haven’t you?” — oi 

Jimmy turned slowly until his eyes Cal er. 
Maggy’s. ‘Yes. I most certainly do haan d 
point of view.” : 

The congressman looked relieved. 
did. I promised the newspaper boys Cure 
that I’d arrange an interview.” one 

“J think that would be in order,” Jity, 
said. ‘In fact, the more publicity for 
we can line up ——” He snapped his fin, 4 
“Can you give me about ten minutes?” 
Maggy went to the window. The olin 
dreds had become thousands. Young* 8 
were climbing the trees so they could Bed 
better view of the cottage. She saw repor ,"* 

(Continued on Page 113) 


— GEORGE ELIOT. 


«cing 


“S) But 
pro- 


day, 


om . 


you can’t blame it on the Lord. He showed 
us, all of us, a way to keep ourselves. It’s all 
in His Book. It’s terrific stuff. ... Just listen.” 
He opened his Bible to the Sermon on the 
Mount. 

Ben Semour, the radio announcer, con- 
fided into his microphone, ‘Something 
strange is happening here. Ladies and gentle- 
men, I wish I could describe the scene to 
you—the expression on the faces of the men 
and women and children gathered here.” 

“““Blessed are the poor in spirit,’”’ Jimmy 
read: ““‘for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 
Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall 
be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they 
shall inherit the earth.’” 

“Women are dropping to their knees,” 
Ben Semour whispered. “‘Men are clasping 
their hands in prayer. You’ve never seen so 
many faces with faith and hope and exalta- 
tion on them.” 

“<", . Blessed are the merciful,’” Jimmy 
read: ‘“‘‘for they shall obtain | mercy. 
Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall 
see God. Blessed are the peacemakers: for 
they shall be called the children of God.’” 


Anp while Jimmy was reading, a stocky 
little man with thick glasses sat behind a 
desk in a run-down office building off Times 
Square, and said to his young secretary, 
“Read that telegram back, Miss Simon.” 

““Mr. Harvey so forth and so on. Read 
interview of your intentions to start own 
orchestra. Can secure you record-breaking 
terms Radio City Music Hall beginning im- 
mediately. Ten thousand per week, two- 
week engagement. Signature authorizing me 
to act as your exclusive agent essential. 
Music Hall only beginning.’” 

“Sign it,” the stocky little man said, ‘‘and 
get me the Music Hall on the phone.” 

Jimmy read, ““‘Lay not up for yourselves 
treasures upon earth, where moth and rust 
doth corrupt.’” 

And a Mr. Randolph in a walnut office 
high in the Chrysler Building leaned back in 
his leather chair and said, ‘It just occurred 
to me, Bob, that an endorsement of Lucky 
Gold cigarettes by any of those young vet- 
erans might carry considerable weight. You 
know, something like . . . ‘For that Miracle 
Smoke, Smoke Lucky Golds.’”’ 

Jimmy read, “““No man can serve two 
masters. .. . Ye cannot serve God and mam- 
mon.’”’ 

And two men stood in a huge, cavernous 
garage filled with moving vans. One said, 
“All right, so he had no brains when he 
drove for us. He was a first-rate idiot. I still 
say we offer him twenty-five per cent.” 

“Twenty per cent,’’ his partner said stub- 
bornly. 

“Twenty-five per cent and make him a 
vice-president. His name on the stationery 
alone will bring in the difference in cargo. 
We rebaptize the firm ‘The Miracle Trucking 
Company,’ float a loan for fifty more 
trucks ——” 


Jimmy read, ‘‘‘Therefore all things what- | 


soever ye would that men should do to you, 
do ye even so unto them.’” 

And out in Hollywood, a producer, having 
gathered his associates in a conference room, 
declared, ‘‘Gentlemen, I have directed our 
Eastern office to open negotiations with Mr. 
Richardson for the exclusive rights to his 
story of the miracle. The Miracle would be a 
perfect vehicle for Robert Taylor.” 

“But can we get Taylor from Metro, 
B.F.?” an assistant producer asked. 

“That’s my problem,” the producer re- 
plied. “‘Or perhaps, why not bring Jimmy 
Richardson himself out here?” 

“You think we can get him, B.F.?” 

““Nobody’s too big to work in Hollywood,” 
the producer said. : 

Jimmy read, ‘‘Therefore whosoever 
heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth 
them, I will liken him unto a wise man, 
which built his house upon a rock: 

“And the rain descended, and the floods 
came, and the winds blew, and beat upon 
that house; and it fell not: for it was founded 
upon a rock.’” 

And when Jimmy finished reading, even 
Ben Semour, who did the commercials, had 

(Continued on Page 115) 


113 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


December, 1949 





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(Continued from Page 113) 
the feeling that something new was about to 
occur in America. Instead of going back to 
the broadcasting studio, Ben Semour headed 
toward Trinity Church. 


Agr five o’clock that afternoon a train 
pulled out of Grand Central Station with 
Father Casey on it. The car, packed with 
perspiring humanity, seemed to him as 
though it properly belonged on the rails of 
the Interborough Rapid Transit. 

There should have been much joy in the 
good father’s heart, but the truth was that 
he was strangely depressed. The father 
had expected the bishop to be pleased, per- 
haps excited. He never anticipated when he 


“entered the bishop’s study in the bishopric 


adjoining Saint Mark’s Cathedral that the 
bishop would greet him with, “A fine kettle 
of fish, Father Casey!” 

“What is, Your Excellency?” 

“That our Heavenly Father should have 
chosen to work a miracle with four young 
men not within the Mother Church.” 

“Ts it not possible,” Father Casey asked 
with complete humility, “that our Heavenly 
Father might have made an exception in so 
far as the young men were veterans?” 

The bishop fingered the cross that hung 
from his neck. “‘ Yes, but it would still be un- 
precedented. Is the young man who claims 
he experienced a Divine Visitation aware 
that the church cannot officially take cogni- 
zance of any miraculous event as long as he 
remains outside our grace and authority?”’ 

“T would be pleased to bring it to his at- 
tention, Your Excellency.” 

The bishop hesitated. ““On:second thought, 
father, perhaps you had better wait until I’ve 
discussed the problem with the archbishop.” 

So the bishop had discussed the problem 
with the archbishop. Now Father Casey was 
on his way to New Claremont to discuss the 
situation with Jimmy. He found himself 
deeply disturbed. He hadn’t expected eccle- 
siastical red tape on a series of bona fide 
miracles. 

Riding on the crowded train, Father Casey 
found himself further disturbed by the un- 
fortunates obviously taking the pilgrimage to 
New Claremont to ask Jimmy to help them. 


x we we ke we we we wk 


Ask Any 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Would you be going to New Claremont, 
too, father?”’ a young mother asked. 

Father Casey nodded, placed his hand on 
her baby’s head. “‘That’s a sweet child.” 

“Not a day has she ever seen,’ the 
mother said. “‘Do you think the sight of him 
could heal her, father?” 

Before he could answer, others gathered 
about him. He was a priest. Would he inter- 
cede? Help them get into Jimmy’s house? 

Father Casey listened patiently. What was 
taking place in New Claremont? He found 
out when the train pulled into the station. 

““Get your story of the miracle,” a news- 
boy hawked. “Get your official version of the 
miracle. Only a few more copies left. Get the 
inside story of the conversation between 
Jimmy and God. Read how Jimmy killed 
thirty-five Heinies in the crossing of the 
Rhine.” 

Father Casey edged through the crowd. 

“Good-luck soil from Jimmy’s front lawn, 
sir?”” a shriveled old woman cried out. 
“Good luck to you and your family, lady? 
Only twenty-five cents a bottle.” 

The father felt a flush of anger. This was 
no way to exploit a sacred miracle. He 
found his way to Jimmy’s house by follow- 
ing the crowd. ; 

The sun was beginning to set when he 
reached Belle Meade Drive, and he found it 
almost impossible to squeeze through the 
mass of people gathered about the cottage. 


Bonzi sat comfortably sprawled out on the 
couch munching on an apple and surveying 
the presents piled up in the living room. 
Every mail brought another carload. Air- 
mail, registered, special-delivery letters offer- 
ing Jimmy jobs, romance, asking advice, 
giving advice. Bonzi took another bite. 

“So finally we worked out a system, 
father,” he said, “‘like at Oak Ridge.” 

It was twilight now and Father Casey 
stood at the window deep in his own thoughts. 
“Don’t those people ever go home?” 

“We get a pretty good turnover,” Bonzi 
said. ““Yesterday we must have had close to 
fifty thousand visitors. Talk about business 
booms. The pilgrims bring their dollars 
which they got to convert into food, lodging, 
souvenirs. Prices go up. Everybody’s in on 


° 


KORO KREIS Ro 


Woman 


By MARCELENE COX 


HILDREN must know why and hus- 
bands must know where—which ex- 
plains the why and wherefore of marriage. 


A child’s pride is’as easily bruised as a 
gardenia. 


She sat down like a ton of feathers. 


In my childhood we always had to wait 
for the bread to cool; now we remove it 
from the freezer and wait until it thaws out. 


When you sing your own praises you 
may sound out of tune to your listeners. 


The children came in from school and 
took a panoramic view of the kitchen. 


There’s something very special about 
your own Christmas-tree ornaments—even 
the shabbiest are gilded by memories of 
Christmases past. 


In all my life I have met only one man 
who didn’t think that when the table is 
cleared the dishes are done—and I am not 
married to him. 


She has a fast Southern drawl. 


In chess or as a parent my game has 
usually been defensive; the most I have 
ever hoped to accomplish was to foresee the 
attack and prevent it 


“Saving” reached a high point with the 
woman who carefully stored away in her 
attic a box labeled, ‘‘Pieces of string too 
small to use.” 


The children listened carefully in Sunday 
school, then one asked his question: ““When 
Adam and Eve were shut out at the gate 
why didn’t they climb the fence?” 


Young boy’s version of a line from Hark, 
the Herald Angels Sing: “God and sin are 
reconciled.” 


My husband is so punctual he just misses 
the train which leaves previous to the one 
he intends to take. 


“Tf present plans do not miscarry,” an- 
nounced the club’s secretary, “the Women’s 
League will secure a well-known artist for 
some evening the early part of February. 
She will not be presented in films, but in the 
flesh, in some way to be decided upon later.” 


Between fifteen and seventeen years of 
age the male element pours into a boy like 
waters into the Bay of Fundy. 


An optimist is a man who tells others not 
to worry when things are going his way. 


Observation on low modern coffee table 
with curved legs: ‘‘That table must have 
walked too soon.” 


the act except the guys responsible. They 
make all their public appearances for free.” 

“When do you think they’ll be back, ser- 
geant?”’ 

“Soon as the reception’s over. You can’t 
have a parade without a reception at the 
Waldorf. Did you hear him on Mary Mar- 
garet McBride’s program yesterday? For ten 
minutes he recommends that the Book of the 
Month Club take over the Bible. Today you 
can’t buy a Bible.” 

“Tm proud of him.’ 

“That’s the real good part, father,’ 
Bonzi said contemplatively. “I can see it 
with my own wife. Take last night. I didn’t 
have to hear my wife complain that! never 
take her to the movies. She was too busy 
worrying about her soul.” 

“When there are more women like your 
wife, sergeant ——” 

Bonzi sat up. ““That’s what’s so cockeyed 
about people. You know how much the citi- 
zens of this town have collected so far for the 
Jimmy Richardson Memorial to God? Over 
three million bucks!” A police siren ripped 
through the walls and Bonzi rose to his feet. 
“There are your boys now,” he said. He 
went out through the front door. 


The first stars were appearing when the 
car, flanked by motorcycles, pulled up before 
the cottage. Looking at all the men and 
women who surged forward, Jimmy couldn’t 
help but remember the other faces he had 
once seen thousands of miles away. 

What, he thought, 7f those had been faces of 
Americans instead of Germans? What if that 
parade down Fifth Avenue had been staged by 
Nazi legions marching in triumph? 

And while Jimmy was thinking these 
thoughts, Bonzi opened the door to the car 
and told him Father Casey was inside. “I let 
him in like you said,” Bonzi said. 

Jimmy turned to Maggy, sitting next to 
him, and to Sammy, Harvey and Bill, who 
were in the back. “Did you hear that?” 
Jimmy said. “‘Father Casey’s here!” 

He dashed into the house. 

“Where have you been, father? A day and 
a half with only phone conversations!” 

The father did his best to explain he was 
tied up with the bishop. Maggy and the boys 
came through the door and Bill said, “Let 
me at that guy!”’ He took the father’s face 
between his large hands. “So that’s what you 
look like!” 

Sammy said, after they had shaken hands, 
“How do you think we look?” 

The four waited expectantly for the father’s 
answer while he studied them in their civilian 
clothes. ““The newspapers and newsreels 
haven’t done you kids justice,” he said. “And 
how are you feeling now, Maggy?” 

She reached for his hand and Father Casey 
couldn’t recall ever seeing a happier-looking 
young woman. “‘Wonderful, father. I have to 
keep pinching myself.” She told him how 
thrilling the afternoon was and how exciting 
the reception in the Waldorf was. “But we 
thought you’d surely be here in time for the 
parade, father.’ 

“T saw the parade,” Father Casey said 
wryly. ‘‘From the steps of St. Patrick’s— 
with the bishop.” 

“But you should have been in it, father,”’ 
Jimmy said. “Right out in front with 
Mr. Whalen and the mayor. Where are your 
grips, father?” 

“As a matter of fact, Jimmy,’ Father 
Casey said, “the bishop’s expecting me back 
at the bishopric just as soon as I’ve had a few 
words with you. You see, Jimmy, there are 
complications.” 

“At the hospital?” Harvey asked. 

“No, Rebel,’’ Father Casey said. ““The 
four of you have been officially discharged. 
It’s simply, well... could I have a word with 
them, Maggy? It’s purely a spiritual matter.” 

“Of course,” Maggy said. ‘‘I’ll be upstairs, 
darling.” 

Father Casey told them about the com- 
plications with the bishop. 

“You mean,” Sammy said, ‘‘to make the 
miracle official, we got to become Catholics? 
Momma will die!” 

Jimmy ran his fingers through his hair. “T 
can see the point, father. But couldn’t he 

~~ (Continued on Page 117) 


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3 


(Continued from Page 115) 

lake an exception in our case? I need the 
wurch’s co-operation. There might never be 
nother chance like this, father.” 

“Like what, Jimmy?” Father Casey 
ked. 
Jimmy told him about his thoughts during 
e parade. “It could have happened that 
ay, father. New York could have looked 
ce Frankfurt, Munich, Berlin. Not only 
ew York, but every city in the world. 
hat’s why I have to make good.” 

Just then the front door opened and 
{eCormick burst into the living room. 
Jimmy,” he said, “I hope you’re satisfied. 
’s beginning to happen!”’ 

“What’s beginning to happen, Mac?” 
mmy asked. 

Mac poured himself a drink and swallowed 
“Tt started a few minutes after you read 
he Sermon,” he said. “At this moment, you 
in’t push, squeeze or fight your way into a 
yurch, temple or cathedral from here to 
alifornia.” 
Jimmy grabbed Mac by his lapels. “Mac, 
ou’re not kidding?” 

“Don’t take my word for it.” Mac 
ached into his pocket and handed Jimmy 
sme Teletype copy. 

“Listen to this, father!’’ Jimmy said. 
*Church attendance smashing all records. 
arvey by UNS correspondents indicates 
eatest turnout in the history of religion.’” 
e skipped a few lines. “Get this, father. 

me cathedrals in Los Angeles forced to 
ose doors to comply with local fire regula- 
ons.’ And it isn’t even Sunday.” 
Sammy took the copy out of Jimmy’s 
ands. ‘‘‘Episcopalian bishops in Philadel- 
nia,’” he read, ‘‘‘report 
iey are unable to fulfill 
quests for baptism, mar- 





lac said, ‘‘is happening 
» the Catholics, Methodists, Seventh Day 
dventists ——” 

Father Casey picked up his straw hat from 
1e coffee table. “I think I’d better be getting 
ack to see the bishop.” 

“But you can’t leave now, father,”’ Jimmy 
tid. ‘This is only the beginning.”’ 

“This could be a turning point in civiliza- 
on, Jimmy,” Father Casey said. 

“Tt is, father. I’m sure of it.” 

“T still don’t like it,” Mac said. 

“Where’s your faith, Mac?” Jimmy asked. 

“T lost it when I began to read history. 
Thy don’t you call it a day?” 

“Call it aday? Now?” 





Nac wiped the perspiration off his brow. 
here’s no saying where this can lead to, 
mmy. You're putting the fear of God —” 

“T call it love, Mac.” 

“Fear or love, call it what you will,’’” Mac 
iid, “but you’re putting it into people’s 
sarts. Last night there wasn’t one first-rate 
vurder in the entire United States.” 

“Ts that bad?” 

Mac went back to the bar. “If you were an 
fitor of a tabloid you’d say that stinks. In 
he last twenty-four hours applications for 
ivorces have fallen off as much as fifty per 
ent. Unless you lay off, Jimmy, there’s going 

be serious trouble.” He had to quote 

itty. “ You'll never get away with Its 
“Get away with what?” Jimmy asked. 
“Trying to improve the world overnight.” 
“Overnight, Mac?” Jimmy asked incredu- 
sly. ‘Do you call one thousand nine hun- 

and forty-nine years ‘overnight’ ? You 
erestimate the common sense of the 
uman race, Mac.” 

“Not as much as the human race overesti- 
nates it.” 

“Come on, father,” Jimmy said, placing 
arm about Father Casey. ‘““We’ve got to 
sll Maggy the news.” 

Father Casey grinned his most cherubic 
mile. Never had he experienced such deep, 
helming pride. ‘We'll just have to 
‘ork something out with the bishop, Jimmy.” 

As soon as they were gone, Harvey 
gueezed a telegram that was inside his coat 
















117 


pocket and, looking at the perplexed faces of 
Sammy and Bill, said, “It’s getting compli- 
cated, isn’t it?” 

While Mac was helping himself to another 
drink, Bill and Sammy, each thinking of his 
own particular problem, agreed that it was 
getting very complicated. 


The sky above the cottage was well cov- 
ered with stars when Sammy, Harvey and 
Bill wandered out into the garden and 
stretched out on the lawn. 

They listened to the water trickling into 
the miniature pond and after a while Harvey 
said, ‘‘Are we going to tell him like we said 
we would—after the parade?”’ 

“You don’t think it’ll look like we’re run- 
ning out on him, do you?”’ Bill asked. 

Sammy dipped his hand into the pond. 
“We can’t sponge off him and Maggy for the 
rest of our lives. We said we’d take a few 
days off for rest and recuperation. Okay, 
we're rested and recuperated. .With this 
Brooks Brothers on my back, I got exactly 
seven bucks and six cents in my pocket.” 

“That’s seven more than I got on hand,” 
Bill said. ‘‘ But ——”’ He didn’t quite know 
how to say it. ‘Fellows, I’m taking Mr. 
Kelly’s offer to be a vice-president in The 
Miracle Trucking Company.” 

“You are?’’ Harvey said. 

Bill yanked a handful of grass out of the 
lawn. ‘‘Well, you can’t ask a girl to marry 
you on a truck driver’s pay.”’ 

Sammy sat up. “ You asked that little red- 
head to marry you?” . 

The garden became a dance studio with a 
mirror that covered an entire wall and again 
he was watching her. She was wearing a 
black dress and a little 
gold locket about her neck. 
Her red hair was combed 


age and other sacraments is He who knows others up and she was saying, 

ae to shortage of clergy- is clever; he who knows “You see, Bill? There’s 
aH himself is enlightened. oe 

jen. De UAOCISE really nothing to the step. 

“And what's happening ‘Shall we try it together? 

, the Episcopalians,” ——_——————__ Now, place your hand 


here.”’ She guided his hand 
along her back and he thought he would 
go nuts. “Now try to feel the rhythm. You 
see, it’s all in Mr. Arthur’s basic step.” 

““Couldn’t I study the fox trot or waltz?” 
Bill asked. He wanted some dance where he 
could hold her closer. 

’ She stopped abruptly. ‘‘I thought perhaps 
you’d be interested in studying the jitterbug. 
It’s a very useful step to know nowadays.” 
She took a deep breath. If she had a spark of 
decency in her, she would say, “Why don’t 
you give up, bub, and take up wrestling?” 

Tales From the Vienna Woods came out of 
the loud-speaker. In another few minutes 
she would take an application blank out of 
the desk in the corner of the studio. She 
hoped he wouldn’t sign up for the long course. 

“Have you ever waltzed before, Bill? ¢ 

There were ropes around his chest and he 
could hear his heart smacking against his 
stomach. She was that beautiful. “I never 
had much time to study dancing.” 

“You're doing beautifully. Honest. Don’t 
tell me you’ve never danced before. I’ve had 
very few pupils who were so naturally grace- 
ful. I’ll have you dancing perfectly in ten 
lessons.” 

The bell rang. It was the end of the period. 
Thank heavens, she thought. 

But Bill didn’t want to leave. Maybe she’d 
have dinner with him? She skillfully ma- 
neuvered herself out of his arms. He’d take 
some handling. She opened the desk drawer 
and brought out the appointment book, the 
contract book. 

“When shall I put you down for your next 
lesson?” Mr. Arthur was strict about never 
taking a negative approach. 

“Tomorrow morning?” He wondered 
whether he could wait that long. 

“Would you care to fill out this contract 
now? My personal opinion, Bill, is that you 
ought to sign up for the complete course. 
It’s only five hundred dollars, and the Vet- 
erans Administration will take care of the 
financing. Mr. Arthur will handle the de- 
tails.” 

“Will I get you for my teacher?” 

“Naturally. Unless of course you'd prefer 
someone else.”’ 





























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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“Tf I don’t get you, it’s no deal, Miss Van 
Horn.” 

She smiled. “I’d much rather you called 
me Patricia.” 

He filled out the contract. At the door he 
said, “‘Look, Patricia, I was thinking. I’m 
staying with a friend in New Claremont, but if 
you wasn’t tied up for dinner tonight ——” 

“I’m terribly sorry, Bill. Really I am. But 
I’m... well, I’m having dinner with my boy 
friend tonight.” She opened the locket that 
was resting on her throat and Bill saw the 
face of a naval officer. ‘But thanks, Bill.” 
She extended her hand, wrinkled her nose. 
“See you tomorrow at ten. Don’t forget to 
be prompt.” 

As soon.as he was.gone, she sighed with 
relief, kissed the locket. She didn’t know 
what she would have done without the naval 
officer that came with that locket. 

She sat down on top of the desk, was rub- 
bing her toes when her supervisor, Miss 
Corliss, breezed in with a newspaper. 

“Please, Miss Corliss,’’ she pleaded, ‘‘don’t 
ask me to take another pupil. I just unloaded 
a locomotive. Let me sit the next hour out.” 

“Of course, darling. Care to look at the 
paper?” 

“Yes. I haven’t read Danton Walker.” 

“Have you been keeping up with the 
miracle?” 

Patricia took the paper. “‘I refuse to get 
excited. J say if it was on the up and up M 
She jumped to her feet. ‘‘That’s him, Miss 
Corliss—the pupil who just left this studio! 
That’s him, and I tell*him I couldn’t have 
dinner with him tonight!”’ 

“What was he like?” 

“What difference does that make? Danton 
Walker says if those four heroes accept half 
the offers that are being thrown at them, 
they can all retire in six months. And I had 
to tell him I had a boy friend!’’ She yanked 
the locket from the black velvet ribbon that 
encircled her throat and hurled it violently 
out the window. 





“You really asked that redhead to marry 
you, Bill?’’ Sammy asked. 

“This morning,” Bill said dreamily. “While 
she was teaching me to rumba. She didn’t 
laugh or push me away, Sammy. She cried 
and said she would be happy to be my wife.” 

“Gosh,” Harvey said. ““And I was sweat- 
ing out ——” He took a telegram from his 
inside pocket and handed it to Sammy. 

Sammy held the telegram up so that it 
intercepted a shaft of light coming out of the 
living room. When he had digested its con- 
tents, he exclaimed, ‘“Ten thousand a week, 
Rebel . . . with all those Rockettes!” 

Harvey had received the telegram during 
the reception. A bellhop had handed it to 
him while he was autographing papers and 
envelopes for society women and_ their 
daughters. It didn’t seem to be important 
any more that he was “poor white trash.” 
He was a big shot. The difference between 
being a success and a flop in the band 
business was getting the right break. Jimmy 
would have to understand. 


“Waar about you, Sammy?”’ Bill asked. 
“What are your plans for the future?” 

Sammy flipped a pebble over the ivy- 
covered wall and thought back to yesterday. 

“What kind of world is it, momma?”’ he 
shouted. 

““Samella,”” his mother said, “it’s nothing 
to get excited about.” 

“Nothing to get excited about ?’’ He looked 
at his mother. “They were going to throw 
you out on the sidewalk.” 

“Samella, you shouldn’t maybe get ex- 
cited in your condition.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with my condi- 
tion, momma. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You had enough troubles in the hos- 
pital.” 

“To a woman like~you!”’ 

She grasped his hand. She hardly recog- 
nized her son any more. 

“Momma,” he said, “I’m getting you 
your own house. There ain’t going to be no 
more landlords, no more cold-water flats in 
tenements. You’re going to have your own 
house, momma. There’s nothing you ain’t 
going to have.” 


“I’m going into the endorsing business 
until I can get a little bank roll together, 
fellows,” Sammy said. “Nothing that I 
wouldn’t use personally. Legitimate items 
like shaving soap, automobiles, beer, ciga- 
rettes. If the cream of society can do it and 
stay respectable —— Besides, momma’s 
heart ain’t so good.” 

“Who'll tell Jimmy we’re checking out?” 
Bill asked. 

“We might as well do it together.” 


“So there you are, McCormick!” The 
congressman stormed into the living room. 
“And what have you been doing? I’m tied 
up in Washington and what do you do?” 

Mac went to the bar and poured himself 
another drink. 

“T was under the impression we had estab- 
lished policy, McCormick. He was not to get 
involved in any controversial issues.’’ The 
congressman yanked a cigar out of his hand- 


KK kek KK Kk kK * 


(Gs 
i oF -FnHOW 


By Dorothy Smith 


It is snowing. 

All through the day the big flakes 
have been falling 

Silently, like a benediction, over a 
countryside weary with winter. 

There is a silence, as in the begin- 
ning of time, 

When all things were new and clean. 

A silence that falls on the earth witha 
quiet comfort and beauty, 

Unbroken by the voice of man. 

The firs stand, stately and unbowed, 

Their branches heavy with beauty, 

Stretching long-fingered over the 
ground, 

Each snow-covered hill and hollow 

Is violet-shaded, 

Sparkling with a crown of dancing 
light. 

Toward the deep woods the path ofa 
rabbit breaks the crust of white 

In small sure footprints, etched in 
black. 

And in the forest the tall trees stand, 
high-vaulted and quiet 

With the stillness of prayer, 

And God walks there. 


KO Te ee eK Ke 


kerchief pocket and bit off the tip. “‘This is 
no time to be holding out promises to the 
meek that they’ll inherit the earth.” 

“T know. Now everybody wants to become 
one of the meek.” 

“There are strong feelings in Washington 
about that kind of talk.” The congressman 
tossed his cigar into the fireplace. “If he 
must quote from the Bible, why can’t he use 
material from the Psalms or Genesis or the 
Song of Solomon?” 

“When did you read the Song of Solomon 
last, congressman?”’ 

“Do you realize what’s taking place out- 
side th‘s house, McCormick? On the streets, 
the trains—even in the club car of the Con- 
gressional Limited. They are all studying 
Bibles! They have such frightened, worried 
looks in {their eyes. . . . Where is he now, 
McCormick ?”’ 

“Upstairs with Father Casey,’’ Maggy 
said, coming into the room. ““How was 
Washington, dear?” 

““More confused than usual,” her father 
said, ‘thanks to your husband.” 

The truth of the matter was that appre- 
hension was more widespread in the Capitol 
than he had indicated to McCormick. The 
Army and the Navy were having difficulty 
enough getting young men interested in the 
armed services as a career. Several generals 
and admirals had already made their senti- 
ments known to the White House. 




















































December, 1946 


The congressman could feel a considerable 
chill in the cloakroom. Prior to Jimmy’s spee 
it had been suggested that he might delive; 
the keynote address at the next Linco! 
Day dinner. By noon he wasn’t even certai 
that a seat in the Senate would be a sufi 
cient reward for a man of his abilities. Wh 
not the White House? 

“Maggy, I must have a word with him!’ 

Maggy walked to the window. “T’ 
afraid it won’t help, dad,” she said. “ 
says he knows what he’s doing. He’s eve 
giving up the agency.” 

“What?” the congressman exclaimed. 

“He’s not interested in storing up treasures 
upon earth.” 


She had made her call to the office from the 
study upstairs. She spoke to Carol, her assist 
ant, on the phone. 

“T don’t know how much you value your 
business, Maggy,”’ Carol said, “but you’d 
better get over here the first thing in the 
morning.” 

“Hold the fort, Carol. I'll see you in the 
morning,”’ she said and hung up. 

They were going to be very secure. God) 
was making up for all the suffering Jimm 
had endured. Never again would they have 
to worry about bills. 


Ten he came through the door into the 
study With Father Casey and told her what) 
was happening in all the churches. 
She said, “‘How wonderful, darling,” and 
tried to tell him what was happening in J 
Richardson Associates. ‘‘ Darling,” she said, 
“you're not listening. You haven’t heard 2 
word I’ve said about the office.” 
“Yes, I have, baby. We’re clearing out of 
advertising. At least, the kind of advertising| 
we've been playing around with.” 
“Jimmy, you can’t be serious. But why?’ 
“Tt says right here, baby,” he said, open 
ing his Bible, “‘ Either make the tree good, 
and his fruit good; or else make the tree 
corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: for the tree is} 
known by his fruit.’”’ 
“But what do you expect to do, darling?”’ 
He held out his palms for her to see. 


“But that’s ridiculous,” the congressman 
said. ‘‘ He can’t hire himself out as a commo 
day laborer.” 

“You can’t argue with him, dad,” Maggy 
said. ‘“Where’s mother?” 

“She’s on her way over with the Memorial 
Committee. They’re having a crisis too.” 

“What’s their problem?” 

“Your mother says it’s what to do with 
the money. The committee’s deadlocked. 
Dan and the Chamber of Commerce think 
Jimmy’s home-coming should be commem- 
orated with a huge war memorial.” 

“The Civic Improvement Club,” Mac in- 
terrupted, “is of the opinion that a shrine 
surrounded by adequate facilities for touris 
would do more for the community.” 

“Does Jimmy know about this?” 

Mac picked up his cane. “‘He invited the 


stairs and lifted Maggy high up into the air. 
“Tt’s even bigger than the first reports! Fa- 
ther Casey’s talking to the bishop. Converts )) 
are flocking in by hundreds of thousands.” | 

“Er—Jimmy,” the congressman stam-) 
mered. ‘May I have a word with you?” =} 

Jimmy set Maggy down and kissed her 
neck and then he turned to the congressman. }) 
“When did you get back, sir? Do I get to 
address Congress? I was thinking, if I could 
read The Sermon to them just once.” He 
looked at his wrist watch, stepped out into} 
the garden. Jimmy said with all the joy) 
that was in him, “Fellows, it’s even bigge: 
than I dreamed.” 

“Have you a few minutes you could spare, ; 
Jimmy?” Sammy asked. 

“ce Sure.”’ 

They told him about their plans for check- 
ing out. None of them had thought any ex- 
perience could be so tough. 

(Continued on Page 120) 








LADIES’ HO 


OURNAL 












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122 


(Continued from Page 120) 

“Tf you think He’d like us to put up a sky- 
scraper in His name, Jimmy,’ Dan said, see- 
ing new hope for himself if he could please 
the Almighty, “I’d gladly turn over the 
Whitely property.” 

“If that’s all He wants, Jimmy,” Mr. 
Reynolds said. 

“By George,’ Dan added, “we'll put up 
a building here in New Claremont ——”’ He 
hesitated. ‘‘ What would you call it, Jimmy ?”’ 

“A Memorial to the Living.” 

“TI move we build what Jimmy has in 
mind,”’ Dan said enthusiastically. ““I move 
we build it the way the boys used to dream 
about it in their foxholes. The best modern 
science has to offer. A living memorial. By 
George, nothing’s too good for the boys.” 

“The New Claremont Bank and Trust 
Company will be happy to underwrite,’ Mr. 
Reynolds said. ‘‘Are you sure that will please 
Him, Jimmy?” 

“I’m positive, Mr. Reynolds.” 

That clinched the argument. 

“All those in favor of building what Jimmy 
has in mind,”’ Lucille asked quickly. 

There was a loud unanimous aye. 

Father Casey came running down the 
stairs. He could barely catch his breath. 
“They’re singing the praises of our Heavenly 
Father everywhere, Jimmy! In Times 
Square... Fifth Avenue . . . Newark. The 
bishop says it looks like a complete rout of 
the forces of materialism.” 

“It’s just that most people were never 
really sure about God before, father.” 

A moment later, Mac burst into the room. 
His eyes were glazed, his clothes partially 
torn as though he had fought his way through 
a mob. “It’s still spreading, Jimmy,” he 
gasped. ‘““‘The bars are empty. The race 
tracks had their smallest attendance since 
horses began to run. Women have stopped 
buying, Jimmy!” 

“What are you talking about, McCor- 
mick?” the congressman asked. 

“Women have stopped buying. Depart- 
ment-store sales were off sixty per cent to- 
day.” 

“Where did you get that?’’ Maggy asked. 

“A Department of Commerce bulletin 
just released.” 

“What will that do to the market?” Mr. 
Reynolds asked, looking at his wife. 


Panic came over Dan Arnold. It was the 
same panic he had experienced when he was 
wiped out in Florida, and he said, ‘‘ Never 
mind the market! What will that do to real 
estate? Don’t stand there, Watkins! Do 
something!” 


In less than twenty-four hours, Congress- 
man Clarence Hall, of Michigan, rose on the 




















































December, 19 


floor of the House of Representatives to brir 
the growing crisis to the attention of his fe 
low legislators. They, too, were being bo 
barded by letters and telegrams. 

Congressman Hall was a full-chested ge 
tleman. When he addressed the House, t 
walls, the dome and the rostrum vibrate 

“Mr. Speaker,’’ Congressman Hall d 
clared, ‘‘let us call a spade a spade.”’ 

Congressman Watkins, several rows bi 
hind him, squirmed. His political future w 
intimately tied up with his son-in-law. H 
no longer cared about the Senate. The Hou 
was good enough. 

“TI respectfully submit,’’ Congress 
Hall continued, ‘that the decline in dep 
ment-store sales may no longer be appraise 
as a minor business trend. Our country toda! 
is in the grip of a psychosis unprecedente’ 
in modern times.” 

Congressman Watkins jumped to his fee 
“Mr. Speaker,”’ he shouted. 


6 


ConGRESSMAN HALL disregarded his co 
league from New York. “Lest I be mi 
understood, Mr. Speaker, let me repeat onc 
again that I wholeheartedly approve of tk 
Bible. Nevertheless, we cannot afford t 
jeopardize our national economy in the fac 
of the present international situation.” 

“Mr. Speaker,’ Congressman Watkir 
protested, ‘‘I take strenuous exception —— 

“Mr. Speaker,’’ Congressman Hall saic 
“T have not yielded to the gentleman an’ 
father-in-law from Westchester County.” — 

Congressman Watkins sat down. Wh 
couldn’t Jimmy have kept his mouth closed 

“TI repeat,’’ Congressman Hall declarec 
shifting his survey to the floor of the Hous 
“our people are caught in a paralysis of fea: 
a fear for the future of their souls. 

“IT don’t deny that the Treasury has bee 
overwhelmed with payments of back incom 
taxes, or that ancient prejudices are vanisk 
ing at an accelerated pace, or that there j 
talk of permitting our colored citizens t 
ride on the same busses and trains with thei 
fellow Americans in Vicksburg, Mississipp. 

“Nevertheless, it is a fact, Mr. Speaker 
that each time Mr. Richardson, armed wit! 
his Bible, delivers an address in public, addi 
tional American citizens become disinter 
ested in material gain, and there is anothe 
decline in the stock market.” 

Congressman Hall sat down amidst a wav) 
of unsteady, uncertain applause. 

“Mr. Speaker!’’ Congressman Watkin 
cried, jumping to his feet. 

“Mr. Speaker!’’ Congressman Henken o 
Mississippi echoed a moment later. 

The Speaker of the House brought hi 
gavel down upon his table. ‘‘The Chair,”’ h 
said, “‘recognizes the gentleman from Mis 
sissippi.” 





STATEMENT OF THE OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT. ETC., 


Required by the Act of Congress of August 24, 1912, as amended by the Acts of March 3, 1933, and 
July 2, 1946, of Lap1es’ HOME JOURNAL, published monthly at Philadelphia,, Pa., for October 1, 1949. 


STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA 1 <6 
CouNTY OF PHILADELPHIA f~” 


Before me, a Notary Public in and for the State and 
county aforesaid, personally appeared Bruce Gould, 
who, having been duly sworn according to law, deposes 
and says that he is the Editor of the Ladies’ Home 
Journal and that the following is, to the best of his 
knowledge and belief, a true statement of the owner- 
ship, management, etc., of the aforesaid publication 
for the date shown in the above caption, required by 
the Act of August 24, 1912, as amended by the Acts 
of March 3, 1933, and July 2, 1946 (section 537, Postal 
Laws and Regulations), printed on the reverse of this 
form, to wit: 


1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, 
editor, managing editor, and business managers are: 
Publisher, The Curtis Publishing Company, Inde- 
pendence Square, Philadelphia 5, Pa. 


Editors, Bruce Gould and Beatrice Blackmar Gould, 
Hopewell, New Jersey 


Managing Editor, Laura Lou Brookman, Philadel- 
phia, Pa. 


Business Manager, None. 


2. That the owner is: (If owned by a corporation, 
its name and address must be stated and also immedi- 
ately thereunder the names and addresses of stock- 
holders owning or holding one per cent or more of total 
amount of stock.) 


The Curtis Publishing Company, 
Independence Square, Philadelphia 5, Pa. 
Cary W. Bok, Camden, Maine 
Curtis Bok, Philadelphia, Pa. 
Mary Louise Curtis Bok Foundation, Philadelphia, Pa 
























W. Curtis Bok, Cary W. Bok and Edith Evans Brau 
Trustees of the Locust Trust, Philadelphia, Pa. 
W. Curtis Bok, Cary W. Bok and Edith Evans Braur 
Trustees of the Swastika Trust, Philadelphia, Pa. 
Trustees U/W of Cyrus H. K. Curtis, Deceasee 
Philadelphia, Pa. 
Mary Curtis Zimbalist, Philadelphia, Pa. 


3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees, an 
other security holders owning or holding 1 per cent 6 
more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or othe 
securities are: 

None. } 





4. That the two paragraphs next above, giving th 
names of the owners, stockholders, and security hol 
ers, if any, contain not only the list of stockholders ant 
security holders as they appear upon the books of th 
company but also, in cases where the stockholder 0 
security holder appears upon the books of the com: 
pany as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, thi 
name of the person or corporation for whom sue 
trustee is acting, is given; also that the said two para 
graphs contain statements embracing affiant’s fu 
knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and col 


who do not appear upon the books of the company 
trustees, hold stock and securities in a capacity ot 


by him, 


Sworn to and subscribed before me this 7th day 
September, 1949. d 
W. C. ZIMMERMAN, 
(Seat] Notary Publi¢ 

(My commission expires February 3, 1953) , 






















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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL Los 


Congressman Henken waited until the 
gentleman from New York returned to his 
seat. He was a thin, elderly gentleman with 
snow-white hair. When he spoke, those in 
the visitors’ gallery could only think of white 
Southern mansions and chivalrous gentle- 
men and gracefully lovely women in crino- 









line gowns. Congressman Henken was a firm 
believer in liberty, state’s rights, equal op- 
portunity for all American citizens, and 
white supremacy. 

“Mr. Speaker,” Congressman Henken said, 


“the sovereign state of Mississippi, which 


I’m proud to represent in this august body, 
considers the philosophy of the so-called 
Brotherhood of Man, as advocated by Mr. 
Richardson, a dangerous, alien and foreign 
import, and calls upon this Congress to un- 
dertake an immediate investigation of this 
so-called miracle 2 

Congressman Watkins heard no more. A 
page boy came down the aisle and tapped 
him on the shoulder. ‘‘You’re wanted at the 
White House, sir.” 





At approximately nine o’clock the follow- 
ing evening, a bellhop, carrying two valises 
and a hatbox, opened the door to Room 2874 
in the Hotel Statler, switched on the light 
and said, ““This way, if you please,” to Mr. 
and Mrs. William Kurowski, of New York 
and Chicago. 

Bill dug into the pocket of his blue suit and 
came out with a dollar bill which he gave the 
bellhop. The bellhop went out, and now Bill 
was alone with his Pat, his wife. He watched 
her take off the green hat he had bought her 
in Connecticut just before the justice of the 


pone sounds there are most 
lovely to the ear of man: bird 
song, the sound of running water 
and the voice of the loved woman. 

—ARABIC PROVERB. 


peace had married them, saw her toss it on 
the bed and shake out her beautiful red hair. 

Outside it was night again, the fifth night 
since he had left the hospital. He never 
dreamed a guy could be so happy. 

Being in love, having a beautiful wife was 
everything it was cracked up to be. He went 
over to her and took her in his arms. He 
kissed her hard on her mouth, told her how 
much he loved her and how hard he was go- 
ing to work as vice-president of The Miracle 
Trucking Company. 

“You'll never be sorry you married me, 
Pat. I ain’t much to look at, but you’ll never 
be sorry.” 

She wondered what she could do to make 
that big goop happy. So she kissed him the 
way she thought he would like to be kissed, 
while he squeezed her until she could hardly 
breathe. 

They both wished with all their nervous 
and trembling hearts that what would follow 
would be as perfect and beautiful and won- 
derful as they were both told it would be 
when a man and woman were in love, really 
and honestly in love with each other. But 
neither of them had the opportunity to find 
out. There was a loud knock at the door. 

Nothing was quite the same after that. 


A few minutes later, on the mammoth 
stage of the Radio City Music Hall, Harvey, 
wearing a sky-blue tuxedo, bowed gracefully 
and grinned. He turned around and pointed 
to the boys in his band and they arose in 
unison—the saxophone section, the violins, 
the trumpets, trombones, the girl trio in 
strapless white chiffon gowns. 

Then he motioned to the wings and asked 
Carlos and Carlotta, the ballroom-dance 
team, to come out. They were followed by 
the acrobats, and Danny Lewis, the come- 
dian. Harvey felt so terrifically happy, he 
wanted everybody in the Music Hall to share 
in his success. 

Harvey gestured to the stage manager to 
send out the Rockettes and choir. He placed 
his arms about the waists of two of the ballet 


Ml :. Dept., Hdwe. and Dime Stores—or write: a “anrere and targeted by four spotlights, 


(Continued on Page 125) 




















Christmas 


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Look! You get all these flavor-favorites... | 


Surprise your family with this gala version of 
walnut loaf cake. So festive, with crisp, golden 
Diamond Walnuts inside and on top. And try the 
other walnut treats on this page, too. You can make 
all four from just one pound of Diamond Walnuts! 


HARLEQUIN WALNUT CAKE 

1% cups plus 2 tbsps. 
sifted cake flour 

1 cup sugar 

2% tsps. double-acting 
baking powder 

Ya tsp. salt 

Y3 cup emulsifier-type 
shortening 


Y. cup milk 

VY, tsp. vanilla extract 

VY) tsp. lemon extract 

3 egg whites, unbeaten 

Y2 cup finely chopped 
Diamond Walnuts 

Diamond Walnut halves 
for decorating 


Have shortening, milk, eggs at room temperature. 
Line bottom of 8x8x2-in. pan with waxed paper; 
grease paper. Sift flour, sugar, baking powder, salt 
into bowl. Add shortening, milk and extracts; stir 
together, then beat 2 min. on electric mixer (slow 
to medium speed) or by hand (250-300 strokes), 
scraping sides of bowl often. Add egg whites; beat 
2 min. more. Lightly stir in chopped walnuts— 
Diamonds, of course, for cake you’re proud to serve. 
Pour into pan. Bake at 375? F. 10 min., then at 
350° F. 35 to 40 min. longer. Turn out, remove 
paper, cool. Cut in fourths; frost two quarters with 
vanilla frosting, two with chocolate. Put together as 
shown, decorate with Diamond Walnut halves on 
top, chopped pieces on the sides—such an easy way 
to make any cake more glamorous! 


Two-way Frosting: Heat 4 cup water with 2 tbsps. 
butter; remove from heat, add ¥% tsp. vanilla, 3 
cups sifted powdered sugar; beat well. For choco- 
late part, put 44 of mixture into separate bowl; 
melt 2 squares (2 oz.) unsweetened chocolate over 
hot water with 2 tbsps. butter and 4 cup water; 
add, beat well. If frosting loses its gloss, set bowl 
in hot water for a moment. 


Hearty Supper Salad— party fare from leftovers! Toss 
cooked turkey, ham or other meat with celery, onion, 
green pepper, carrot. Add broken Diamond Walnut 
kernels for extra nourishment, fine flavor contrast. 





Diamond Walnuts 
(each shell branded) 
packed in 1 Ib. cello- 
phane bags (red for 
large, blue for medium 
size.) Ready-shelled 
Diamonds, same fine 
quality, packed in 8 and 
4 oz. tins. Mixed halves 
ond pieces vacuum 
packed to keep fresh and 


sweet for year-round use. 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





a 
Sy Always Popular Walnut Bread rates new cheers with 
6 or 8 chopped maraschino cherries or a handful of 
raisins. So easy to make with packaged biscuit mix. 
Plump Diamond Walnuts are its real flavor secret! 










Leary ema ai 

SHELLED At their new low prices, Diamond Walnuts 
W 5 area real bargain in food value! Top quality, 
always! Big shells, plump kernels, more 
perfect kernels— more for your money— 
every time! Plenty from just one pound for 
the taste-treats shown above—or for several 
of your family’s own walnut favorites! 





December, 1949 


























































Red Devil Parfaits— 

a treat for youngsters! 
Make red fruit-flavored 
gelatin, chill as usual, 
Spoon into tall glasses 
alternately with ice 
cream, sprinkling finely 
chopped Diamond 
Walnut kernels between 
layers. Crisp, crunchy 
walnuts do wonders for 
“soft’ desserts! 








Whatever the dish, whatever the meal— fh, 
it’s better with Diamond Walnuts! a ( 


See for youned// 2 

: 
One pound of Diamond Walnuts gives you 2 cups 
of halves and broken kernels plus extra halves for I 


decorating. Shell the full pound and store unused 
kernels in tightly closed jar in your refrigerator. 








3ie@s 


(Continued from Page 123) 
ney stepped forward and acknowledged the 
ultuous applause. 

Listening to the applause, Harvey knew it 
vasn’t for him so much as for what he repre- 
ented. He was an ex-G.I. getting a break at 
obody’s expense. When the curtains finally 
ame down, there were offers from managers 
md agents to play in Chicago, New Orleans, 
Detroit, the Palladium in L.A. While he was 
pading them his agent ran out and tossed 
is arms about him and told him how sensa- 
onal he was. 

On his way back to his dressing room—the 

e with the silver star on the door—with 
is hands deep in his trousers pockets, he 

ought about the day he would go back to 
lay the Magnolia Theater in Augusta. His 
mcles and aunts who would have to eat 

ow. With each thought he became happier 

d happier, and finally he went into his 
ressing room, the star’s dressing room. 

There were two large, powerfully built 
nen who looked like a couple of county 

eriffs waiting for him. They stood up and 


bone of them said: 


“Mr. Harvey Keane?” 

Harvey shook his head up and down. 

Yes, sir.” 

“We're Federal marshals. We’ve got a 

bpoena for you from the House Miracle 

ommittee.” 

Harvey was so bewildered, he just scratched 

s head and took the legal document that 
handed to him. 


Just about that time, out in Great Neck, 
ong Island, Sammy, with a pleased grin on 
s face, said, ‘‘ Well, how 
9 you like it, momma?” 
Mrs. Gold walked slowly 


ew there were houses 
xe this outside of the 
Oving pictures. Such a 
ining room, what a 
tchen! And such an ice- 
ox, with electric lights! 
md her own washing machine run by elec- 
icity ! ; 
“Look, momma,” Sammy said, opening 
» the pantry closets. ‘‘Did you see this? 
wo sets of dishes.” ; 
“Sammy, you didn’t rob nobody?” 
“T subleased it.” 
“But can we afford this, Sammy?” 
He placed his arms about her waist and 
ssed her cheek. ‘““Momma, how many 
es do I have to tell you? Our troubles are 
er. I’m smoking Lucky Gold cigarettes.” 
“Oh, Samella! Why is God so good to us?” 
“Let me show you the rocking chairs, 
omma.” He walked with her to the sun 
orch. ‘‘Sit, momma. Sit and rock.” 


Is mother sat down and, with her hands 

ded across her lap, she rocked back and 

rth, even after it began to rain. 

She heard a sound. ‘‘Samella, is that light- 

ng, or do I hear a doorbell?” 

“T think it’s a doorbell. You keep rocking.”’ 

When he returned, he held a paper in his 

and. 

She stopped rocking. “‘Sammy, what is 
Don’t keep secrets from me. You look 

e when I first saw you in the hospital.” 

“There’s nothing to worry about, 

omma,”’ he said, placing the paper in his 

side coat pocket. 

But Mrs. Gold wasn’t convinced. Neither 

as Sammy. 


By ten o'clock that evening, storm had 
gulfed the entire Eastern Seaboard. It was 
thunderstorm almost without parallel in 
ew York. Thousands of men throughout the 

who had been in Africa, Normandy, 
aly, Okinawa turned to their wives, and 
talled the many nights through which they 
d once lived. 

t on the fifteenth floor of the Graybar 
Mlding there was a different kind of fear. 
was the fear of men fighting for their eco- 
mic existence in the face of bankruptcy. 
The reception room of J. Richardson Asso- 
tes was packed. Carol had promised that 

. Richardson would be in to see them and 
by had been waiting most of the day. The 





ound theroom. Shenever > Young people tell what 
they are doing, old people 


what they have done, and 
fools what they wish to do. 
—FRENCH PROVERB. 


125 


storm outside was a matter of little concern. 
They could only think in terms of being 
wiped out. They wanted explanations, as- 
surances. 

When Maggy came into the office, she was 
drenched. She had to catch her breath. And 
when they swarmed about her, she said, 
“Please. Just give me a chance to get my 
bearings.” 

Carol cleared a path for her. When they 
were alone she said, ‘It’s been like that all 
day, Maggy. Nobody’s rational any more. 
Maybe it’s the weather. If you hadn’t shown 
up, they would have torn the office apart.” 


Maccy nodded while she tilted her head |. 


and ran a towel over her neck and _ hair. 
What a difference twenty-four hours had 


made. Now the-entire tenor had changed, 
practically overnight. She dropped the towel 


and picked up the evening papers. 


HENKEN DEMANDS INQUIRY 
CONGRESS MOVES SWIFTLY TO MEET CRISIS 
PSYCHIATRISTS AGREE HEROES POSSIBLE 
VICTIMS OF COMBAT FATIGUE 

SENATOR MATTHEWS ASKS FOR PROBE OF 
ADMINISTRATION—CALLS ‘“‘ MIRACLE”? GREAT- 
EST HOAX ON AMERICAN PEOPLE SINCE COOK 
CLAIMED DISCOVERY OF NORTH POLE. 


Maggy dropped the paper. She should’have 
known. Ina sense, she did know. Everybody 
past the sixth grade knew. Idealism was fine 
aslongasit was kept abstract. Sheshouldhave 
kept Jimmy in hand. The roof was starting to 
fall in on him. Now it was a question of sav- 
ing the pieces. And she did intend to save the 
agency. “‘I’ll see them now, Carol,”’ she said. 

“O.K., darling. You 
asked for it.” 

They came pushing, 
shoving, trampling into 
Maggy’s office. Kornheiser 
and Gruenwald and the 
account executive of Lila 
Hand Lotion and Exotica 
Lip Rouge. They shouted, 
pounded desks, demanded 
to know what her husband was attempting 
to do to them. Drive them into bankruptcy? 
“Business isn’t a Sunday school. You can’t 
run it according to Matthew, Mark, Luke 
and John.” They spoke about his efforts 
to undermine confidence in the American 
system. Gruenwald said, ‘“‘ You can consider 
my account closed as of this minute,’ and 
stormed out. 

The account executive of Exotica Lip 
Rouge gave her a lecture about the function 
of advertising. ‘It’s to create desires, Mrs. 
Richardson, and the human desires create 
jobs which give people employnient.” 

“T know,” Maggy said, so as not to an- 
tagonize them further. If they would only 
give her time, she was sure this would all 
straighten itself out. Then the phone rang. 

It was McCormick. She’d better get back 
to New Claremont as soon as possible. 
“They’ve just served Jimmy with a sub- 
poena, Maggy. He’s boiling.” 

She didn’t hear the rest of what Mac had 
to say. She grabbed her raincoat and pushed 
her way out of the office. 


She found him in the bedroom, sitting on 
the bed in the dark. When she put on the 
light, she saw-that he was wearing a white 
shirt. It was soaking wet, as were his face and 
hair, and there was mud on his shoes. 

“Where have you been, darling?”’ 

“Walking. I took a long walk, Maggy,” he 
told her. 

“Tn this weather!” 

“Why, Maggy, why?” he said, punching 
the pillow. “Why this effort to discredit the 
miracle? To distort ——’”’ He was so angry 
he could barely keep the tears out of his eyes. 

“You're bad for business, darling,” she 
said, wiping his face with her handkerchief. 

“Only the kind He wouldn’t approve of, 
Maggy.” He stood up. ‘Either The Sermon 
is to be taken seriously ——”’ 

“Darling, please get out of those wet 
clothes.” 

He undressed, and when they were in bed 
there was another series of storm explosions 
and he thought back to the nights he spent in 


Europe. 




















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Betty Crocker 
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FESTIVE 
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Betty Crocker 
Festive Chiffon Cake Recipe 


This recipe developed for SOFTASILK CAKE 
FLOUR only. Follow it exactly and make an 
ideal cake. 


Preheat oven to 325° (slow moderate). SIFT 
an ample amount of SOFTASILK CAKE FLOUR 
onto a square of paper. 


STEP 1. Measure (level measurements through- 
out) and SIFT together into mixing bowl: 
24 cups sifted SOFTASILK Cake Flour 
(spoon lightly into cup, don't pack) 
1% cups sugar 
3 tsp. baking powder 
1 tsp. salt 
Make a well and add in order: 
Y2 cup cooking (salad) oil such as Wesson 
5 unbeaten egg yolks (medium-sized) 
Y%, cup cold water 
2 tsp. vanilla 
grated rind of 1 lemon (about 2 tsp.) 
Beat with spoenuntil smooth. 


STEP 2. Measure into large mixing bowl: 

1 cup egg whites (7 or 8) 

Y2 tsp. cream of tartar 
Whip until whites form very stiff peaks. They 
should be much stiffer than for angel food or 
meringue. DO NOT UNDERBEAT. 


STEP 3. ... Pour egg yolk mixture gradually 
over whipped egg whites—gently folding with 
rubber scraper just until blended. po Nor 
stir. POUR into ungreased 10-in. tube pan, 
4-in. deep immediately. BAKE 45 minutes in 
slow moderate oven (325°) then increase to 
moderate oven (350°) for 10 to 15 minutes, or 
until top springs back when lightly touched. 


Immediately turn pan upside down, placing 
tube part over neck of funnel or bottle. Let 
hang, free of table, until cold. Loosen from 


sides and tube with spatula. Turn pan over 
and hit edge sharply on table to loosen. 
Split cake crosswise in 4 even layers with saw- 
toothed knife. Fill between layers with Rasp- 
berry, Apricot and Pineapple Fillings (below) 
Cover outside with remaining whipped crex: 
(below). Decorate with candied fruits, gun 
drops or nuts. Store in refrigerator. Manx 
16 to 20 servings. 
WHIPPED CREAM— Whip until very stiff 2 cups 
heavy cream. Fold in 4 tbsp. confectioners’ 
sugar. Use part in fillings—remainder for 
top and sides. : ; 
RASPBERRY FILLING (bottom)—Fold 14 cup 
thick raspberry jam into 4% cup of the sweetened 
whipped cream. 
APRICOT FILLING—Soften 1 tsp. unflavored 
gelatin in 1 tbsp. apricot juice. Dissolve over 
hot water. Stir into 4% cup mashed, sweetened, 
cooked apricots. Chill until almost firm. Fold 
in 4 cup of the sweetened whipped cream, 
1 tbsp. confectioners’ sugar. 
PINEAPPLE FILLING (top)—Soften / tsp. un- 
flavored gelatin in 1 tbsp. pineapple juice. Dis- 
solve over hot water. Stir into 14 cup 
well-drained, canned, crushed pineapple. 
Chill until almost firm. Fold in % cup 
of the sweetened whipped cream. 
If you live at an altitude over 2,500 feet, write 
Betty Crocker, General Mills, Minneapolis 1, 
Minnesota, for recipe adjustments. Specify 
recipe wanted. 


—A SPECIAL CAKE FLOUR fr AMERICAS FINEST CAKES! 







126 





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Sess CG CLTMGS / 


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How long since 


' 
enjoyed ‘em? Get some 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Then, the end of the world was hiding in 
each flash that lit up the sky. Each rolling 
barrage of thunder shook the earth. It was 
little consolation that what was happening to 
hun had happened to millions of other men— 
had happened throughout six thousand years 
and more of civilization. 

The bedroom burst into light for a brief 
moment and Maggy came even closer to him 
and he placed his mouth against her soft, 
comforting hair. Six thousand years of mass 
murder, looting, ruined cities, when all that 
decent men wanted out of this life was a 
woman, work they could be proud of, a home. 

He had tried to convince them that if they 
lived as true Christians, there would be no 
Communism, Fascism. More than half the 
world wouldn’t be on the verge of starvation, 
living in misery. How could he stop now? 
Even for Maggy? 

Another bolt of lightning tore loose from 
the skies and the house trembled. Maggy 
whispered, “‘ Darling, I love you.” 


The sun was bright again and New Clare- 
mont appeared to be one luxuriant garden. 
Some of the pilgrims who continued to con- 
gregate about Jimmy’s cottage observed that 
there was an almost semitropical warmth in 
the air. The more pious among the visitors 
were further convinced that this was a 
blessed town, destined to achieve greatness 
as a religious shrine along with Lourdes. 
Skeptics among the multitudes contended 
that the thunderstorm of the previous eve- 
ning was responsible for the semitropical gar- 
den atmosphere. The more belligerent dis- 
senters supported their opinions with their 
fists. 

As a result, the New Claremont police 
found it necessary to arrest four freethinkers, 
six self-admitted atheists, and two men 
wearing picket signs denouncing Jimmy as a 
foreign agent. They represented an organiza- 
tion called America Awake, dedicated to the 
patriotic principles of 100 per cent Anglo- 
Saxon white Protestant Christian Amer- 
icanism. They vehemently protested their 
arrest, said they had documents in their 
possession which conclusively proved that 
Richardson’s name was originally Richard- 
stein and that his parents came from a part 
of Czechoslovakia now incorporated into the 
Soviet Union. 

Notwithstanding rumors that Jimmy and 
his friends were escaped psychoneurotics, the 
slackening off of trade, the rapid decline in 
real-estate prices, work on the Memorial to 
the Living continued. 

The New York, New Haven and Hartford, 
in record time, had constructed a special 
spur line to the property donated by Dan. 
The steel, the lumber, the thousand and one 
items necessary to the project flowed into 
town and were stockpiled near the siding. 


Tr was Jimmy’s plan to visit the project 
that morning. Together, he and Maggy were 
breakfasting in the kitchen. She broke her 
toast without much appetite and _ said, 
“Jimmy, how far does this have to go?” 

“As far as Christianity was intended to 
go, baby,’’ he replied, pouring the coffee. 

“But if we get rid of the agency I 
don’t mind going out and getting a job. 
Honestly, I don’t, but we do have this house 
and obligations.” 

“Maggy, I can’t stop now.” 

“But it’s turning out just as Mac said it 
would, darling. They’re starting to crack 
down on you. All the people who have a 
stake in things as they are—they won’t let 
you get away with it. This is only your fifth 
day and look ee 

The phone interrupted. 

“Tt was mother, darling,” she said when 
she returned. ‘‘She’s meeting dad at the sta- 
tion. He’s coming in on the nine-forty. He 
wants me there too. He wired it’s terribly 
important.” = 

As soon as she had gone, Jimmy picked up 
a cigarette and wandered into the living 
room. He sat down on the ledge of a bay win- 
dow, drew the curtain aside, looked at all the 
men and women and children. Again he 
thought of the men and women and children 
he had seen in battered towns in France, 
Luxemburg, Belgium, Germany. 








Then Harvey, Sammy and Bill came back 
into his life... . 

They found Jimmy in the garden. He 
rushed toward them, shook their hands. He 
told them how great it was to see them again, 
asked how they were and how they were get- 
ting along. Bill told him about marrying 
Pat. Harvey talked about how he knocked 
them dead at the Music Hall. Sammy de- 
scribed the house he had subleased for :is 
mother. But Jimmy could see how troubled 
they were. Finally they gave him the details. 

“T was still on my honeymoon,” Bill said. 
“Technically it didn’t even start yet. In 
walks these two wrestlers and slaps me with 
this diploma.” 

“Me, they got,’ Sammy said, “while I 
was telling momma her troubles were over.” 

“They nailed me,’”’ Harvey said, ‘“‘at the 
happiest moment of my life.” He took a 
newspaper from the pocket of his tan sport 
jacket. ‘‘Did you see what Danton Walker 
said, Jimmy? He predicts they’ll have us 
back in the hospital before the week is 
over.” 

Jimmy grabbed the newspaper from him. 
“What does he use as facts?” 

“He’s a columnist, Jimmy,” Sammy ex- 
plained. “‘All he got to do is predict. It’s no 
secret, Jimmy. You’re making people satis- 
fied. You’re lousing up the laws of human 
nature.” 

“Look,” Jimmy said. “‘Nobody claimed 
the kind of world He wants us to live in 
would come easy. Somebody’s bound to be 
hurt.” 

“But why my wife?”’ Bill asked. 

“We don’t want to get tangled up with 
Congress, Jimmy,’’ Sammy said. ““We were 
just starting to live again.” 

“T’ve' got one of the sweetest bands,” 
Harvey said. ““We’ve got a coast-to-coast 
tour lined up. If I have to go to Washington 
to be investigated ——” 

“Honest, Jimmy,’’ Sammy said, “if they 
make us go back to the hospital I think I’d 
blow my brains out.” 

Jimmy stopped pacing, faced them di- 
rectly. “‘Listen, you three. Nobody’s making 
us go anywhere. Our miracle will stand any 
test, any investigation.” 

“We know it, Jimmy,” Harvey said sadly. 
“But does the Army? Does Congress?” 


“What about it, congressman?”’ the re- 
porters asked. ‘‘What about a statement? 
What did the President have to say?”’ 

“‘T’m sorry, boys,’”’ the congressman said, 
holding on to his wife and daughter, “‘but 
there’ll be no statement for the time being. 
Will you open the door, sergeant?” 

Bonzi opened the front door. “‘Why don’t 
they just move the capital to New Clare- 
mont?” 

“You may close the door from the outside, 
sergeant,”’ the congressman said while Mac 


December, 1949 


went to the bar. “Allow no one to enter un: 
less it’s on official business.” 

“Oh, dear,”’ Lucille muttered as Maggy re 
moved her hat and dropped it on the couch. 
“Jimmy’s friends are back.” 

“Good,” the congressman said. ‘‘ Perhaps 
it will make it easier.” 

Lucille didn’t hear him. She was staring 
out into the garden at the four of them clu# 
tered together. There was something strange, © 
mystical about them. And yet this was get- | 
ting deeper and deeper and she was in it up to | 
her neck and so were her husband and Da 
Arnold and Mr. Reynolds and Judge Stone, | 
and what if it was a terrible mistake? . 

She said, ‘‘Do you think they’ll accept the ~ 
proposition?” . 

“I don’t see any other possible way out,””) 
the congressman said. 

Mac poured himself a drink. “‘The Lord 
should have minded His own business.”’ 

Maggy said nothing. She didn’t want to 
lose her husband again for any reason. She 
hoped he would accept the proposition he: 
father brought from Washington. 


“What do they want in Washington, con: 
gressman?”’ Bill asked. ‘‘Blood? We gave 
them blood by the bucket.” 

The congressman studied the four as 
though they were apparitions. ‘‘I can’t pos 
sibly impress upon you gentlemen the gravity 
of the situation.” 

“We know,”’ Sammy said, showing his sub: 
poena. “We got our invitations.” 


‘The congressman removed a cigar from his 
handkerchief pocket. ‘‘I was called to the 
White House again early this morning while 
the President was breakfasting. The Presi 
dent is intensely disturbed, Jimmy. You must 
realize that Christianity has always been a 
satisfactory religion because outside of Sun: 
days, not too many people have permitted it 
to interfere with their lives.’ 

“But that was where it went wrong, con: 
gressman,” Jimmy said. ‘You yourself said 
the country was looking for faith.” - 

“No one expected you to be so specific) 
Nobody in Washington desires to press this 
investigation. The President has no desire 
to infringe upon the rights guaranteed to 
every American citizen under the Constitu: 
tion. At the same time, he does see the abso-: 
lute necessity for an immediate return to 
normalcy.” 1 

“By normalcy,” Jimmy asked, “you'mean 
life as it was while we were still in the hos- 
pital?” § 

Desperation crowded the congressman’s 
throat. “Believe me, Jimmy, nobody wants 
to make an issue.” 

““But there is no issue!”’ Jimmy tried to be 
as emphatic as he could. ‘‘ We’re only dealing 
with facts.” 

(Continued on Page 128) 


“You were elected captain of the team so you get’. 


to keep the mascot. How nice. . 


.. YOU WHAT?” 





— 











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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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128 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 












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“Jimmy, how far 
“As far as Chri 
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inyour money than 
hen you buy the 


(Continued from Page 126) 

“May I speak frankly, Jimmy?” 

‘ “As frankly as you like, sir.’ 

“There’s a strong feeling in Washington, 
Jimmy,” the congressman said, “‘now that 
the hysteria shows signs of receding—a feel- 
ing backed by medical authority in the De- 
partment of the Army *’—he paused and took 
a deep breath—‘“‘that there was no miracle at 
Rockwood Hospital the other night.” 

“What!” Jimmy exclaimed incredulously. 

Maggy moved quickly between her hus- 
band and her father. “‘ Darling, please. Please 
hear him out.” 

The congressman continued, “‘I personally 
consulted General Hotchkiss of the Surgeon 
General’s office before I left the Capitol this 
morning. There’s a tremendous amount of 
sympathy for you boys in top-level Army cir- 
cles. General Hotchkiss expressed the feel- 
ing... well, if you boys would voluntarily re- 
turn to the hospital se 

“Voluntarily ?”’ Sammy said. “After what 
the Army taught us about volunteering!” 

“Merely a matter of routine,” the con- 
gressman quickly explained. “‘Perhaps for a 
day at the most.” 

“For the purpose of proving what?” 
Jimmy asked. 

“There are many cases of brave young 
men who were victims of combat fatigue.” 

“You mean, congressman,” Harvey said, 
“that they believe we’re psychos?” 

“The general is confident there is no longer 
any need for further hospitalization.” 

“No,” Jimmy said. 

“T know what these congressional investi- 
gations can do, Jimmy,” the congressman 
said. ‘““Once they place you on the witness 
stand, no one is ever quite the same.” 





But rubbed his chin. “Let me get this 
straight, congressman,” he said slowly. ““We 
go back to the hospital; the medics give us 
the once-over, and that’s that. We can walk 
out of the hospital and become like every- 
body else?”’ 

“Exactly like everybody else.” 

Harvey looked at the congressman and 
said, ‘“‘I’ll buy that.” 

“Only for one day—guaranteed, congress- 
man?’’ Sammy asked. 

Jimmy turned around. ‘“‘No,” he shouted 
excitedly. ““Not for as much as a day, an 
hour, a split second.” 

“We don’t want to be heroes, Jimmy.” 

“But don’t you see, Sammy? If we go back 
to Rockwood without a fight, we’re admitting 
there was no miracle.” 

“All I want, Jimmy,” Bill said, “is to be 
with my wife.” 

“But there’s more involved, Bill.” 

“What, Jimmy?” Sammy asked. “What? 
How many times should a guy have to fight 
for justice? Once in a lifetime should be par 
for the course.” 

“But it isn’t, Sammy. Did you see those 
men and women out there? Multiply them 
by hundreds, thousands. If we go back—if 
we permit them to say we were frauds—we’ll 
be denying the proof we’ve given people that 
death isn’t the end—that there’s purpose be- 
hind agony and suffering—that there’s a 
premium on decency a 

Jimmy didn’t get the opportunity to com- 
plete his thought. Dan, followed by Mr. 
Reynolds, Judge Stone and the rest of the 
Memorial Committee, pushing Bonzi aside, 
broke into the living room. Seeing Jimmy and 
the congressman in the garden, they came 
outside. Lucille saw Dan grab her husband, 
say, ‘“Let’s have it straight, Watkins! Has 
this community been taken in along with the 
rest of the country?” 

“Nobody’s been taken in, Dan,” Jimmy 
said. 

“TI wasn’t talking to you!” Dan shouted. 

“Now, gentlemen,” the congressman said. 

“Don’t ‘gentlemen’ us,’”’ Reynolds said. 
“We've lost too much in the market to feel or 
behave like gentlemen.” 

“Stop hemming and hawing, Watkins,” 
Dan shouted. “‘I turned over a two-hundred- 
thousand-dollar property, not to mention 
the fact that my wife’s left me ——” 

“What?’’ Maggy asked. 

“She’s walked out on me—thanks to him. 
I came home an hour ago and found a note. 





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e can’t live with me any more. She said 
at our marriage was without moral founda- 
n. And now these rumors. Watkins, have I 

taken in by four psychoneurotics with a 


@ Fck-and-bull story about a visitation?” 


“Do you want me to put him away for the 
funt, Jimmy?”’ Bill asked. 
my cocked his fist. ‘‘Let me have the 
fpasure.”’ 
“Think of it!” Dan said. “Four psycho- 
[ths walk out of a veterans’ hospital in the 
ddle of the night with a fairy tale about a 
sitation and an entire nation ——” 
immy took hold of Dan’s lapels and prac- 
ally raised him off his feet. “It was 


ee Maggy cried. “Jimmy, Jimmy 
ng.” 
d Jimmy, suddenly remembering his 
bt that could never be repaid, released Dan, 
ped his hands together and closed his 
es. Slowly he lowered himself to his knees. 
Bill, Sammy and Harvey looked at one an- 
ther and then at Jimmy. Almost without 
sinking, each lowered himself to his knees 
id clasped his hands together. 
| Maggy, looking at the four of them, said to 
t father, ‘‘What can a congressional com- 
ttee do to them?”’ 
The congressman shrugged his shoulders. 


Two days later, Stephen McCormick en- 

ed the office of Congressman Watkins in 
e House Office Building. He heard his wife’s 
ords over and over again. 

“Why should you think of me?” she had 
ated him. “I’m only your wife—mother 
your children. UNS would always take 

bu back. Well, I hope you’re satisfied.” 

Mac went to the water cooler and closed 

is eyes. All right, Smitty 

puldn’t take him back. 

e was stuck with Rich- 

dson. He filled a paper 

ip and sipped without en- 


» 


If you wish to know a thou- 
sand years, then consider 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


ardson became a casualty in the crossing of 
the Rhine when seven shell fragments pene- 
trated the lower region of his spine.” 

Representative Henken pounded his gavel. 
mh committee, colonel,” he said, “is not 
Investigating the combat achievements of 
the witnesses. We are interested in knowing 
why those four men have not been recalled 
to the hospital.”’ 

“They were discharged two days after 
they walked out.” 

“Without a final examination?” 

“The order came directly from Washing- 
ton.” 

Representative Henken glanced signifi- 
cantly at his colleagues. 

“How many years have you been in the 
medical profession, colonel?” Congressman 
Hail of Michigan asked. 

“Thirty-five, sir.” 


Concressman HALL squinted, leaned for- 
ward in his chair. “And as a man of science, 
colonel, despite the testimonies of previous 
experts, you insist ——”’ 

“As aman of science, sir,” the colonel said, 
mopping his forehead, “‘I still insist ——’’ 
He turned his head slowly until his eyes 
were fixed on Jimmy, Sammy, Harvey and 
Bill. “I still insist,” he said, “that they 
cannot be forced to return against their will 
to the hospital.” 

There was applause from the spectators 
and photographers rushed forward. 

Representative Henken shouted, ‘In 
other words, colonel, you would permit 
these four men to roam the country, under- 
mining the very foundations (2 

“My only concern, Mr. Chairman,”’ the 
colonel shouted back, “‘is with medical prob- 
lems that reflect upon the 
efficiency of my hospital. 
The nature of these 
wounds ——” 

“This committee is not 





i: : today. —HSUN 12U. ee 

usiasm until the phone questioning the nature of 
ee Ta es |= he wounds! We are in- 
“Yes, this is Congress- terested only in the forces 


an Watkins’ office. .. . No, he has no inten- 
yn of resigning from Congress or the Repub- 
‘an Party.” 
He hung up and sat down in the congress- 
an’s swivel chair. He thought the occasion 
ed for some quiet, indolent music, so he 
visted the knob of the portable radio and 
e hushed voice of Ben Semour came through 
e loud-speaker: 
“Ladies and gentlemen. For those who 
ed in late, we are broadcasting from the 
aucus Room where the House Miracle Com- 
ittee is completing its second day of hear- 


ROUGH his voice, Mac could hear the 
wud of a pounding gavel, and the noises of 
gitated spectators. Then Ben Semour an- 
dunced in his confidentiat tone: 
“Representative Henken, of Mississippi, 
airman of the House Miracle Committee, 

again banging his gavel for order. The 
*xt voice you hear will be that of Repre- 
mntative Henken, of Mississippi, chairman 
the House Miracle Committee.” 


The Caucus Room was brilliant with hot, 
hite lights, and Representative Henken 
anged his gavel with vigor. Spectators 
ed every inch of space. 
The room was still stirring with restless ex- 
ement. Representative Henken banged his 
avel against the table once again. Then he 
eclared, “If there is any more singing of 
or any public prayers in this here 
ittee room. . . . This committee will 
Ot be intimidated by well-organized minori- 
6s who would like to alter our American 
of life.” He paused significantly. 
Representative Henken fastened his eyes 
pon Colonel Fairchild. 
swer the question, colonel. Are you, or 
Ave you ever been, a member of any sub- 
sive organization, sir?” 
~ Not to the best of my knowledge.” — 
“But still, colonel, you insist upon with- 
ding 
“I'm not withholding anything!” the 
Slonel said with exasperation. “Here are 
heir records, Mr. Chairman. Sergeant Rich- 


an 













ym 





and motives that prompted their subver- 
sive ——” 

“Mr. Chairman!”’ Jimmy said, jumping 
to his feet. ‘I protest this effort of a few 
members of Congress to belittle the Al- 
mighty ——’” 

Representative Henken pounded his gavel. 
“Order . . . order. One more interruption 
from you, Mr. Richardson, and I shall hold 
you in contempt.” He surveyed the chaos in 
the Caucus Room. ‘Order. If I can’t have 
order, I shall direct the marshals ——” 


“You still insist, Father Casey,’’ Repre- 
sentative Henken said, looking at the priest 
in the witness chair, “that this all developed 
out of an innocent game of gin rummy?” 

“What I said, Mr. Chairman, was that the 
game of gin rummy might have precipitated 
a much-needed chain of events.” 

These priests, Representative Henken 
thought. “Is it not a fact, Father Casey, that 
during that game Mr. Richardson asked you, 
and I quote from the records of the FBI, 
‘How does one go about doing business with 
the devil, father?’” 

ies; but ———* 

“In your experience as a servant of the 
Lord, do you find men in their right minds 
attempting to consummate bargains with 
the forces of evil?”’ 

“In my experience, they consummate 
them every day.” 

Representative Henken chose to disregard 
the remark. ‘‘I submit, sir, would any man in 
his right mind attempt to spread discord 
among the American people with false the- 
ories designed to glorify the underprivileged, 
discredit the rich, the successful, those of us 
who have brought civilization to its present 
state?” ; ay: 

“Mr. Chairman,” Jimmy said, rising to 
his feet again. “‘I protest. I demand the right 
to be heard. The Sermon on the Mount was 
not printed in Moscow.” 

“You may step down, Father Casey.” 

Father Casey rose and stepped off the 
platform. When he reached the table where 
Jimmy was sitting with Sammy, Harvey and 
Bill, he placed his hand upon Jimmy’s 





129 






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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


shoulder, said, “‘I didn’t foresee this, Jimmy, 
when I lit the candles.” 

“It’s still worth it, father,” Jimmy said. 

“All right, Mr. Richardson,” Representa- 
tive Henken interrupted. ‘You may take the 
stand.” 

Jimmy stood up and a hush fell over the 
Caucus Room as he went to the witness chair 
with his Bible under his arm. This was the 
moment he had been waiting for. 


““... the whole truth and nothing but the 
truth, so help you God?” the clerk asked. 

Jimmy raised his right hand a little higher. 
“T do, sir,’”’ he said. “May I read my state- 
ment now?” 

Representative Henken glanced at his 
colleagues. ““The committee would like to 
see the statement, first.” 

“Gladly,” Jimmy said, and he walked di- 
rectly to the table where the committee was 
sitting. When he reached it, he took the 
Bible from under his arm, opened it to the 
Sermon on the Mount, placed the opened 
pages before Representative Henken. 

The committee looked at the Bible and 
then at one another. They were slightly con- 
fused. They went into a huddle around the 
chairman. After a few minutes they returned 
to their chairs and Representative Henken, 
after a few raps with his gavel, declared, 
“The committee, after due deliberation, has 
decided the statement is not pertinent to the 
inquiry. The Sermon on the Mount will not 
be read into the record.” 

“But it’s my defense, Mr. Chairman,” 
Jimmy protested. “Everything I’ve said, 
tried to do ——” 


“The Sermon on the Mount is not the _ 


subject of this investigation.” 

“But it is!” Jimmy said. “That’s what 
this hearing is all about. It’s not ——’” 

“Order,’”’ Representative Henken said. 
“The witness will confine his statements to 
the questions asked. Do you still insist you 
carried on a conversation with the Almighty?” 

“T submit our bodies as evidence.”’ 

“Would you have any objection to inform- 
ing this committee how the Lord was dressed 
for your conversation?” 

“As I found out, Mr. Chairman, one 
doesn’t exactly see the Lord. One gets to 
feel His presence—profoundly.” 

“What did the two of you talk about?” 

Jimmy remained silent. The bargain was 
sacred. 

“T might remind the witness,’’ Representa- 
tive Henken said, “that no citizen has the 
right to withhold information from a con- 
gressional committee. What did you allegedly 
discuss?” 


Awp then Jimmy suddenly felt a warm 
glow. He stood up slowly. There were some 
among the spectators who swore later that it 
was as though the Caucus Room were en- 
tirely blacked out except for the klieg lights 
pin-pointed upon Jimmy. 

“He’s in the committee room now, Mr. 
Chairman,” Jimmy said. 

“Who is?” Representative Henken asked. 
““Who’s in this here committee room now?” 

“God,” Jimmy said. 

There was a moment of tomblike silence. 
Then the entire Caucus Room was in an up- 
roar. 

Representative Henken excitedly banged 
his gavel and shouted, “‘Order! Order! .. . 
Your efforts to throw this hearing into chaos 
will not be tolerated, Mr. Richardson.” 

Jimmy, still looking upward, said, “Yes, 
Father.” 

“The committee is not impressed by the 
witness’ delusions of grandeur,” Representa- 
tive Henken said. ‘You will conduct your- 
self properly, Mr. Richardson, or I shall hold 
you in contempt.” 

Jimmy said, “Not in as much contempt as 
the Lord says He holds those who are trying 
to discredit 2 Bee 

“Officer,” Representative Henken shouted 
apoplectically to a guard, “‘take that witness 
from the stand. I’m holding you in contempt 
of Congress, Mr. Richardson.” 

A gray-uniformed guard stepped forward. 

“Tt won’t help, Mr. Chairman,” Jimmy 
said. ‘“God has looked upon the results of 
His miracle and He’s found them good.” 





Representative Henken stood up. His face 
was red, his rage uncontrollable. Never had 
he witnessed such impudence, such disre- 
spect for high office. “Officer, take that man 
away. He’s mad! He’s stark, raving mad! 
He’s ——”’ __ But that was as far as Repre- 
sentative Henken got. His words were sud- 
denly paralyzed in his throat. He toppled 
across the long table. 


“The doctors left little doubt,” the radio 
announcer said, “that Representative Hen- 
ken’s collapse was due to a liver condition. 
Representative Hall, of Michigan, who as- 
sumed the duties of chairman, ascribed his 
colleague’s sudden death as due to his un- 
tiring efforts to restore normalcy. 

“Meanwhile, thereisno confirmation of the 
rumor that disabled veterans are leaving 
Government hospitals in protest against the 


KOK KE OK ER 


See Sasa 


ff, 
of lhe Snow 
By Marion Lineaweaver 


Have you seen winter, dressed for 
Christmas Eve, 

Bodice of stars, and wreath of 
mistletoe? 

Her shoes of thinnest ice move to 
and fro, 

Ringing her belled skirt as she 
takes her leave. 

She strides across the hills to 
Bethlehem. 

Blue as the night, her streaming, 
radiant hair 

Shelters the lynx, the wolf, the 
polar bear, 

And mice, birds, rabbits go in 
peace with them. 


She carries flakes of snow, and 
forest lace 

Lifted from some calm, lightly 
frosted tree; 

A wind-blown flute, wrought of 
white filigree, 

And a tall, crystal sheath of fleur- 
de-lis. 

The seas of dark divide before 
her grace, 

The holy, burning beauty of her 
face. 


Kix K KK K® KS 


House Miracle Committee’s action in citing 
Jimmy for contempt.” 

For the record, that announcement was 
made one week, almost to the minute, after 
Jimmy, Harvey, Sammy and Bill had walked 
out of the hospital. 


At 11:17 p.M., there was another bulletin. 
“We interrupt this program for an important 
news bulletin. Washington. The Department 
of Commerce has just announced that, as of 
six o’clock this evening, normalcy has been 
restored to all parts of the nation. Retail buy- 
ing was heavy throughout the day. Demands 
for alcoholic beverages, cars, cosmetics, 
apparel, television sets and night-club reser- 
vations indicated that whatever fear Amer- 
ican citizens might have had ——” 


“They should be back soon, shouldn’t 
they, sergeant?” Lucille asked, lifting the 
chintz curtain at the bay window. 

Bonzi stuck the remains of the apple into 
his mouth while he completed dialing head- 
quarters, wished the congressman’s wife 
would stop yapping. Then he got through to 
headquarters. 

“T need more reinforcements, captain,’’ he 
said. ‘‘The governor can wash his hands to- 
morrow. The local citizens don’t like what’s 
going on, either. They wish they’d never 














December, 194 


heard of him. . . . They had another mee 
ing in the high-school auditorium a fe 
hours ago. The whole community | 
Bonzi flipped the core of the apple into t | 
fireplace. “‘O.K., captain, but I won’t b 
responsible.’”’ He heard the scream of motot 
cycle sirens outside. ‘‘He’s back, captair 
Keep the riot squads handy.” 

He hung up, returned to the window. 
saw a couple of wise guys, tall, thin young 
sters with trouble in their hands. He i 
stinctively hoisted his cartridge belt a b 
higher about his stocky waist, tapped his ré 
volver and rushed out of the house. 

But Bonzi was too late. 
| 

Somehow it pained Jimmy more than 
the jagged pieces of steel that had once pen 
trated his body. The fragmentary bits 
eggshells remained plastered to his facl 
He remained standing on the steps of th 
cottage with Sammy, Harvey and Bill oj 
one side of him, and Maggy on the other, hi 
hands limp, while additional eggs pommelei 
his face and body and clothes. 












































Tue street was filled with shouting ani 
jeers and Bonzi said to Maggy, “‘ You bette 
get him inside the house quick.” 

Jimmy protested, but Maggy grabbed hi 
arm and pulled-him through the door. 

Lucille said, ‘‘ What has he got on his face 
Maggy?” 

“The order of the yolk with albume 
cluster,’’ Sammy said angrily. ‘You win tha 
for stubbornness beyond the call of commo) 
sense.” 

“At the station,” Bill said, “‘he picked uw 
a vegetable salad.” 

Harvey threw his hat against the couch 
He was so sore he was ready to bawl. 

Jimmy thought he would change the sub 
ject. ““What goes with the memorial?” h 
asked Lucille while Maggy wiped his fac 
with a handkerchief. 

Lucille couldn’t tell him all the details o 
what took place only a few hours ago. 

“One fact remains obvious,” Mr. Rey 
olds had said from the stage of the aud! 
torium. “As long as Richardson remains it 
New Claremont we will have no peace. H 
will continue to attract crowds. And I migh 
add, with the element he attracts, we can ex 
pect a devaluation in property values.” 

“The Memorial Committee voted itsel] 
out of existence, Jimmy,” she said, her eye 
on her daughter. She had to have a talk witl 
Maggy. No one would expect a lovely gir 
like her daughter to remain married to a mali 
who could bring her only a lifetime of misery 
“Whatever can be returned will be.” 

Jimmy was too weary to protest ant 
Maggy’s handkerchief and hands felt sooth 
ing agaist his face. 

“Tt’s only a scratch, baby,” he said. 

“We got to keep you alive for the courts, 
Sammy said. 

“Don’t touch it, dearest,’’ Maggy said. Sh 
hesitated a moment and finally hurried int}, 
their bedroom. She felt lost and helpless. 

“T can remember,”’ Sammy said, lookin 
out at the rock garden, “when I thought jus 
being able to walk was such a big deal.” 

Jimmy offered him a cigarette. “It is 
Sammy,” he said. ‘““What about somethin; 
to drink?”’ 

Sammy nodded. 

Jimmy went to the bar and filled thy 
glasses. He noticed that the guys were sittin; 
around the room exactly as they were a week 
ago. He heard Bill say, ‘I can remembe’ 
when I felt like a banker.” 

“Can I give you a hand, Jimmy?” Harvey 
asked. ! 

“You can grab those potato chips,” Jimmy 
said, and when each of them had a glass anc 
some chips, he lowered his head and whi 
pered, ‘‘For the gift of this food H 

“For what, Jimmy?” Sammy exploded] 
hurling his glass against the ivy-covered wg* 
in the garden. ‘‘To get insulted? To play} 
shortstop for last week’s eggs? Half of thei 
are out there for the side show. Maybe they 
see blood. Your blood.” ; 

“There’s still the other half,” Jimmy said 

Bill stood up. ‘“Sammy’s right, Jimmy. N 
matter what you tell them, they don’ 

(Continued on Page 132) 





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(Continued from Page 130) 
believe you. All you’ve got to show them is 
our bedies.”’ 

“That’s more than enough.” 

“But it isn’t, Jimmy,” Harvey said. ‘The 
committee’s got psychiatrists, college pro- 
fessors, with all kinds of fancy degrees.” 

“We left the hospital to be normal human 
beings again,’’ Bill said as Maggy returned. 

“You call this being a normal human 
being?” Sammy asked. He turned to Maggy. 
“For twenty-eight years I lived in peace with 
Congress. Once in a while I voted. That was 
the end of it. I didn’t bother Congress and 
they didn’t bother me.” 

“Tt’s nothing, Maggy,” Jimmy said as she 
proceeded to clean his cut. 

“Shut up, darling,” she said. “‘ You’re all 
I have.” 

“Now,” Sammy continued, “‘ we’re a con- 
spiracy against western civilization.” 

“This ain’t no improvement on walking 
around in the dark,” Bill said. “This is like 
being in love with a woman and not being 
able to do anything to make her happy.” 


‘ Wuart does God expect us to do, Jimmy?” 
Sammy asked. ‘‘Spend the rest of our lives 
fighting Congress? They’ve got a terrific 
organization.” 

“Let’s put an end to it, Jimmy,’’ Harvey 
said. 


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“Let’s finish our drinks, Rebel,” Jimmy 
replied. 

“That contempt citation, Jimmy,” Sammy 
said. ““ You can’t trade it in for less than six 
months in jail. Jail’s almost as bad as the 
Army.” 

“This way we hop into a cab,” Bill ex- 
plained. “‘Rockwood Hospital,’ we say to the 
driver. He drives us through the gates. We 
walk up the steps. We register at the desk 
and go through a physical. One night, Jimmy. 
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Miracle Trucking Company.” 

“Army Public Relations will give out with 
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Jimmy,” Harvey said. ““We’re also thinking 
about you and Maggy.” 

“Rebel,” Jimmy said, “if we let them get 
away with this, this country will never be 
safe for another miracle.’ 

“It’s going to pot anyway,” Sammy said. 
“Why kid yourself, Jimmy? Soon as you 
were cited, the market shot up, the Navy an- 
nounced it was testing a new bomb.” 

“You can’t stop it, Jimmy,’’ Harvey ar- 
gued. “In another month, another day ——” 

“You'll be like a channel swimmer or a 
pyramid club,’’ Sammy said. “Only you’ll 
either be in a nut factory or in Leavenworth.”’ 

Jimmy grabbed the towel Maggy had on 
his cheek and he tossed it into the wash- 
basin. ‘‘ You can all come visit me with your 
fruit baskets,” he said, going to the window. 

Maggy went to the garden door, covered 
her eyes with her hand while Sammy, Har- 
vey and Bill looked at one another. 

They had already discussed their plans in 
the smoker when the train was pulling out of 
Philadelphia. Sammy and Harvey gestured 
to Bill to speak up. When he hesitated, they 
pushed him toward Jimmy. 

Finally, after swallowing hard, Bill said, 
“Jimmy, could it be that maybe—maybe 
you made a little mistake that night?” 

“What!’’ Jimmy said, turning around and 
grabbing him. “‘From you guys too?” He 
held up his right hand. “‘These are my 
fingers, Bill. Remember when you couldn’t 
see them? And those legs of yours, Sammy. 
And yours, Rebel. Are you going to let them 
make you forget?” 

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said. ‘““You read the papers, listen to the 
radio. A guy doesn’t know what to believe, 
any more. And those scientists from Harvard 
who testified on the witness stand ——”’ 

“They were experts,’ Sammy said. 
“They’ve got nothing to do all day but 
study. Maybe we were psychos and we 
didn’t know it.” 

“We weren’t psychos,” Jimmy saia 
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who needed help. More help than all the 
accumulated knowledge of man could give 
us. 

“But how do we know for sure?”? Samm 
asked. “You blacked out on the Rhine. 1 
was in a tank. Rebel got his in the Bulge. 
Bill went out in the Saar. Maybe we’ve been 
living in a dream. Sometimes a person 
“wants something so desperately HY 

“As desperately as you three guys want 
to get out of this?”’ 

“There’s no future if we stick with this 
miracle story,” Sammy said. ‘“The parades 
are over. From here on in, it’s murder.” 

Bill went over to Jimmy. “They’ll get us 
back into the hospital one way or another. 
They got the setup. Ain’t it better we go back 
ourselves—like gentlemen? They’ve got us 
tagged, Jimmy. We're screwballs.” 

“Have you characters had your say?” 
Jimmy asked. “All right. Now sit down and 
listen to me.” 

“Tt ain’t no use, Jimmy,” Bill said. ‘““We 
talked it over. We’re going back to the hos- 
) pital—tonight.”’ 

“Listen to me, you three.’’ How could he 
make them understand? “You can’t do this 
to God!” 

“What out does He give us, Jimmy?” Bill 
_ | asked. “You can’t keep a wife happy telling 

her that you'll pray she'll get groceries, 
clothes to wear a 
“T’ve got an old lady,” Sammy said. 
“And Harvey has a career,” Jimmy 
. shouted, “‘and there isn’t a man or woman 
| alive who can’t find a good and logical reason 
| for walking out on his conscience.” 












“Stop it, Jimmy!” 
| Maggy couldn’t stand it 
any more. 


“Maggy,” he said, as 
if his breath had been 
knocked out of him. 

“Let them go back, 
Jimmy, and go with them. 
It’s only for one night. One 
night isn’t so terribly long after seven years.” 

“Not from you, too, Maggy?” 

“We can’t go on like this,” she said, burst- 

— | ing into tears. “None of us. Let them have 
their precious normalcy. Darling’’—she put 
her arms about him and rested her tear-wet 


» 


| you still love me.” 
| “Maggy, don’t confuse ——” 
“Before the war you always said the world 
belonged to the practical men.” 

“That was before the war. But I’ve seen 
what practical men do. The kids who are still 
in the hospital, Maggy. They’re there be- 
cause practical men 

“But the same men are still in charge, 
darling.” 

“What do you say, Jimmy?” Bill asked, 
standing at the doors leading into the garden. 
“Are you coming to the hospital with us?” 





Berore Jimmy could answer, a stone came 
crashing through the window and glass ex- 
ploded over the living room. From outside 
the cottage the shouts and yells of the crowd 
were heard and then Bonzi opened the door 
and said, ““ You’ve got company, Jimmy.” 

Jimmy, picking up the stone, said, “I’m 
not seeing anyone, Bonzi.” 

“You better see these people, Jimmy,” 
Bonzi said. “The situation is getting out of 
hand. Maybe they have the solution. I think 
you’d better see these people.” 


i 


They all waited impatiently outside the 
door of the cottage amidst the howls and cat- 


calls of the crowd. State troopers and soldiers 
of the national guard stood on the edge of 
the lawn, facing the shouting men and women 

- | and kids. 

They, the leading members of the commu- 
we | nity, were uneasy and uncomfortable and 
\ deiome were sick with a personal misery about 
| the entire situation. The fact was that J immy 

had risked his life for his country, and if a 

0 mistake had been made it wasn’t altogether 

his fault. 

a Most of them didn’t care any longer 
whether Richardson was a madman with a 
Messiah complex or an undercover agent for 
the Kremlin. They wanted the crowds out of 





Silence is not always a 
Sign of Wisdom, but Bab- 
bling is ever a Folly. 


face against his chest—“‘ while we still have a , 
home, the remains of an income. Jimmy, ifs 































LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL Les 


New Claremont and they couldn’t afford to 
be sentimental. It was either their homes, } 
their future security—or young Richardson. 
When Bonzi opened the door they filed into 
the living room like a jury that had reached 
its verdict and they collectively set their jaws 
as they stood back of Dan Arnold and 
waited for him to make their decision known. 


Tr was a reasonable decision, Dan thought, 
considering the damages inflicted upon New 
Claremont in general and himself in particu- 
lar. He wondered whether anyone could tell 
he had been drinking. 

He had full control of his faculties. Gen- 
erally he wasn’t a man who drank to escape. 
But there were times a man had no alterna- 
tive. Brought him peace where there was no 
peace, and how could she have left him—left 
him alone in that big house with modern fur- 
niture all done in white? Where did she come 
off leaving him with a note that their mar- 
riage was without moral foundation? He had 
to drink to get her out of his mind. Helene’s 
leaving him was Jimmy’s fault, too, and 
why hadn’t he remained in the hospital 
where he belonged? 

“T’ll do my best to be brief, Richardson,” 
Dan said. ‘‘We’re here with a specific offer, 
a generous one from the people of this com- 
munity. We’ve been authorized to purchase 
this house.” 

“This house is not for sale, Dan,’’ Maggy 
said. 

“The asking price is not a consideration, 
Mrs. Richardson,’ Mr. Reynolds inter- 
rupted. ‘We'll be happy to set you up in 
Connecticut, Richardson. 
Only leave us in peace and 
take those—those’’—he 
looked at Sammy, Harvey 
and Bill —‘‘those friends 
of yours with you.” 

And then the tears came 
to Jimmy. He couldn’t 
stop them. They flooded 
his eyes and ran over his cheeks. The guys 
were right. Why couldn’t God fight His 
own battles? 

“O dear God in heaven,” he sobbed, press- 
ing his hands together. “Why? Why?” He 
walked toward the garden and time suddenly 
ceased for him. 

“Now, look here, Richardson,” Dan said. 
“You're not going to pray your way out of 
this. You’ve disrupted our lives, made us the 
laughingstock of the country. We're giving 
you twenty-four hours,” Dan said. * You un- 
derstand? Twenty-four hours.”’ 

“Shut up, Mr. Arnold,” Sammy said, “and 
let him concentrate. You heard what hap- 
pened to Henken.” 

“We'll give you twice what the house is 
worth, Mrs. Richardson,” Mr. Reynolds 
said. “‘Three times. You can name your own 
price.” 

“Fellows,” Jimmy said, turning to Sammy 
and Harvey and Bill, “we’ve got to hold 
out—we’ve got to!” 

And then, while Jimmy was imploring 
them to see this through with him, Congress- 
man Watkins and Steve McCormick came 
into the house. 

The congressman was shaking. McCor- 
mick went directly to the bar, filled a 
water glass with straight Scotch. While 
he drank it the congressman, ignoring the 
people assembled in the living room, said, 
“It’s true, Jimmy. I just had a call from the 
White House. It’s true. It’s worse than the 
millennium. They’re leaving the hospitals 
like the dead walking out of their graves.” 

““Who’s leaving the hospitals?” Dan asked. 

“The disabled veterans,” Mac said, refill- 
ing his glass. 

The congressman loosened his tie and 
opened his collar. He no longer cared about 
his career, his future in the House. He just 
wanted stability, an end to continuous Crisis. 
“From Rockwood, Halloran, Walter Reed. 
They’re getting out of their beds, defying the 
regulations. They’re leaving the hospitals in 
wheel chairs, on crutches. The lame leading 
the blind through the gates.” 

“Have you gone mad, too, 
Dan exploded. f 

Mac raised his glass. “I drink to the faith 
that can make the wounded leave hospitals.” 


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“Make sense, Mac,”” Maggy pleaded. 

“He’s making wonderful sense, baby,” 
Jimmy said. 

“They refuse to listen to reason, Jimmy,” 
the congressman said. ‘“‘They’re walking 
along the highways in uniforms, pajamas, 
bathrobes, like a ghost army walking through 
the night. The authorities are appealing to 
them to turn back, but they refuse to listen.” 

“What will that do to the market?” Mr. 
Reynolds asked. 

“Don’t you see, fellows?”’ Jimmy said to 
Sammy and Harvey and Bill. ‘“‘They don’t 
want the old kind of normalcy back, either. 
It isn’t what they were promised for their 
legs, their eyes.”’ 

“Ask them to go back peacefully, Jimmy,”’ 
the congressman pleaded. ‘‘ No one wants the 
boys to remain in the hospitals indefinitely. 
But ask them to leave through normal chan- 
nels. This can put us back where we were yes- 
terday—even farther back.” 

“Don’t you see, fellows?’”’ Jimmy said to 
Sammy and Harvey and Bill. “‘Don’t you 
see? We’re not alone. We’re not doing this for 
ourselves alone.” 


It was a long, gray bus and, as it raced 
along the Bronx River Parkway with its 
headlights piercing the night and the winding 
road, the driver gripped the large steering 
wheel tightly and leaned forward in his 
seat. 

He was a large, powerfully built Negro. 
Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, he 
knew he was overdue. He realized that what 
he was doing would probably cost him his 
job, but he didn’t care. 

He hadn’t felt like this since he was part of 
the Redball Express, driving ammo and ra- 
tions in a six-by-six. That was the only time 
during the war that he had a feeling that he 
was part of it. It was rugged work driving the 
Redball, and he was scared stiff of mines and 
Krauts, but it made him feel like a man, the 
equal of any man, black or white. And that 
was how he felt now. 

He had been tearing along the state high- 
way along the Hudson just outside of Rock- 
wood when he first spotted them. When his 
headlights first picked them up he didn’t 
know what to make of them. Most of them 
were either limping or using crutches and 
some of them were wearing bathrobes over 
their pajamas. When they waved their hands 
and crutches at him in the familiar manner of 
all hitchhikers, he slammed on his brakes and 
the bus screeched, protested, eventually 
stopped. 

They told him who they were, where they 
wanted to go and why. A few of the passen- 
gers said they had important appointments 
in New York, Chicago and other places, but 
he paid no attention. He felt pretty strongly 
about Jimmy Richardson himself. He 
thought the guy had something on the ball. 
So he told the boys to pile in and the passen- 
gers to pile out if they weren’t happy. 

They sat four in a seat, on the arm rests, 
stood packed together in the aisle. When he 
drove off into the night, he had that feeling 
again—that he was part of something impor- 
tant and he didn’t care about tomorrow. 


Wuen he entered New Claremont, he 
pressed down on the horn. Crowds, seeing the 
passengers he had, cleared a path. He asked 
a little girl where Jimmy Richardson lived 
and she pointed straight ahead, and soon he 
pulled up in front of the cottage. Not one 
among the thousands standing about the 
cottage could recall ever seeing a bus quite 
like that one. 

The noise and shouting subsided and those 
who had hurled the rocks at the house and 
through the window tried to find anonymity 
in the vastness of the crowd. 

When Bonzi stepped forward to find out 
what this was all about now, the colored 
driver said: 

“These guys would like to speak to 
Jimmy Richardson.” 

And Bonzi, looking at the faces in the bus 
windows, knew who they were; he told them 
to wait. He went past the leading citizens di- 
rectly to Jimmy and he told them that a bus 
had just pulled up. He told them about the 
bathrobes and pajamas. 


























December, 


“They want to talk to you, Jimmy. 7 
said they want you to know that th 
burned up about you being cited for 
tempt. They don’t want you to quit.” 

“Bonzi, I love you,”’ Jimmy said, em 
ing him. It was so clear now. The whole 
ture fitted together. How could he ever He 
doubted? Of course it wasn’t easy to li 
a Christian, but there really was no alte 
tive. 

With or without the guys, with or wit 
his wife, with or without friends, there 
no alternative. ‘‘The Brotherhood of Mai 
not subject to interpretation, my son’’— 
he still had so much work to do. He pick 
his Bible and started toward the front dq. 

Dan said, “‘ Tell them to go back, Richa} 
son. You heard the congressman. Order t 
to go back.” ‘i 

“Would you mind stepping out of t 
doorway, Dan?’’ Jimmy asked. He was a’ 
ious to speak to the guys outside. 


“Orper them to go back, Richardso 
Dan repeated. He meant business. He did 
mind losing a wife, but he wasn’t going to 
driven into bankruptcy by a young crack 
who could pull disabled veterans out of t 
hospitals. ‘Stay where you are, Richardso 
he said. 

“Dan,” Maggy said, ‘‘you’re drunk.” 

“Stay where you are, Richardson.” } 
saw Jimmy advancing across the living roo! 
toward him and he was suddenly filled wi’ 
fear and imagined Jimmy was going to grz 
him and kill him. ‘Stay where you ar), 
Richardson,” he repeated. “Don’t con}. 
any nearer.” But the kid kept moving ti | 
ward him. He searched for something to pro 
tect himself with, and not seeing anythin 
but Sergeant Bonzi’s revolver, he reache 
out and grabbed that. 

“Hey, give me that gun,”” Bonzi shoutec 

“Stay where you are, Richardson,” Da: 
said, pointing the revolver at Jimmy. 

“Don’t move, Jimmy !’’ Maggy screamed: 
“He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’: 
doing.” 

“T have work to do, Dan,” Jimmy said 
and continued toward the front door. 

And the fear within Dan became greater 
and though he didn’t mean to do it, in his 
drunken panic he did it nevertheless. He 
pulled the trigger. 

There was a deafening explosion and he 
heard Maggy scream, “ Jimmy! Jimmy!” and 
Dan stood there with his right hand shaking | 
and he wanted to tell them that he didn’t 
mean to do it. He didn’t mean to kill Jimmy. 
He was only scared, frightened of what the 
future might hold. 

Then he saw Jimmy standing. He saw | 
Jimmy standing and there was a confident — 
smile on Jimmy’s face as he placed his arm 
about Maggy’s waist and said, “Are you | 
coming with me, fellows?” 

“But I couldn’t have missed,’’ Dan sobbed. | 
“T saw the bullet go through him... . I saw 
it—I saw it!” 

Watching Jimmy go out through the front | 
door with Maggy, Sammy turned to Harvey 
and Bill and said, “‘Jimmy’s sure got good © 
connections, ain’t he?”’ 


They piled out of the bus and formed a 
semicircle on the lawn around Jimmy. Rest- 
ing on their crutches and one another’s arms, 
they listened intently while Jimmy said to 
them, ‘‘The promises have to be kept, fel- 
lows. We have to make them keep the 
promises.” 

Bill, Sammy and Harvey looked at the 
guys gathered around Jimmy in the moon- 
light and each of them promised himself that 
even if it meant giving up everything he 
wanted most in the world he would do every- 
thing in his power to see that the promises 
were kept like Jimmy said. 


Back in the chapel of the Rockwood Vet- é 
erans Hospital, Father Casey, wearing the 
vestments of his faith, stood at the altar and 
lit his candles. He noted that his candles 
glowed with a particular brilliance. Father ~ 
Casey felt very pleased. He knew he had 
been right in the first place. America had 
long needed something like this to happen. 

THE END 


alae 





wedt 


A ose 


eB 


7, te 


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Ss = = SS Fe. 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


BACK VIEWS OF HAIRDOS ON PAGES 52 AND 53 





Back hair combs into feath- 
ery upturned ends. Crown 
is brushed and smooth. 





m1 oN 
Softly turned ends show 
beneath feather bonnet, curls 
are neatly arranged on sides. 





Hair swirls in back from a 
side part with ends turned 
up, going toward your face. 





Hair is combed sleek in 
back from a center part, two 
pretty curls on either side. 





Beret sits just on top of soft 
forehead curls. Remaining 
hair brushes toward back. 


To make roll: turn ends of 
hair under or over and se- 
cure with pins close to nape. 





Smooth page-boy stops above ° 
shoulders with all ends 
rolled under. Hold hairdo 
in place with invisible net. 


Back hair crisscrosses in 
upsweep, with ends wound 
into six curls, which are 
held in place with hairpins. 





FROM AMES, IOWA... TO VIENNA, AUSTRIA 


(Continued from Page 23) 


‘id stock a “‘disaster closet”? at the Red 
Cross with medicine and clothing during 
the war. Then their town of about 16,000, 
with its atomic-research station, nearby 
munitions plant and the service-training pro- 
gram of Iowa State College, was listed as a 
potential danger area. But the closet was 
never needed, and the prosperous small city, 
hemmed in by Iowa’s bumper crops, moved 


helping thousands of Austrian families to 
have decent clothing. 

The end of the war found the West Story 
County Red Cross chapter, in Ames, with 
money in the bank above and beyond the 
press of local or national need. The directors 
did not know how best to put these funds to 
work. The attitude of Prof. Almon Fuller, 
76-year-old professor of engineering at Iowa 

State, was typical of the 


easily from wartime tempo 
ORE TS way they felt: His daugh- 


to peacetime activities. 
In Vienna, Austria, the 

end of the war found every * 

closet bare. Housewives 


bunch of anemic carrots. his heart. 


ter, a Red Cross worker 


When a woman has once in France and England, 
aroused a man’s passion, had come hcme to Ames, 


she is always sacred to him. — overwhelmed by the lack 
queued up for hours at the In his eyes she possesses eter- y 


so-called “free markets,” nal privileges. Should he meet 
waiting patiently for a her again, aged or unworthy 
pound of potatoes or a of him, she still has a claim to 


of every human necessity, 
by the bombed-out homes 
and bare larders all over 
_—paizac. Europe. “Here we sit,” 
Professor Fuller said, 


They shivered in Cotton eG en and chil. 


dresses and threadbare 

sweaters. Mothers kept 

their children home from school and wrapped 
them in bedclothes for lack of warm gar- 
ments. 

Today, the people of Austria still line up 
for food rations, and many children wear 
outsized and shabby clothing. A woman may 
pay a third of her husband’s monthly salary 
for the plainest, most flimsy dress. And goods 
by the yard, if such a prize can be found, 
command fabulous prices. So the work of 
the Viennese Red Cross production center, 
working with the Ames, Iowa, supplies, is 


dren in Europe are get- 
ting hungrier and colder. We must pitch in 
and help.” 

Finally a brilliant suggestion came from G. 
Roger Alley, who is chairman of the Inter- 
national Activities Committee of the Red 
Cross in Ames. Why not sponsor and equip 
a sewing room in a needy foreign city? 
“Helping people help themselves is just good 
common sense,”’ he pointed out. “And by 
giving the European women a chance to 
help their own families with our assistance, 
they will get an idea of democracy in action. 





TUS S Vee and weather lotion 


135 


a special ingredient makes this 
YOUR ACIC PATR OF GLOVES 


TUSSY WIND AND WEATHER LOTION 

has a special softening effect—it‘acts—instantly— 
to attack the cause of rough, dry, old looking hands. 
Tussy Wind and Weather Lotion doesn’t just 

cover up roughness and chapping. This fragrant, 
non-sticky lotion does lasting good to your 

hands. Like a magic, invisible pair of gloves— 

it helps protect your skin every second. 

Use Tussy Wind and Weather Lotion every 
day all year round to help keep your hands 
velvety soft! And use it on your elbows, arms and 
legs, too—to smooth away roughness and chapping. 


Don’t let exposure to wind, water and weather 





steal your charm. Protect your skin every day, 
all year with Tussy Wind and Weather 
Lotion $1 and $2, Tussy Wind and Weather 
Hand Cream $1 plus tax. 





136 


QUAKER OATS HELPS GROW 


‘Stars of the 
Future 


Doctors say the more often 
youngsters eat a good oatmeal breakfast, 
the better they grow! 








THE GIANT OF THE CEREALS IS QUAKER OATS! 


A GIANT ta Naletion/ 


Mother—do your part now to help make your boy or girl a Star 
of the Future! Serve Quaker Oats often! Your youngster gets more 
energy, more stamina from nourishing oatmeal than any other 
whole-grain cereal! A recent survey shows only 1 school child in 
5 gets enough breakfast. That’s why doctors say, the more often 
youngsters eat a good oatmeal breakfast, the better they grow! 


A GANT a Velie! 


Compare! See how nutritious Quaker 
Oats helps save on grocery bills! See 
how it saves time, too, for a fast break- 
fast. Quick Quaker Oats cooks in 
2Y2 minutes! 


A GIANT ua Pleo! 


Always a breakfast treat for your fam- 
ily! The creamy-delicious taste of 
Quaker Oats makes it the most pop- 
ular cereal in the world! Tempting 
recipes on the package. Be sure to 
buy Quaker Oats today! 


QUAKER OATS 





Quaker and Mother’s Oats 
are the same 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


The regional Red Cross office in St. Louis 
was asked if Ames might adopt a foreign city 
for production work. The answer came back 
in the affirmative, with a tentative list of 
additional projects based on known needs 
abroad. The possibilities included furnishing 
and equipping Red Cross medical and recrea- 
tional centers. Vienna was suggested as a 
possible foster city. For although Austria 
technically had been our enemy, many of her 
people had resisted the Nazis stubbornly be- 
fore and during the war. Much of Vienna, 
as the nation’s capital and defense center, 
still lay pitted with rubble-rimmed bomb 
craters and her postwar poverty was des- 
perate. 

So Ames, Iowa, “‘adopted” Vienna, Aus- 
tria. The year was 1947. Ames became the 
first Red Cross chapter in the country to 
sponsor a production program in a foreign 
city. 

With the appropriation of $4000 from the 
West Story Red Cross chapter surplus 
funds, the “‘hands-across-the-sea”’ program 
was initiated. But this sum soon vanished 
before the demands of a giant shopping list 
which included 20 foot-treadle sewing ma- 
chines (delivered complete with repair kits, 
oil and instruction books printed in Ger- 
man); 500 sewing-machine needles; 1000 
knitting needles; 8 pounds of common pins 
and 250 thimbles; pounds of yarn and bolts 
of woolen cloth. Everything down to tiny 
buttons for little boys’ shirts was laid in. 

The American Red Cross in Austria con- 
tributed surplus items from hospitals and 
recreation centers abroad—knitted gar- 
ments to be unraveled and reknitted into 
children’s sweaters, mittens, vests; colored 
tablecloths which made gay dirndl skirts and 
summer dresses; ditty bags, kit bags, water- 
proof bags, bedpan and ice-bag covers. 

Chancellor Leopold Figl assigned the en- 
tire fifth floor of the Austrian Red Cross 
headquarters in Vienna to the new sewing 
center. Work tables, chairs and cabinets 
from the American Red Cross surplus were 
moved in. Frau Irma Buresch, widow of a 


THIS ISA 

WATCH BIRP 

WATCHING 
You 
Ls 


By Munro Leaf 


Ons of the most foolish creatures in the world is a 


December, 1949 


former Austrian chancellor and national di- 
rector of production work for the Austrian 
Red Cross, took over the job of organization. 
A tall, distinguished war widow, Frau Maria 
Roeschel, stepped in as director of the shop 
itself. Then a call was sent out for volunteers. 

Most of the fifty Viennese women who 
come faithfully each day to sew at the pro- 
duction center travel an hour or so to Pere- 
grinegasse in the morning and make the 
same wearisome journey home at night. Al- 
most without exception they carry paper-bag 
lunches—usually containing cabbage-and- 
potato stew and a chunk of black bread. Yet 
they show their keen anticipation of the work 
they do in their eager movements and the 
expressions on their faces. Working wives, 
and mothers of children too young to leave 
alone, make garments at home by hand, or 
take on knitting assignments. 

Rosa Tockstein, still an expert seamstress 
at 75, has come to the sewing room every day 
it has been open since July, 1948. Her eyes, 
behind rimless spectacles, shine with quiet 
pride in her work. She and a granddaughter 
and her granddaughter’s two little girls share 
an “apartment” of one small room and a 
tiny kitchen. The family’s combined monthly 
income is 330 shillings—or about $20 on the 
American exchange. The granddaughter, a 
28-year-old war widow named Hedwig 
Illatcsko, has knitted 150 sweaters during the 
past two years. ‘‘ These,” she says, “‘are for 
the really poor children of Vienna.’”’ Her own 
husband has not been heard of since he was 
forced into the German army and sent to 
Stalingrad. 

Like Mrs. Tockstein, the Baroness 
Klawile Lowenfield takes her accustomed 
place at the sewing table every day. In 1944, 
following her husband’s death, she was ar- 
rested by the Nazis, convicted of being a 
“Catholic Jew” and sent to a concentration 
camp near Vienna. At the end of the war she 
was liberated, but her home-coming was a 
sad one. She was alone, and her beautiful 
home had been completely destroyed by 
bombing. “‘During the past two years,’’ she 


THIS ISA 
CONSTRUCTID 
CLIMBER 


~ 


* THISTSA 
WATCHBIRO WATCHING 
A CONST RUCTION~ 

CLIMBER 


Construction-Climber. Whenever a new building goes 
up, these silly show-offs climb all over it and risk their 
necks, arms, legs and life doing crazy things that do 
nobody any good. Construction-Climbers just make 
worry, worry, worry for everyone who cares about 
them, and they aren’t fair to anyone. 


WERE You A (onNSTRUCTION- CumeerR THIS MONTH? 








cs 


PuRtRee KH RPS PSAs ae BP 







LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Says, “the Red Cross sewing room has made 
the difference between despair and hope in 
this new life I must lead.” 

An American Red Cross envoy who visited 
the production center in Vienna was very 
enthusiastic about what she saw: “I was 
particularly impressed by the imagination 
with which the Viennese women had trans- 
formed surplus articles into the most delight- 
ful children’s garments. For instance, water- 
proofed toilet kits had become children’s 
rain Capes with peaked hoods. Not a scrap 
of material, thread or yarn is wasted.” 

Since they depend to a large extent upon 
the produce of their tiny gardens for winter 
food, these volunteers must spend a good 
deal of time on their small plots outside 


ve 

« Vienna during the summer. This means an 
enforced recess in the workshop from June 

: until mid-September. In spite of this delay, 

¥ the workers turned out 30,000 garments: 

7 during the past year. They also finished 800 

flannel shirts for boys and girls, 150 wash 


Is there more 
than one way 
of loving him? 


= & 


_ I know there is. One way is 
to make my baby self-confident 
by showing him my love. When | 
hug and cuddle him now, it leads to 
his security and his success later on, 
the doctor tells me. 


“The other way is to make him 
strong—to help him build a well- 
shaped head, a straight, strong back, 
a fine, full chest, straight legs and 
sound teeth. To build them he needs 
extra Vitamin D every day.” 


All over the world many mothers 
and physicians choose a natural 
time-proven Vitamin D source — 
good cod liver oil. Most depend on 
Squibb Cod Liver Oil. It has helped 
generations of babies build sound 
bones and teeth. Get Squibb Cod 
Liver Oil now, and help your baby 
build important physical assets. 
Give him Squibb’s every day. 





dresses, 250 children’s raincoats, 240 linen 
blouses, 225 boys’ suits. And the knitters 
laid away 540 pairs of mittens, 270 knitted 
dresses and 440 pairs of long stockings against 
the cold that will surely come. 

“T must confess,’’ Frau Roeschel, the direc- 
tor of the sewing room, writes, “‘we all felt a 
little panicky at first. Not one of us was a 


i Thomas Jefferson designed and 
superintended the construction 
of Monticello, making his own brick, 
nails and timber. Its completion 
took thirty years. ... He introduced 
the waffle to America. . . . He was 
practically penniless at his death. ... 
He drafted the statute for religious 
freedom, yet professed no religion.... 
When the British burned the Library 
of Congress in 1814, Jefferson sold 
the country his 13,000 volume collec- 
tion of books for $23,950. . . . He was 
thirty-three when he wrote the Dec- 
laration of Independence, and it 
took him eighteen days. . . . There 
are over 20,000 letters written by him 
in existence. 


' professional seamstress. But dire need is an 


excellent teacher. We have not spoiled a 
single garment from the beginning.” 

When the garment is finished it is turned 
over to the Social Welfare Department of 
the Vienna Red Cross, which distributes 
clothing to Vienna’s most needy, based on 
the surveys made periodically by Vienna’s 
Public Welfare Section. 

The Ames, Iowa, project in international 
friendship is not only helping to meet a 
critical clothing shortage in Austria; it is 
providing the baker’s wife and the baroness 
a chance to work side by side for a common 
goal. It gives two cities, over the bend of the 
world, the same opportunity, on a larger 
scale. Karl Seitz, famous ex-mayor of Vienna 
and current president of the Austrian Red 
Cross, says, “This kind of help produces a 
personal relationship between the people of 
two countries. It is of untold value in pro- 
moting a closer feeling of sympathy and 
understanding.” 

Already, independent organizations as 
well as other chapters of the Red Cross are 


13 


Would your TOR nyo 


You no longer need to wonder whether your methods are making your child 
fear you or love you. For now you can have the benefit of all the years of 


child study by our great universities and child specialists in 


This Marvelous NEW Edition of 





America’s Famous Child Guidance Plan 


If your child thinks of you as a nagging, scolding mother now, he may not 
feel the proper love and respect for you in later years. Yet, that love and 
respect cannot be earned by “spoiling” him, or simply giving in. To help 
you solve such puzzling problems as this, over 50 famous child specialists 


created Childcraft. 


With the brilliant new edition of Childcraft, you will have the findings 
of 35 different universities, institutes, and child guidance centers at your 
finger tips. You will see your child’s life unfold— month by month— year by 
year — from infancy to teen-age. You will see the problems that may arise — 
and learn what to do about them. 


For Childcraft is a complete child guidance plan. Four of the fourteen 
big volumes are packed with parent guidance alone. In addition, you get 
the benefit of FREE confidential advice on your child’s personal problems 
from Childcraft’s Advisory Service. Mail the coupon below today. 

Published by Field Enterprises, Inc., Educational Division. 










Se ee 
SS @p' 


7A 
a 


Want more income? Childcraft is avail- 
able only through authorized representa- 
tives who have been carefully selected and 
professionally trained. Opportunities to 
join this group are open to worthy men 
and women who are interested in child 
guidance and would like to build up a sub- 


en feeling out possibilities for helping other 22% “pl stantial income. For information, write 
Sas : it] A a e Oe ee Mr. Virgil M. Fairchild, Childcraft, 35 E. 
, foreign cities help themselves. The Feder to Wacker Drive, Chicago 1, Illinois. 


well-shaped heads 
fine, full chests 
strong backs 
straight legs 





ated Churchwomen of Iowa are considering 
accepting future responsibility for supplying 
the expendable items for the Ames-to-Vienna 
sewing rooms, or creating a similar under- 
taking in another destitute center overseas. 
In Austria alone, the American Red Cross 
has equipped and supplied some 70 sewing 


AL ee 
‘4 
an 


- 
> 


" 
* 







“Your child can have no finer 
gift than Childcraft”— 


dng 


= 





ae 


CHILDCRAFT, 35 E. Wacker Drive, Chicago 1, Ill. 
Mr. Walter Matthews 

Please send me without obligation the FREE booklet 
51 PERPLEXING PROBLEMS and the FREE descrip- 
tive brochure 


AV 
AV 


N be 





rooms, mostly in small towns, making pos- 
sible the work of some 3000 Red Cross vol- 
unteers who have produced 100,000 gar- 
ments for their own people. 

In every war-torn country of the world 


are built by 


AS 
AW 
ENN 












i 

| 

| 

| 

| 

Abvertisco | 
c | 
| 

| 

| 

| 





Sc L i { ‘ a today, there are people who want only the Pee oN SS ancien Wend 
Qi ; stag chance to help themselves. The pioneering Good Housekeeping EAM MEDICAL 
° experiment in world-neighborliness in Ames, po 45 aovcansto (Na Pusticatio Addrass : he Ge ee 
; ott Iowa, preves that we can do our share to- (iF OUTSIDE CITY, GIVE R. FD. 
ward boosting Europe back on her own feet. City State 
: MONUE pea SBR aiig oS pre. RUST an py By Ls tine tee 


THE END 





138 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


You can't fool this Flavor Expert 


It takes more than coaxing to convince your baby 
something tastes good. Many doctors now say 
even tiny infants have a real sense of taste before 
they're six months old. 


So, every day in the year, we at Gerber’s give 
Baby’s budding taste buds full consideration. We 
spend all our time making sure that first-rate fruits, 
vegetables, grains and meats are turned into first- 
$f rate, True-Flavor Foods. And all Gerber’s 





Cc 





—4 


eae = 
( . iT se A aut Fe . 7 Ay = 
—{ oy 7 Ai i 2, x a A © E (e/ o oy: s 


ws ae ~~ 


B: . c A z . 
yabies- are. -0tm- bisin 


Nutrition of the American Medical Association. 


How old is your flavor expert? Ready for Gerber’s 
True-Flavor Strained Foods? Or has Baby enough 
teeth to enjoy Gerber’s finely chopped, equally 
tasty Junior Foods? 


Your tot’s a texture expert, too. That’s why all 
Gerber’s. from Baby’s very first Cereal through 
Junior Meats have Perfected-Texture. Doctors 
approve it, too. You see we make it our business 
to satisfy all the experts. 


rbers 


BABY FOODS 


Fremont, Mich. 


/—~ 
, 


% ak 7) 
26S2.. our only business! 





Le 


December, 19 
Or 
bx 
Mothers 
Club News 


2 














Reported by 





(Mother of 5) 
Gerd) 

ON AIRING YOUR 7 /) 
YOUNG HEIR — Daily </) 


fe 
airings help give { 
Baby rosy cheeks, a eS iS — 
better appetite, and // 


better sleep. AGT vy) 


Outdoor airings: Doctors say, eve 
at the age of 1 month, health 
babies can go out if properly 
clothed and covered. Provided, it’s 
not colder than 25 degrees F. 


Indoor airings: When it’s damp, 
raw or below 25 degrees even older 
babies are better off taking indoor 
airings by an open window. Be) 
sure the crib or carriage isn’t in 
a draft. And, dress Baby warmly, 
cap and all, 


T 
T 
He 
3 
— ee Fs 
ae Yet 

COLD WEATHER often makes Baby extra the 
hungry. Gerber’s have more good ways)" 
to satisfy that appetite than you can|”™ 
shake a spoon at. 3 Cereals, 21 Strained}™ 


Foods, 15 Junior Foods, and 6 marvel- f 
ous new Meats. All, ready to serve! \, 
the 
the 
LUNCHEON soup |“ 
FOR YOUR TODDLER | : 
AND YOU 


7 ZEN 





fs |) 


“1 Gerber’s Strained Peas 


24 cup rich milk 
1 can tomato soup 
1 Gerber’s Junior Beef or Veal 


Combine ingredients. Warm over low], 
flame, stirring constantly. 


HOW DO YOU DO IT? 
All us other mothers 
are extremely inter- 
ested in your partic- 
ular ways of tending 
to Baby. So send any 
special tricks or 
bright ideas for this 
column to your Mothers Club Reporter, }™ 
Box 45, Fremont, Michigan. 


GOOD START—FREE! bt 
If Baby’s ready for SA ™~ 
that first taste of ce- Sp 

real, send for your 
free samples of Ger- 
ber’s Cereal Food, f 
Strained Oatmeal 
and Barley Cereal. 
All have added iron, other minerals and > 
vitamins important for tiny (and older) }) 
babies. Write to Dept. 812-9, Fremont, 
Mich. In Canada, Gerber’s, Toronto. Q 


b 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


—” 





Scolding only magnifies a child’s night terrors. Wise par- 
ents understand her need for love and a sense of security. 


hat to Do About “Scary Dreams” 


By Dr. Herman N. Bundesen 


President, Chicago Board of Health 


T is natural for parents to think that the 
problems they are having with their 
children are individual and special— 
something that has never happened be- 
fore and probably never will happen again. 
Yet the fact is that we doctors rarely hear 


gof a complaint or problem that is entirely 
new! If parents only realized this, I think 


ey would be more inclined to talk over 
their difficulties with the doctor and get his 


help. Instead, too often they worry need- 


lessly about things that may have no real 
ior lasting importance. Worse yet, they 
themselves may try to deal with a situation 
they fail to understand, and end by cre- 
ating a problem where no problem existed. 
A case in point is the night terrors or 
“scary dreams’’ that many children ex- 
perience, starting at age three or four and 
often continuing for several years or more. 
Of course the frequency, severity and dura- 
tion of these fear-ridden dreams must de- 
termine in each case how much of a problem 
we are facing and how it should be handled. 
But the fact most worried parents don’t 
appreciate is that almost all children are 
subject to night terrors at some time or 
other. They are a natural phase of emo- 
tional development and adjustment to the 
world: unless their occurrence is so fre- 
iquent as to interfere with normal sleep or 
Iso severe as to cause lasting upset, there is 
usually no reason to be greatly concerned. 
Nevertheless, I have talked to dozens of 
others and fathers who thought there was 
Something shameful about a child’s night- 
ares. Many times they have tried for 
onths to argue or discipline the fright- 
ed little fellow out of his dreams—always 
successfully and sometimes with disas- 
trous consequences. I remember one young 
ather who confessed that he had often 
outed angrily at his seven-year-old boy 
when he was struggling to waken himself 
from a fearful dream. “‘I thought he was 
wing a coward,” the father told me later, 
hen we had got around to analyzing the 
Broblem. “I thought we could ‘snap him 
put of it’ by being firm with him ”’ Others 
ave told me of actually punishing children 

OF crying out in the night 
As I have pointed out to these parents, 
h methods are the précise opposite of 
hat the child needs under these circum- 





stances. Whatever form it takes, the night 
terror is a fear response—either directly to 
some experience the child has had or to 
something in his environment, or indirectly 
as a result of deep-seated but unrealized 
feelings of insecurity or loneliness. In some 
cases, the unhappy dreams may spring 
from causes even more remote, such as the 
human being’s instinctive fear of falling or 
darkness, or conflicts in Nature that have 
nothing to do with the individual child. In 
any event, the child’s need is for love and 
understanding, not discipline. He wants to 
be soothed and comforted, not shouted at. 
Parents—and I mean especially fathers in 
this case—who think that such soft meth- 
ods will spoil or make a baby of the child 
and ‘‘only encourage him to do it again” 
are entirely mistaken; instead, their stern- 
ness is likely to prolong the problem. 
Once the parents understand the central 
fact that the dreaming child is a victim, 


GRATEFUL young mothers from 
Maine to California tell us that 
Doctor Bundesen’s baby booklets 
have been of the greatest help to 
them in caring for their own babies. 
The first eight booklets cover your 
baby’s first eight months. They sell 
for 50 cents. The second series of 
booklets covers the baby’s health 
from nine months to two years— 
seven booklets for 50 cents. The 
booklets will be sent monthly; be 
sure to tell us when you want the 
first booklet. A complete book on 
the care of the baby, a necessary 
supplement to the monthly book- 
lets. Our Bastes, No. 1345, is 
50 cents. A booklet on breast feed- 
ing, A Docror’s First Dury To 
rue Moruer, No. 1346, sells for 6 
cents. Address all requests to the 
Reference Library, Lapres’ HoME 
JournaL, Philadelphia 5, Penna. 





rather than a miscreant who is manufac- 
turing terrors to get attention, we are on 
the road to finding a solution. First we 
must learn the right method of dealing with 


The Shwe 
Doeint Fi, Sonny 


—you need a shoe of your 
own’’,..and mother 
knows it’s the same in 
aspirin—you need a 
specialized aspirin that 
fits your special needs. 


0@e0 


THIS SPECIALIZED ASPIRIN TABLET 722" 


YOUR CHILDS NEEDS 


& No Need to Cut or Break Tablets 
Tablets Contain 1% Grains 


& Scientifically Made to 
Assure Accurate Dosage 

& Orange Flavored... 
America’s No. 1 Health Flavor 


v Easy To Give... Easy To Take 


St. Joseph Aspirin For Children is not 
just a child’s size tablet. It’s a special- 
ized children’s aspirin that eliminates 
all guesswork as to correct dose. Easy 
To Give because it’s not necessary to cut 
or break tablets. Asswres Accurate Dosage 
because each tablet contains 114 grains 
of genuine, pure St. Joseph Aspirin. 
Easy To Take because they’re orange 
flavored. 50 tablets, only 35c. 





It’s ‘the original aspirin for children’’ 
bearing the ‘*St. Joseph”? name. 


ed dalled 


Ca ae. 
MAGAZINE 





a 






























yt 
Te 
aes 


The name "St. Joseph” 
is the trade-mark of 


Plough, Inc. 





140 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


December, 1949 


PERS 


the child when the nightmare occurs; then 
we must study the individual case to find out 
what the causes are, whether or not a real 
problem exists, and what should be done 
about it. 

Depending on the circumstances, the 
frightened child may simply toss, groan or 
cry out in his sleep when he is dreaming; he 
may awake in real terror and perspire or 
“freeze” instead of shrieking with fright; or 
he may jump out of bed and clutch or strike 
out at the furniture or at his parents—awake 
in a sense, but still under the spell of his 
dream and unaware of his actual surround- 
ings. In the normal child these episodes usu- 
ally end quickly and completely when the 
child is thoroughly wakened and comforted. 
He then returns to bed and goes to sleep, 
and the best thing to do about it is nothing. 

In more persistent or severe cases, the 
dream may recur again and again the same 
night, or the terror may last even after the 
child is wakened. This is the situation that 
calls for real devotion and understanding 
from the parents, who must sacrifice their 
own need for rest and sleep to make certain 
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riding his tricycle in his effort to escape, or 
he is on roller skates; or the episode takes 
place in front of his home, or on the school 
grounds. 

It is a mistake to ridicule the dream or try 
to show its absurdities; to the child it is 
real and terrifying, and any such attempt will 
simply cut him off from the comfort he needs. 
Instead, the parent should listen sympa- 
thetically for as long as the child wants to 
talk, then divert his attention to something 
else and, when he has calmed down, suggest 
going to bed and to sleep. Occasionally, of 
course, a youngster may grasp the parents’ 
concern and work deliberately on their sym- 
pathies, but this doesn’t happen often and is 
usually readily distinguishable from real 
terror. At any rate, I would rather let ten 
children get away with something of this 
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comforting help of loving parents. 

When scary dreams occur several nights a 
week over a period of months, the parents 
should take steps to find out the cause. The 
family doctor should naturally be consulted 
first; in some cases the teacher, minister or 
school psychologist may offer help, too, and 
if symptoms are severe or prolonged, a psy- 
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will be uncovered quickly by trained ob- 
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undertaken. 

The cause of recurrent or continuous night 
terrors and other behavior problems in chil- 
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carelessness and indifference which make the 
child feel unwanted. Fortunately, however, 
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Mothers say “They’re Wonderful” 

















ILDA is five months old, and a very 

special baby! For seven years Bill and 

I had been heartbroken that we had no 

children, so the arrival of this baby was 
a matter of great excitement. I was return- 
ing east for a family wedding, which was a 
gathering of the clan from all parts, and I 
was also seeing old friends that I had seen 
little of since Bill joined the Marine Corps. 
As I look back on my six weeks’ visit, I 
seem to have moved in a sizable crowd the 
whole time, and Tilda held court nearly 
every day. Almostinvariably my visitors re- 
marked, “‘I hear that you’re nursing her!” 

From the first I had been determined to 
nurse my baby. When my Philadelphia doc- 
tor transferred me to a colleague in San 
Francisco, I was lucky enough to find myself 
under the care of a specialist who expected 
all his mothers to nurse their babies. 

It was the rule in the hospital that all 
mothers started in wards in order to give 
the nurses more chance to keep an eye on 
us. Later we progressed to semiprivate 
rooms, which was a lovely arrangement for 
me, so lately an arrival in the city and with- 
out friends to cheer me in the isolation of a 
private room. Not only did I have the 
nicest roommates, but it gave us all a 
chance to discuss our babies and to learn 
from one another’s problems. 

About the third daythat Tilda and I were 
becoming acquainted, the head of the 
nursery came to see me and started out 
with a brisk ‘““What are we going to do 
about this baby of yours? She’s not getting 
enough.” It was my day for the weeps, so 
that dissolved me completely, and through 
my tears I said that under the circum- 
stances I would give up the whole idea and 
get them to put the baby on a formula. 

Miss B. looked surprised at my reaction 
and not a little contemptuous. She exam- 
ined me and said she was sure I had plenty 


of milk, but it was caked, and the baby, in. 
spite of her eight pounds, had much too: 


gentle a way of nursing. If I had massage 
during the feedings and used a breast pump 
afterward she was sure it would soon cor- 
rect that part of the problem. Also, they 
had tested my small daughter and found 
she was slower than any other in nursing, 
and therefore the plan was to bring her to 
me before other babies were taken around 
and to pick her up last. 

Miss B. also said she would come in at 
nursing times and watch to see what else 
might be wrong. This she did with all the 
mothers who were having trouble. Some 
held the baby wrong, some didn’t keep 
them awake, some needed to let the baby 
nurse both breasts. There were any num- 
ber of problems and she was there to cor- 
rect them, which I believe is a rare service 
in hospitals. 


Ir’sa very emotional time for a mother. 
Apparently the babies were given enough 
sugar water to keep them healthy. But it is 
hard to look down on that dependent little 
creature, snuggled so confidingly against 
your side, and know that it is going to be 
taken away in a few minutes, unsatisfied 
and probably wailing with hunger. You 
feel that you are betraying your child, and 
this adds to the emotional strain of the 
time—which isn’t good for making milk. I 
needed my wonderful doctor with his hearty 
assurance, “‘I’ll do the worrying about that 
baby’s weight, not you. Just relax. In all 
my career as an obstetrician I have had 
only two mothers who really couldn’t nurse 
their babies.”’ 

Even with Dr. T. at the head of the ma- 
ternity department, we ran into obstacles 
from the nurses. The attitude of many of 
the gray-haired nurses was that “even if 
your mother doesn’t love you, we do.” 
We'd ask eagerly the next time we saw 
them if the baby had gained much on that 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


1 Wanted to Nurse My Baby 


By ELEANOR O°DONNELL 


feeding. ‘‘Not very much,” they’d say— 
and quite triumphantly. * 

I believe they were sincere and simply 
hated to see any weight charts go down 
when the simple expedient of a formula 
would send them up. But also I do know 
that there is a lot of real sabotage on the 
part of some nurses because it’s so much 
more trouble to take care of breast-fed 
babies. It’s far simpler to give a bottle 
right there in the nursery. 


When it came time to leave the hospital, 
I asked the doctor to give me the name of a 
good pediatrician in my neighborhood. I 
also asked if the baby’s doctor was going to 
encourage me to keep on nursing her. Dr.T. 
said he didn’t know, possibly not, but that 
if there was the slightest doubt of it, to get 
in touch with him and he would find me a 
pediatrician who would. He added that 
many of the pediatricians weren’t really 
interested in breast feeding because it was 
far more interesting and a test of skill to 
work out a formula satisfactorily! How- 
ever, the pediatrician was splendid and 
encouraged me to put the baby on demand 
feeding. 

This isn’t so drastic as it sounds. At first 
Tilda cried with hunger every two and a 
half or three hours and I fed her then—ex- 
cept at night, bless her heart, when she 
slept as many as five hours. But that soon 
stimulated a greater supply of milk, and 
she leveled off on a regular four-hour sched- 
ule. From the moment we got home she be- 
gan to gain beautifully, and our “‘relation- 
ship” today is as smooth as can be. 

When I took Tilda east, at four months, 
I met one disappointed mother after an- 
other. One girl ran across the room at a 
large party to say, “I hear you’re doing 
what I tried to do with all four of my chil- 
dren. I’m so jealous. How did you do it?” 
Her doctor had just laughed at her because 
he said she didn’t have enough milk. 

Another girl said, ““When they didn’t 
bring my baby to me at feeding time one 
day, I asked where it was and they said, 
‘Oh, your baby wasn’t getting enough so 
we gave him a bottle.’ It was my third 
child, so I knew from past experience and 
I tore that hospital down, starting with the 
head nurse. I’m nursing Tommy today— 
but if he had been my first I would have 
thought it was all right and never said a 
word.” 

I met very few of the “I’m-no-cow”’ 
school of thought, the girls who have an 
attitude that they are more fastidious than 
the rest of us. For the most part, my friends 
had tales of disappointment and I came to 
the conclusion that, had they all been as 
fortunate as I was, they too could have had 
the wonderful experience of nursing their 
babies. 

Undoubtedly there are any number of 
girls who have simply decided from the 
start that, since so few girls nurse their 
babies, there must be a reason for it. Per- 
haps they are misled by the appearance of 
formula babies. Doctor T. warned me, 
“‘Rormula babies are usually fatter than 
breast-fed babies. But your baby will be 
sleek and streamlined and have sturdy 
limbs. And if she gets a cold it will be the 
lightest kind of cold. You will be giving her 
wonderful protection against sickness that 
will give her a start in life that a formula 
never would.” 

Then, too, there are the few selfish ones 
who say it ties them down too much—but 
[amconvinced there is astill larger audience 
of mothers who want to nurse their babies 
and try to, but don’t know there are bound 
to be obstacles to be overcome. If they de- 
mand help,-and refuse to be put off or be too 
easily discouraged, they can enjoy that won- 


derful relationship with their baby. 
THE END 









Fd 


MRS. DONALD VANDENBERG, wife of Grand 
Rapids, Mich., jeweler, with Baby Sandra. 


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142 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


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December, 1949 


CALIFORNIA HYBRID 


(Continued from Page 43) 


a haphazard arrangement of seed packets 
and faded catalogues, a tiny wizened man 
stood talking to a lady in a tweed suit bor- 
rowed from a hippopotamus. Charles had a 
reasonable distrust of women experts. His 
cowardly impulse toward stealing away like 
the Arab was thwarted by Mr. Harrod’s 
catching sight of him. 

“Mr. Denton! So you got my message! 
We'd just about given you up! Well—this is 
fine, just fine! You remember my telling you 
yesterday how you’d just missed the lady 
from your state. who had succeeded in get- 
ting blooms on Amor elusus? Well! She’s a 
very modest lady—yes, indeed !—and it took 
a good bit of persuading on my part, but 
when she heard how much I wanted you two 
to meet, she very kindly consented to wait 
and here she is—the lady herself! Mrs. Mer- 
rick, allow me to present Mr. Denton!” 

Recognition was instantaneous and mu- 
tual, but Cleo Merrill, as usual, was a little 
quicker on the uptake than Charles, who felt 
despairingly like flapping his hands at her 
and yelling ‘“Scat!’’ Instead of baring teeth 
in a snarl, her equally famous mouth 
twitched in what could be classified as a 
smile. 

Under fis mouth a thousand times Charles 
had felt those muscles move—no other act- 
ing team in Hollywood could equal him and 
Merrill here in creating 


“She do your gardening for you too?” 

Merrill laughed. She had a certain laugh, 
a needling sound that might have served for 
all women’s secret opinion of all men. She 
laughed like that at least once in every pic- 
ture she and Charles made together, and 
whenever she did, every woman in the the- 
ater took up and echoed the sound, like 
hounds baying ‘‘Treed!” 


in sorry, Dennison. I cannot tell a lie. 
I do it all with my little trowel and green 
thumb. From what I hear from Mr. Harrod, 
you would appear to be all thumbs! Now 
about Amor elusus,” she went on, with a 
sickening condescension, ‘“‘the thing you 
have to watch out for is a 
“Don’t tell me!” yelped Charles. “It 
would be like having someone else finish a 
double acrostic.” 
“Oh, do you do them too? Well, I never!” 
“It may come as a surprise to you, but 
these are not my first pair of store shoes.’ 
In the dim reaches of the grill Charles 
ordered a rye and water for himself, and but- 
tered toast and a pot of green tea for Merrill. 
‘‘Oooff!’’ Merrill wriggled her face in the 
way that tells a man a woman is also wrig- 
gling her toes. “‘Oh, for a pair of four-inch 
heels! By the way, Dennison, what do you 
think of my disguise? Not counting you, of 
course. We’d know each 





love scenes that were ae other anywhere, in any- 


memorable without being 


censorable—and Charles * If you asked women for an 


honest opinion, most of disguise for a woman is to 
them would admit that if they 


had married the first man 
that attracted 


: : would have made the biggest 
thought of it assomething _ mistake of their lives. 


knew what solid box office 
that ironic smile, clouding 
a passionate kiss, could 
mean. But he’d always 


written into a script and 


thing.” 
“It’s perfect. The best 


appear without make-up.” 

Merrill smiled lethally. 
“Oh, I don’t know. It de- 
pends on what you mean 
by the word ‘make-up.’ 


them they 


evoked by a director, and TR - — My hair is all my own. 


it was a shock to see it 

now, on its own, flickering like pain through 
a nerve, over Merrill’s scrubbed-clean, spec- 
tacled face. 

“How do you do, Mr. Denton,” said Mer- 
rill, giving each syllable of his vacation name 
full value. 

He acknowledged the change in Merrill’s 
name in the same way—almost. “Mrs. Mer- 
rick!”” He took the long, narrow hand he 
knew by heart into his own. 

“Well! I’m sure you two Californians 
must have a great deal to talk about,”’ said 
Mr. Harrod hopefully. 

Charles did what was expected of him. 
“It’s a great pleasure to come face to face 
with you at last, Mrs. Merrick. I wonder— 
do you think perhaps we might have a cup 
of tea together?”’ 

“Nothing I should like better,”’ said Mer- 
rill, crossing him up. 


He’p often wondered what she was like off 
the set and now he knew. Of course it was all 
for old Harrod’s benefit, but the woman 
never stopped acting! She even sounded like 
a lady gardener. 

I'll never be able to look one of those Amor 
elusus in the face again. And she gets flowers 
on them! I suppose she’s got some canny old 
Scotchman she pays a fortune to! 

In the elevator Charles said, “I don’t 
know too much about this part of the city. 
I suppose any fairly respectable place where 
we can get a drink is all right with you?” 

“Indeed it isn’t!’’ said Merrill crisply. “I 
don’t drink hard liquor often and never by 
daylight. I want tea—hot and strong. And a 
place where it’s quiet and I can sit down. My 
feet were never meant to wear low-heeled 
shoes. There’s a decent hotel grill up a 
block or so. I think I can make it.” 

“Speaking of sitting down,” said Charles, 
“and with the assurance that this question 
comes from a heart filled with honest admira- 
tion, do you mind telling me how you get 
your skirt to look—er, well, the way it does 
look?”’ 

Merrill preened. “‘It is wonderful, isn’t it? 
I get Hilda to wear it for a couple of days.” 
(Hilda was Merrill’s personal maid and mas- 
seuse. ) 


And so are my teeth.” 

“T never wear a piece except in a picture,” 
said Charles hotly. “‘And at forty-three, a 
partial plate is to be expected. You see, J 
admit to my age.” 

“T wouldn’t call it an admission,” said 
Merrill, through buttered toast. “‘I’d call it 
bowing to the inevitable.” 

“Better watch it. That’s your third piece.” 
Charles thought she might have offered him 
some. It looked wonderful. 

Merrill nodded. “‘I know it. But with me 
and food, it’s heaven or hell. Two weeks before 
vacation I lose three pounds a week, so” — 
she waved the dripping toast—“‘at the end of 
two weeks of eating as I please, I’m right 
back where I started from. Luscious, but not 
lush—to coin a phrase.” 

““Corn’ would be more like it!” 

But she did have a figure every bit as good 
as Dietrich’s. The contrast between a shape 
that made a man feel like clasping and a wit 
that made him feel like slapping was prob- 
ably why Merrill had worn so well in pic- 
tures. That, and the fact that she was a 
worker and a good actress. 

As if she were aware of what he was think- 
ing, Merrill said, ‘“‘I was just thinking about 
you the other day, Dennison. How long have 
you been in pictures? You already had moss 
on the north side twelve years ago when I 
arrived.” 

“Oh, let’s see—eighteen, about.” 

Was it that long? Time out for the war and 
the Navy made it seem shorter, of course. 
He’d been a construction engineer for two 
years and a month, from the June he got out 
of Tech to that July day when, bewitched by 
Provincetown and a Vassar witch who was 
playing ingénues in summer stock, he had 
cried, ‘‘To blazes with the Mortimer L. Judd 
Construction Company! I’ll take that under- 
study job if it’s still open!’’ Then the juvenile 
who loved lobster not wisely but too well, 
and Charles taking over his part in a play 
tried out over Labor Day week, and all of a 
sudden, just like that, he was a professional ! 
Broadway, good reviews, a fairly long run 
and a movie contract. A true male Cinder- 
ella he! 

“It’s eighteen, all right,” he repeated 
gloomily. 


, 




















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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


“And we’ve been making pictures to- 
gether now how long? Eight years, anyway. 
And this is the first time we’ve exchanged a 
civil word. That’s Hollywood for you!” 

Hurray for Hollywood, thought Charles. 
“Look, I don’t want to hurry you, but ——” 

“You go along,” said Merrill, turning the 
teapot upside down and frowning at the 
trickle. “I’m not going back to the show. I’ve 
been there all day for three days. Thanks for 
the tea, Dennison, and enjoy your vacation.” 

“Sure you don’t mind?” Charles reached 
for his hat. 

Merrill looked up at him; her mouth 
trembled. “I can’t decide whether it’s the 
high forehead, the bifocals or the mustache, 
but if Louella could see you now, she’d have 
you tried for treason to your public. So 
long—soul mate!” 

Charles talked until seven with Mr. Har- 
rod, deciding on his spring seeds and bulbs, 
but his heart wasn’t in it. At every tweed suit 
his nerves leaped up like toast in a pop-up 
toaster. 


He had a gloomy dinner, having ordered, 
out of contrariness, all the things he didn’t 
like. With the arrival of coffee, he reached for 
his cigarettes and took out, along with them, 
a crumpled leaflet. A seedy little fellow, he 
remembered now, had been passing them 
out to the people leaving the flower show. 

Charles smoothed it out. Sight-seeing 
boat around Manhattan. Charles snorted. 
Too cold to go gallivanting around in a 
boat! But it said here it went up the 
East River! Twenty years since he’d seen 
that place, and talking to Merrill today had 
made him nostalgic. It was an idea! If tomor- 
row was fine he’d give the show—and Mer- 
rill—a miss. 

Tomorrow was fine. There was a flag- 
snapping breeze and a bright cold sun that 
made the edges of the skyscrapers gleam as if 
scrubbed with steel wool. The chunky sight- 
seeing boat sat on its watery nest, brooding. 
Charles was early, because he wanted to get 
a seat in the front on the sunny side. 

He rounded the corner to the prow and 
Merrill said crossly, crumbs fringing her 
mouth, “Oh, did you get one of those leaf- 
lets too? If anybody gets off, it ought to be 
you. I was here first.” 

“Why aren’t you at the show?”’ 

“T told you I’d been there all week. Be- 
sides, it’s my last day here and it’s too nice to 
be indoors. Why don’t you go, now that you 
know I’m not going to be there?” 

“Why should I? I may not get another 
day like this the whole time I’m here. That 
coffee looks good.’’ Charles eyed the carton 
pointedly. 

“‘There’s not enough for you. I’m a two- 
cup woman. I’ll save a seat for you, though, 
if you want to get some. See? It’s that place 
across the street. You might bring back 
some more buns too.” 

After that, he couldn’t go sit by himself. 
Besides, by the time he got back, the boat 
was crowded. 

As they were drinking the coffee, Merrill 
said, ‘‘Know what I did after you left me 
yesterday? I went up to that new Schrafft’s 
across from ‘21,’ for dinner. When I came 
out, all that gang of autograph kids was 
outside. You know that terrifying girl— 
Gloria, no less!—who takes your picture 
with a Speed Graphic and has it ready for 
you the next night to sign? She was there— 
and that tall boy with the scissors who cuts 
off the tails of your sables for souvenirs, if 
you don’t see him first. I played dumb and 
asked Gloria what it was all about. Den- 
nison, do you realize we're just a couple of 
cold-storage hams to those ghouls? My 
blood ran cold! ‘Trade you three Merrills for 
one Bergman,’ one of ’em said!’’ 

Charles should have known better. “ What 
were they offering for me?” 

“Your stock wasn’t active enough to be 
quoted,” said Merrill with relish. ‘No, take 
it back! I think some little girl who was new 
at it gave one Burt Lancaster for only four 
of you! It was mean—the way they teased 
her! I recognized Alfred Hitchcock by my- 
self. All the others, Gloria had to point out 
to me. It was very interesting. I got the 
biggest kick out of not beine recognized. 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Charles boasted quickly, “I bought a half 
dozen ties from my regular salesman in 
Brooks yesterday and he hadn’t the faintest! 
Oh, I never told him where to send them, just 
paid for them and walked off. I’ll have to 
phone when I get back.” 

“Oh, that’s not the same at all,’’ said Mer- 
rill crossly. ““A salesman isn’t a fan! ... 
Look, my pet,” she said to a grubby little 
girl crowding her knee—the boat, by now 
approaching the Battery, resembled an over- 
turned anthill—‘‘take your finger out of your 
mouth. It will make your teeth crooked.” 

The child took her finger out to whisper 
something Charles didn’t catch. 

“O.K.” Merrill got up. ‘Hang on to my 
seat, will you? Ill be back.” And to the little 
girl, “While we’re about it, see if anyone else 
wants to go too.” 

She was back in ten minutes, minus the 
children. 

“T gave them all money for hot dogs. Half 
the boat’s down there, so they’ll have a good 
long wait.” 

“Don’t these kids have any parents?” 

“Now, Dennison, don’t try to sound Clif- 
ton Webbish! Most of ’em have mammas 
somewhere around, but they’re weighted 
down with lunch baskets and extra diapers 
and babies. They can’t go chasing over the 
boat after each kid.” 

She leaned forward, the sun strong on her 
skin. 

Charles said in astonishment, “Merrill, 
you are beautiful, aren’t you!” 

She put up her hands in a moving, protec- 
tive gesture. ‘In this light?” 

“T didn’t say young; I said beautiful. And ° 
you are. I don’t know why I never noticed 
it before.” 

“T’m not exactly up in my lines, but you 
may take it as read that I am overwhelmed.” 

She didn’t have to be 


December, 1949 


of the picture one woman gets you, and to 
each of all the women watching it’s just as if 
she'd got you. See?”’ Merrill waved a hand. 

“Tl be darned!”’ said Charles, awed. 
“Honest ?”’ 

“Cross my heart! Come, Narcissus, the 
period for self-contemplation is over for 
today. Oh—smell! Ocean! You know, being 
an inlander, I never get enough of the ocean.” 

“Where’s inland?” 

“A small town past Harrisburg in the 
mountains. That’s where I’m going tomor- 
row. My father’s a doctor there. And my 
mother runs the school board and the Red 
Cross and everything and everyone she can 
get her hands on. Except my father.” 

“Good for him! How does he manage it?” 

“T don’t know exactly, unless it’s just by 
still being there, going his own way after 
she’s talked herself out. Whatever it is, it 
works. They’re wonderful together. That’s 
why I ” She stopped. 





Cuar.es nodded. “Mine, too. Sort of hard 
on the offspring—a marriage like that. You 
wait and wait, wanting to be sure you get 
something as good, and first thing you know, 
you’ve missed the bus. . . . Will you look at 
that!” 

The boat had just rounded the tip of 
Manhattan and the downtown cluster of 
buildings, massed together like one mon- 
strous shattered stalagmite, loomed over 
them, head-on. It brought them up out of 
their chairs; Merrill’s hand on the rail did 
not stir under his; a shiver pulled up her 
shoulders under the trench coat. Charles 
put his arm around her; for one halluci- 
nated second, he felt like Paul Bunyan. 
It seemed to him it would be no trouble 
at all to reach out a hand and straighten up 
those threatening shafts. 

As they turned up into 


so nasty about it, when it Gey PET he the East River, Charles 


that he hadn’t said it to 
please her, but because it 
was true. 


must be perfectly clear > 


forgot about moving his 


A man who reforms him- chair to the Manhattan 
self has contributed his 


full share toward the reforma- 
tion of his neighbor. 


side. It was sunnier here 
and he and Merrill were 


“What’s the mates? _NORMAN pouctas,. having a good talk about 


Don’t you like being beau- 


leaf mold and chicken pa- 


tiful?” Ps  jrika and extrasensory 


Merrill said wearily, 
“Oh, yes, I like it. But I’m not proud of 
liking it. I wish I had the courage to wish I 
wasn’t beautiful. Beauty’s such an acci- 
dental, transient thing. And so distorting, 
like—oh, like beets in salad. When it’s 
there, you can’t taste anything else.” 

“Fiddlesticks!”” said Charles energeti- 
cally. ‘Being beautiful is just a part of you, 
like being a good gardener, or hating to get 
up early or liking avocados. It’s as silly to 
pretend it’s nothing as to insist it’s every- 
thing. Now you take me, for instance. Acting 
doesn’t mean everything to me, but I don’t 
pretend it doesn’t mean a lot. I’d hate to 
retire. In fact, I plan to play Doctor Gillespie 
eventually.” 

“You haven’t far to go.” 


Cuar.es ignored this, having just thought 
of something Merrill might be able to tell 
him. “‘Speaking of ‘the prrrofession’—here’s 
something I’ve wanted to know ever since I 
got into it. I won’t deny that after eighteen 
years at it I’ve learned my trade more or 
less, but you and I know, Merrill, that I'll 
never give Booth a run for his laurel wreath. 
What put me on top so fast, do you suppose? 
And what’s kept me there all these years?” 

Merrill smiled secretively. ““You know— 
it took me a long time to figure that one out.” 

“Thanks!” 

“Well, you asked! And I think I can tell 
you. You see, Dennison, all women really 
know, though they won’t admit it even to 
themselves, that if they were to add up all 
the different things they want a man to be, 
they wouldn’t get a perfect whole—they’d 
get more than a whole. So—they’d have to 
leave something out. But—they don’t want 
to leave anything out! Follow me so far?” | 

“Roger! Over!” 

“Well, as I said, they know darn well that 
in real life they’re never going to get every- 
thing they want in one package, but—every- 
thing in one package is exactly what the 
screen makes you out to be! And at the end 


perception. He found Mer- 
rill surprisingly intelligent. She liked almost 
evefything he liked, and where differences 
existed, she didn’t display a missionary 
spirit. 

Merrill said, “Is it just that we’ve been 
talking about food or what? I’m starved. 
Where are we, do you know?” 

Charles got up, stretched and looked over 
toward the New York side. Gosh, he’d al- 
most missed it! He grinned in affectionate 
recognition. “See that powerhouse over 
there? Well, in nineteen twenty-nine ——” 

“Dennison!” 

Charles swung around. He saw the kid 
just as her feet flew out from the rail. He 
shed his overcoat as he ran. He dove toward 
a memory of the angle at which she fell, 
toward a guess as to where she would come 
up. He wouldn’t get a second chance at her, 
and neither of them any chance at all if those 
on board were too slow. Good thing it was 
this side with the length of the boat to go. 

The water was so cold it felt solid; Charles 
had opened his eyes as he went under, but it 
was his hands, searching the muddy swirls, 
which found the scant slick hair. He sur- 
faced, holding the wildly struggling small 
thing well away from him, like a kitten. 

Just as he blinked to see where he was, a 
well-aimed life buoy nearly decapitated him. 
He ducked the kid under and up through:it, 
holding the circle lovingly in the crook of 
his arm, feeling the frustrated current dive 
for his legs like a wrestler. 

That was all there was to it. 

They let Merrill in to see him in the cap- 
tain’s cabin, after he had been stripped and 
rubbed down and given a pair of dungarees - 
that were too small for him, and a wool shirt. 
Charles gave her a rigid grin. He was feeling 
very proud of himself for being alive. Just 
let her get off one crack about these pants 
and he’d salt her down! 

But she fooled him. She looked completely 
unnerved. She gave him both hands. “You 
were wonderful! I’m so glad you’re both all 











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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


right. The captain says the currents here 
are ——” 

_ “T know all about the currents. The first 
job I had when I got out of engineering school 
was helping to build that power plant I was 
showing you when the kid fell in. One sum- 
mer night I saw my best friend—he’d been 
water-polo captain in college—go down right 
out here so fast he never knew what got him.” 

Merrill said slowly, “And you went in 
anyway.” 

: Charles didn’t want her to take him for a 
fool altogether. He said defensively, ‘‘I 
didn’t have any choice!” 

Merrill blinked. “Sorry! Look, the cap- 
tain’s going to put you both off at one of the 
oil docks, so you can be checked for exposure 
and shock. He’s phoned Bellevue and they’re 
going to have an ambulance waiting.” 

“Oh, that’s ridiculous!”’ exclaimed Charles, 
greatly pleased with this mark of attention. 
“You're coming, too, aren’t you?”’ 

“Tf you like. I thought you might welcome 
this chance to be rid of me.” 

Charles impolitely thought for a bit. He 
was surprised at the result he got. “You 
come, Merrill,’’ he told her. ‘“‘New York 
wouldn’t seem like New York now, without 
you.” Come to think of it, from now on, 
no place would seem natural without her. 
Charles looked at her suspiciously. He put 
a hand to his forehead. ‘Merrill, what’s 
happening to us?” 

“Let’s find out,” 
fully. 

When he kissed her, it was as if he had 
never kissed her or anyone else before. 
“Merrill, listen! Don’t laugh at me, will 
you? I love you. I love you!”’ 

She leaned against him, compliant, eyes 
closed. She murmured something. 

“What? What, Merrill?” 

“T said, “Will you come home with me 
tomorrow?’”’ 


suggested Merrill help- 


Champagne and waltz music and Merrill 
in the most beautiful dress in New York! 
That was what Charles had said he wanted 
tonight, and that, to his grateful surprise, was 
what he was going to get. Waiting for Mer- 
rill in the sitting room of her suite, Charles 
decided it was rather nice being beautiful 
again. A new set of tails, fortunately, had 
been waiting at his tailor’s, all packed for 
shipment to Hollywood, and he had to 
admit, not at all reluctantly, that his tie, 
also new, did something for him. 

Dinner at “21.” Merrill, oddly enough, 
had suggested that. Afterward, anywhere she 
liked. He didn’t care, so long as there were 
plenty of people “for to admire” and an 
orchestra that could play Tales From the 
Vienna Woods properly. Dum, dum, dee-dum, 
dee-dum. ... Charles stopped in the midst 
of an exuberant reverse as he heard the 
bedroom door open. 


Somenow in the three hours of rest to 
which that milk-fresh intern had condemned 
Charles, she had managed to find a dress— 
strapless, gray-blue and floating—which 
made her look like all men’s dream of The 
Woman. She was so beautiful Charles had to 
gulp down his heart like an oyster at the 
sight of her. 

“Am I grand enough?”’ 

Charles nodded. “I think we’d better get 
out of here fast!” 

“Oh, there’s no hurry! Let’s take a look at 
you. My, aren’t you pretty!” 

Charles, pleased, leaned sideways to see 
himself in the mirror behind her. “How do 
you like the tie? Just a /itle off the beaten 
path, but not too much. The minute I saw it 
in Brooks yesterday I —— I didn’t phone 
him! Now how do you suppose he knew 
where to send ; 

He stood in dignified silence while Merrill 
had hysterics against his chest. “Oh, Den- 
nison, Dennison! He knew you all the time! 
Never mind, darling. It’s because you're so 
wonderful that everybody knows you!”” 

It was a lie, but he liked it, And he liked 
the way everyone gaped at Merrill—in the 
elevator, in the lobby. The taxi driver took 
one look and went to pieces, aging his gears, 
in that first palsied shift, by ten years. 

(Continued on Page 147) 





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(Continued from Page 145) 
fl As they climbed out at “21,” Merrill 

‘clutched her platina mink. “There’s the one 

‘with the scissors,’’ she muttered. 

But Charles was beaming comprehensively 
at the whole gang of kids, thus changing the 
future of a girl named Ruthie Hardinger, 
Hho, ten years later, was to jilt the steady 
young man her parents approved of, for a 
short-order chef named Otho Snorkel, be- 
cause he looked “‘just the way Charles Den- 

‘nison used to look.” 

“Miss Merrill! Miss Merrill!” 

“That’s Gloria!”” whispered Merrill. 

“Sign your picture, Miss Merrill?” 

Charles thought it the brashest face he’d 
ever seen. 

“Oh,” said Merrill uncertainly, “but 
aren’t you the one takes her own pictures?” 

“ That’ s me.”’ She handed Merrill a pic- 
‘ture. ‘ “Came out nice and clear, didn’t it?” 

Charles resisted Merrill’s sudden effort to 

( pull her arm free, and looked down, with 
her, at the enlarged candid shot. If Gloria 
had been Helen Hokinson, she couldn’t have 

‘immortalized the gardening “Mrs. Merrick”’ 

‘more completely—the glasses, the tweed 

suit, the synthetic slump of shoulder. 

““T get such a kick out of not being recog- 
nized,’ don’t you, darling?’’ said Charles. 
“Gloria, I love you!” 

Merrill giggled. ““Oh, darn it! Got your 
pen ready, Gloria?” 

The tide of kids, shooed by the doorman, 
receded. Safe inside, Charles said affection- 
ately, “You were a good sport to sign that 
picture, sweetie! I didn’t think you had it in 
you.” 

“T don’t,” said Merrill. “I signed it Greta 
Garbo!” 

f At two o’clock, still waltzing, Merrill said 







regretfully, ‘Oh, Charles, we’ve got to call 
it a day. The plane leaves at eight-forty-five 
and I’ve still got to press my suit when I get 
in. I forgot to send it down before we came 
out.” 

“You’re not going to wear that horror 
again!” 

Merrill looked at him. “ You like me much 
better this way, don’t you?” 

Charles had absolutely nothing against a 
well-constructed lie, neatly told, but every 
good liar hates wasting one where it will do 
no good. Charles said firmly, “I do.” And 
then—not so firmly—‘“‘ You sore?”’ 

She said, more gently than he’d ever heard 
her speak, “‘No. I’m not sore. Only a child or 
asavage kicks the stone he stubs his toe on.’ 

“Whew! For a minute there I was afraid! 
But, since you're not, I might as well tell 
you, darling, that if you’d like to give that 
suit to the Smithsonian as a souvenir of the 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


romance of the world’s two greatest lovers, I 
won’t lift a finger to stop you.” 

Merrill laughed. ‘Not so fast, Dennison! 
Don’t forget they’ll need that suit when they 
film the story of your life, with a handsome 
young man, half your age, playing you!”’ 

What a sensible girl she is, thought Charles 
fondly, and later on, and again fondly, What 
@ passionate creature she is! as she kissed him 
good night with the intensity of one whose 


lover has just stopped by on his way to the 
scaffold. 


Br-r-r! First Charles thought it was the 
phone, giving him his morning call. He fum- 
bled for it sleepily, said “‘Tha-ank you!” 
into the receiver and put it back, only then 
realizing that no one had spoken to him, and 
that whatever it was was still ringing. He 
lunged across the room to the door. 

The bellboy, standing outside, said, ‘‘Nine 
o’clock, sir. Lady said to give you this, sir!’”’ 

Charles said, ‘“You mean seven, kid. Wait 
a minute till I get some change.’”’ Handing 
him a half dollar from the dresser and taking 
the envelope, Charles asked, ““What’s this? 
Some new way of waking guests?” 

“No, sir. Some lady turned this in at the 
desk this morning, sir. Said to bring it up to 
you at nine.” 

“Wha-at!’’ Charles dashed back to his 
watch on the dresser. It was nine all right! 
He looked at the envelope. “Mr. Charles 
Dennison’ was typed on it. He said, “O.K., 
kid. Thanks,”’ and closed the door. 

Merrill had written: 


Dennison: Since you insist on being one of 
my public, I’m afraid that’s all you can be. I’m 
not beautiful all the time; I don’t want to be 
beautiful all the time; someday maybe I won’t 
be beautiful at all. So let’s say it was “just 
one of those things,’’ shall we? 

P. S. In case you’re wondering, I canceled 
your seven-o’clock call. 


Cuartes exclaimed, not at all fondly, “Of 
all the ham exit lines!” He picked up the 
phone. “Get me LaGuardia, will you? East- 
West Airlines. . . . Hello? East-West Air- 
lines? What time’s the next flight to Harris- 
burg?... All canceled? Why?... What?. 

Oh, the fog! I see!” Charles twisted around 
and, for the first time, saw the Scotch broth 


. outside his window. ‘‘Wait a minute! Does 


that mean the eight-forty-five flight didn’t 
go.out?... It didn’t? Well—what do you 
know! What happened to the passengers? . . 

They went back. Did they all go back? . ar 
see... . O.K. Thanks!”’ Charles jiggled the 
hook. “ ‘Listen, honey,” he said to the switch- 
board operator, ‘‘find me somebody fast and 
there’s ten dollars in it for you, and a dollar 


: 7 Seriya 
**I’m nobody’s little boy—I'm a girl! 





more for every minute less than ten you take 
to do it. Over in Jersey there’s a guy named 
Hal Somers has a charter plane service. . . . 
No, I don’t know what part of Jersey... . 
O.K., I’ll stop wasting your money. Go to it!” 


Charles put down the four-five, and Doc- 
tor Hildebrandt said, ‘‘Now you don’t want 
to go doing that.” 

“T don’t? Oh, I see! Thanks!” Charles put 
his domino at the other end so that it gave 
him a score of fifteen, and, continuing a dis- 
jointed conversation, said feverishly to Mrs. 
Hildebrandt, “And Japanese lanterns. Re- 
member them? I wonder whatever happened 
to them.”’ 

“Happened to them!” cried Mrs. Hilde- 
brandt. ““Why, nothing’s happened to them. 
We still hang ours all along the porch every 
Fourth. If I do say so myself, we’ve got the 
nicest ones in town.” 

“Except the Flegheimers,” 
Hildebrandt. 

Mrs. Hildebrandt’s rocker hopped indig- 
nantly. “I don’t see what there is to admire 
about the Flegheimers’! Too showy!” She 
said to Charles, ‘Doctor always says that 
just to tease me.” 


said Doctor 


Merrit’s father and mother were being 
very kind, but Charles was past helping. 
What was he going to say to her? He hadn’t 
any reason to suppose she’d changed her 
mind about him. The only reason he was 
here was she’d made him so mad thinking 
she’d had the last word like that. 

Mrs. Hildebrandt’s rocker stopped. ““There’s 
sister’s cab now, I do believe.’’ She hurried 
out into the front hall. 

“Finish your drink!” advised Doctor 
Hildebrandt, setting a good example. 

Charles did as he was told and stood up 
with difficulty. It didn’t need Merrill’s voice 
in the hall to make him feel boneless. 

“Oh, mamma, how wonderful to see you! 
Is papa all right? Is he home? Where is he?” 

“Right in the front room. Let me look at 
you, Cec’ly. How pretty you do look!” 

“Thank you, mamma. Papa? Papa?’’ 

Merrill came in eagerly. She had obviously 
tried to make herself look as beautiful as she 
had looked last night, and the fitted black 
suit hadn’t got in her way at all. Charles had 
planned to say very lightly, “Hello, darling,” 
but Merrill saw him, burst into tears, 
then flew across the room and into his arms. 

“Oh, Charles, Charles! I’m so glad you 
came! So glad! But however did you get here 
ahead of me?” 

Mrs. Hildebrandt said proudly and ap- 
proximately, “He flew up. That’s what he 
did. He flew up with an Aleutian friend.” 

“Oh, Charles, you fool! You might have 
been killed!” 

“But he wasn’t,” said Doctor Hildebrandt 
mildly. ‘‘Take your hat off, sister. This calls 
for a drink.” 

“Now, doctor! Hours tonight, remem- 
ber!” 

“Since I’ve had them every Friday night 
for the last thirty-five years, I’m not likely to 
forget.” Doctor Hildebrandt unstoppered 

the decanter. “‘ Nettie, be a good girl, and get 
me an extra glass for sister here.” 

Without a word, Mrs. Hildebrandt went 
into the dining room. Over Merrill’s head, 
Charles looked at the doctor. Was that all 
there was to it? His arms tightened master- 
fully. 

Merrill sniffed and lifted her head. ““How 
did you know I wanted you to come?” 

“Remember what you said about your 
father getting the best of your mother by 
just being there, going his own ——” 

Charles stopped, gaping in fascinated 
horror. Mrs. Hildebrandt had come back 
with not one extra glass, but two, and while 
her husband busied himself with fixing Mer- 
rill’s drink, his wife, behind his back, was 
equally busy, pouring half of the doctor’s 
drink into an empty glass, and replacing it 
with ice water from a pitcher. 

Doctor Hildebrandt chuckled. “Sister here 
is a lot like her mother.” 

“T can see that,’”’ said Charles. And then, 
surprising himself, he laughed. He could see 
he had a lot to look forward to. ““How about a 
kiss, Amor elusus?” he asked. THE END 


147 


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1 tablespoon cream 

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Table set for two—Kay, Bob, and baby Robin who frequently joins them pit 


ee 


PHOTO BY DI PIETRO | Si 


Wo 
"he 
das 


By LOUELLA 
G. SHOUER 





HOUGH Kay had never cooked before she was married, she’: 


doing very well, thank you. Before Robin was born, Kay spen ji 


hours in the kitchen brewing up elegant three-course din 


ners for Bob and guests. No dish was too complicated for her to at 


tempt. Now it’s quite different. She’s simplified her meals—even foi 


company —uses all the speed help available: mixes, frozen foods, anc 


so on. Her best helper, she says, 


is her pressure saucepan. Thougl|m 


she usually leans on the mixes for baked breads and desserts, she 


occasionally makes the real thing just to prove she can still do it 


Monday 
Broiler Dinner 


Lamb Chop or 
Bacon-Roll Grill 
Bob’s Salad — Rolls i 
Ice Cream with Fudge Sauce 


Broiler combinations are Kay’s and 
Bob’s most favorite dinners. Kay can 
and does have everything ready to 
broil before she bundles up Robin and 
drives to the station for Bob. With 
whatever meat or fish is to be broiled 
that night, they usually broil tomato 
slices, sometimes mushroom caps 
when they aren't too expensive, and 
onion slices always. Kay buys the 
sweet Bermuda onions for this pur- 
pose and for Bob’s Salad—a green 
salad with his own French dressing, 
the usual oil-and-vinegar base with 
garlic powder and onion. Blue cheese 
or anchovy paste is added when either 
is on hand. 

They are both so fond of ice cream 
that they buy it twice a week on the 
way home from the station. Kay 


wishes she had freezer space to keep it 





on hand so they could have it when}! 
ever they were in the mood—eyven be 
fore bedtime. 

Here’s a trick your broiler can dr 
when you're getting a bit bored witl}"! 
the endless repetition of steak, chop th 
and ground beef for broiler meals: 


BACON ROLLS 


liver in bacon strips. Secure wit) 
toothpicks. Wrap large stuffed olive}, 
in bacon to go with a fish grill—cooket 


grill. Broil about 8-10 minutes o}; 
until bacon is crisp, turning fre 
quently. 


Tuesday 
One-Piece Dinner 


Ham Jambalaya 
Green Salad 
Rye Toast — Favorite Chees 


Whenever there’s any ham left o 
from a Sunday company baked-h 
dinner, Kay never has to puzzle over) y, 
how to use it up. It’s sure to go into) ii 


jambalaya—a good dish, well known) 





in Southern states. Maybe you know 
it too. Bob loves the stuff and will 
pnake a meal of it with salad and good 
cheese. It’s a convenient dish. Kay 
puts it together in the afternoon while 
Robin naps. It bakes while she’s at the 
station for Bob. 







HAM JAMBALAYA 













ham to make | cup. You can use 14 
_pound delicatessen boiled ham too. 
Sauté 14 clove garlic, minced, and 2 
large onions, chopped fine, with 2 slices 
bacon cut into small pieces. Add 2 cups 
canned tomatoes and | tablespoon 
| chopped parsley. Simmer 15 minutes. 
Add 1 cup freshly cooked rice that has 
been drained, rinsed with boiling wa- 
} ter and drained again. Add the ham. 
Season with salt and pepper to taste, a 
Q) pinch of thyme and 2 teaspoons 
Worcestershire sauce. If you like 
“hot” foods, you will want to add a 
dash or so of hot pepper sauce. Pour 
into a casserole. Bake in a moderate 
oven, 350° F., 30-40 minutes. 



















Wednesday 
Oven Dinner 






Hamburger-and-Tomato 
Scallop 
Baked Potato Halves 
Pascal Celery Apple Dandy 










‘Along about Wednesday the budget 
_}speaks up. It’s shopping day. Kay 
#does buy the expensive hobbyhorse to 
eajput under the Christmas tree for 
-)}Robin, but at the meat market she 
_psettles for hamburger. But that’s no 
hardship. Kay does wonderfully good 
fthings with hamburger. Chile, for in- 
stance. and well-seasoned casseroles 
make half a pound of hamburger go a 
plong way. 
On a cold winter evening, get your 
whole dinner in the oven. Then sit, if 
you will, and play with the baby while 
.Jyour dinner cooks unattended. For 
some oven dinners, you have to 
watch the clock. One thing goes in at 
5:15, one at 5:30, and so on. Put the 
~Bwhole works in the oven at once for 
this dinner. Cut the large baking po- 
tatoes in half lengthwise so they'll 
bake in the same time it takes for cas- 
serole and dessert. 

























AMBURGER-AND-TOMATO 
SCALLOP 







4 





ombine 1 No. 2 can tomatoes, 14 bay 
eaf, crushed, 14 teaspoon chili powder 
or snap and 12 crushed soda crackers. 
Slice 1 onion thin and fry with '% 
und ground beef in 1 tablespoon 
butter or margarine until meat is 
rowned. Season with salt and pepper. 
lombine with tomato mixture. Pour 
nto a l-quart casserole. Sprinkle with 
a few more cracker crumbs. Dot with 
utter or margarine and bake 35-45 
minutes in moderate oven, 350° F. 



















APPLE DANDY 






eel and core 3 tart apples. Cut into 
sighths. Place in shallow baking dish 
piepan. Sprinkle with 2 tablespoons 
rown sugar, 2 tablespoons granulated 
ear and 4 teaspoon cinnamon. Dot 
ith | tablespoon butter or margarine 
ut into pieces. Mix 4 teaspoon bak- 
















ing soda, a pinch of salt and 2 table- 
spoons flour with 144 cup thick sour 
cream. Spread over apples and bake in 
a moderate oven, 350° F., 40-45 min- 
utes until crust is brown and apples are 
soft. Serve warm with cream flavored 
with a little nutmeg and a little sugar. 
This is every bit as good as apple pie 
and much quicker and easier to make. 


Thursday 
Light Supper 


Poached Eggs in Cheese Sauce 
Bacon Toast 
Grapefruit Salad 


Once or twice a week, Kay gets a sitter 
and she and Bob have an evening out. 
This usually means a late snack, so 
they go light on supper. 


POACHED EGGS IN CHEESE SAUCE 


Melt 4 cup butter or margarine. Add 
\4 cup flour, 14 teaspoon salt, 1 tea- 
spoon pepper. Stir until blended. Add 
2 cups milk and cook until thickened, 
stirring constantly. Add 14-34 cup 
grated cheese. Grease a shallow pan. A 
7-inch skillet about 11% inches deep is 
a good choice. Pour in sauce. Sauce 
should be about 34 to | inch deep. Cool 
a little. Drop 4 eggs in sauce. Cover 
and bake in moderate oven, 350° F., 
until eggs are cooked to doneness you 
like, about 25-30 minutes. Season eggs 
before serving. 


BACON TOAST 


Plain toast and bacon is fine, but have 
you ever tried this? Fry bacon. Cut 
crusts off bread, lay bacon on bread— 
roll up and fasten with toothpicks. 
Toast in oven with eggs until golden 
brown. Put in oven about 8 minutes 
before eggs are done, turning fre- 
quently. 


Friday 
Weekly Favorite 


Shrimp Sizzle 
Frozen Peas or Green Beans 
Salad 
Ripe Pears 


When Kay was first married, she tried 
one of the quick and easy dishes— 
Shrimp Sizzle. It’s been a favorite 
ever since. It’s easy and fits in with her 
belief in broiling everything she can. 
Fridays she grocery shops. A pound of 
shrimp is always at the head of the list 
when they are available. 


SHRIMP SIZZLE 


Peel and clean | pound fresh shrimp. 
This is no trick at all when they are 
raw, and you want them raw for this 
dish. Arrange shrimp closely together 
in a circle in a piepan. Melt 2 table- 
spoons butter or margarine. Add 3 ta- 
blespoons lemon juice and pour this 
over shrimp. Season with salt and pep- 
per. Broil under moderate heat until 
shrimp are pink and the fat sizzles. 
Serve on toast to get the benefit of the 
sauce. Kay and Bob like this best on 
rye toast. 

Note: Both milk and coffee are served 
with all dinners. Add an extra cooked 
vegetable when you have time. 









Interested in unusual recipes? 
Then write Durkee Famous Foods, 
Department 12-J, Long|Island,N.Y. 


a 








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va a 

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149 













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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


THEN THE 
MAILMAN CAME 


(Continued from Page 36) 


Mother read the letter, it was for her, and 
right away I could feel the difference. Right 
away I knew things were going to be differ- 
ent. ““Oh dear,”’ mother said. ‘‘Oh-h-h dear. 
Just when I was feeling comfortable and lazy 
too.” 

“Now what?” father said. 

““Guess who’s coming,”’ mother said. “‘ Just 
guess.”’ But she didn’t give him time to 
guess. “Uncle Dillon,” she said. 

“Well, what d’you know?” father said. 
“He hasn’t been here since the children were 
born.” 

“No, thank goodness,’’ mother said. 
“Prim little Uncle Dillon. I wonder what 
he’d think of this house right now. I don’t 
think he’d go for the Alcan Highway running 
through four of our rooms.” 

Pud and I had spent over a week on that 
highway. It had everything. Bridges and cul- 
verts and towns and cities. We’d used every 
block, every piece of the Erector set, every 
construction set and even the baby-food cans 
mother had washed out and kept for us. 
Baby-food cans make good building stuff. 

“Oh, he’d probably like the Alcan High- 
way,” father said and I breathed again. 
“He’d probably think a mother who appre- 
ciated the work that went into such a project 
and let her boys leave it up was a pretty nice 
mother, wouldn’t he, boys?” 

“Not Uncle Dillon,” mother said. “You 
must have him confused with one of my 
other uncles. Uncle Dillon is my little uncle, 
remember? The one with all the sisters? 
That’s what made him so prim and orderly. 
He can’t help it. The only boy, and six older 
sisters. They taught him never to play 
rough. They never let him mess around. 
They taught him to keep his room neat and 
fold his clothes and have lovely manners. 
They gave him that silly name.’’ Mother 
looked at the letter again. ‘‘He doesn’t say 
when, of course.”’ Well, it might be any 
time,” she said, ““so—no playing today. The 
Alcan Highway has to go.” 

“Oh-h-h!”’ Pud wailed it. ‘‘We just got it 
neat,” he said. ‘‘We just got the bridge the 
way we want it!” 

““Can’t help it!”” mother said. “Down it 
comes.” 


‘“ Everypopy else steps over it,’”’ I said. 
“What’s the matter with Uncle Dillon? 
Has he got rheumatism or something? 
What’s he want to come here for anyway?” 

“Rod!” father said. “I don’t suppose 
there’s another mother in this country who 
would let her boys build things all over the 
house like your mother does and then leave 
them there. Uncle Dillon is mother’s favorite 
uncle, and if she can’t have him come and 
visit her in her own home, I’d like to know 
why. Now, don’t waste any time at it. Get 
that highway down. /’m a little sick of step- 
ping high every time I go through, myself.” 

“Roger!’’ mother said. ““You know that 
isn’t true. You’re perfectly willing to step 
over things and go around things.” 

“Oh, sure I am,” father said. ‘‘I’ve been 
doing it for so many years now I walk that 
way even when nothing’s there. When I was 
first married I used to fall on my face every 
time I came in late in the dark. There was al- 
ways something looming up to trip me—the 
makings of a braided rug, or an easel with a 
wet canvas on it or a freshly painted chair 
standing on newspapers.” 

“He ruined more of my things,”’ mother 
said, “before he got used to me.” 

“That kind of thing takes time,” father 
said. ‘‘Other fellows marry girls who just sit 
and read a book or sew lace on handkerchiefs 
when they go out in the evening. I’d visited 
in homes where the people were married lots 
of times. Nothing I ever saw prepared me for 
what J got. Every time I was out late your 
mother started some big new project. The 
worst one was those papier-maché puppets 
she tried to make. I fell hands-first into a tub 
of chewed-up newspapers all mixed up with 
starch and water and glue and what not.” 


December, 1949 


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“Well, I get lonesome when I’m home 
alone,” mother said. ‘I have to think of 
something to do.” 

“Something big,”’ father said. 

“We're off the subject,’’ mother said. 
“Nobody knows better than I how much fun 
it is to be able to have a project you feel 
won't be disturbed. I know when you build 
a city or a transcontinental highway it takes 
time, and you don’t want to have to tear it 
down as soon as it’s up. But this is special. 
Uncle Dillon is an old fuddy-duddy. He’s no 
favorite of mine. We have him because we 
have to have him. He has money, and mon- 
ey’s not a thing to be sneezed at. If he wants 
to come and look us over to see if we’re nice 
people whom he could leave some money to 
or make a present to right now and not be 
ashamed of us, that’s his right. I want him to 
find us the way he wants to find us—orderly 
and polite and conventional; when people go 
to look over families in homes, they want to 
find them looking and acting like families in 
homes, not construction gangs and factories. 
You know what Lucille does, don’t you?” 
she said. “When Uncle Dillon goes there, 
you know what she does?”’ 

“No, but I can imagine,”’ father said. 

“Well, you’re right,’’ mother said. ‘‘She 
hires a woman to cook and serve meals. They 
have dinner in several courses. They have 
breakfast in special spots—you know, like 
they tell you to in magazines? ‘Set the break- 
fast table in that sunshiny spot in the living 
room for a change and a fresh nosegay of vio- 
lets in the corner, or if it’s a fresh, warm 
morning, set it on the terrace next to the 
blooming hyacinths.’ Magazines always 
think you can arrange beds 
of blooming hyacinths at 
a moment’s notice.” 

“We had three bloom- 
ing,”’ father said. ‘Two are 
gone. What happened?” 

“That’s Johnny Tuttle’s 
favorite place to ride his 
trike in that flower bed,” 
mother said. “‘ That’s what 
I mean, see? It’s easy for Lucille to be impres- 
sive with one thirteen-year-old girl.” 

“Well, we can try,” father said. ‘‘We can 
do our best. You boys get busy and tear down 
the Alcan Highway.” 

“The mountains too?” I said. 
were hard.” 

“The mountains too,” father said. “And 
don’t forget New York or whatever it is with 
the skyscrapers just at the hall doorway.” 

“Oh, to-doody-de-dee,”’ mother said. 
“Here we go into the housework to get ready 
for Uncle Dill. I’m so tired of housework,” 
she said. “‘If only we can go to New York for 
our vacation!”’ 

“Well, maybe we can,” father said. “‘ New 
York’s awfully hot in summer.” 

“Who cares?’’ mother said. “‘There 
wouldn’t be any housework.’’ She was look- 
ing at the letter again. ‘I wonder what Uncle 
Dillon will try next,”’ she said. “For a rich 
little, prim little, orderly man he’s certainly 
adventurous lately. I thought he was at the 
peak when he lived in that North Woods 
cabin all last winter. Now it’s a houseboat. 
Imagine! A trip down the river in a house- 
boat !’’ Mother laughed. 

“Oh!” father said, breathless. ‘‘ Really! 
Well, good old Dillon. He’s got stuff.” 


“Those 


“Opp stuff,” mother said. ‘A houseboat!” 
She wrinkled up her nose. “Ick!” she said. 
“It'll smell like fish. I suppose it has a little 
kitchen you can’t stand up straight in and a 
smelly kerosene stove.” 

Father’s eyes were shining. “Or maybe 
wood,” he said. ‘‘Can’t you just smell bacon 
frying or maybe fish,” he said, “‘mixed in 
with the fresh-earthy smell of the smooth 
water flowing past ?”’ 

“Yes,” mother said, “I can. It smells aw- 
ful. It’s an odd letter, isn’t it?” she said. 
“What’s he cooking?” 

“I haven't read the letter,” father said. 

“Well, read it,”” mother said. She handed 
it to him. ‘“‘ Read it and see what you think. 
He’s visiting Lucille’s now. We're next. Be- 
fore he leaves on the houseboat. He couldn't 
be planning on taking relatives with him, 
could he?” 


To lose one’s temper be- 

cause of somebody else is 

to punish one’s self for an- 
other’s shortcomings. 

—LEOPOLD BOEHMER. 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Father read the letter and looked up. I’ve 


151 


' 
never seen father look like that. He looked 
like something wonderful had happened. ~ "i an or ni rf 
Somethingso wonderful he couldn’t believe it. 
pe 5 @ e ° 
“THis MIX IS 3 Now ay iT, 


“That’s it!” father said in a high, excited 
little voice. “‘He’s going to take us with him! 
Us or Lucille and Bob. That’s why he’s 
coming—to see which he wants. Think of 
that, boys.” Father was almost singing it. 
“Drifting down the river on a houseboat!” 

“Whatever he has in mind,” mother said, 
“Tam sure it isn’t boys. Don’t worry,” she 
said. “He'll take Lucille and Bob. Uncle 
Dillon’s houseboat would be immaculate. 
Immaculate and orderly. Lucille’s the one he 
should take. Maybe she could take her clean- 
ing woman along. He’ll want good, quiet 
fishing companions and someone to cook and 
make the bunks and scrub the deck. He 
won’t want confusion or shiftlessness or dis- 
order. I’m just not orderly. So why pretend? 
There are too many interesting things in the 
world. I like order, but I like so many other 
things better. And then—there are the boys. 
Lucille and Bob would make wonderful river- 
boat companions for Dillon. Beverly’s thir- 
teen. She’ll go to camp.” 


‘THe wonderful, unbelieving look had left 
father’s face. ““Couldn’t the boys go to the 
farm?”’ he said. ‘Or to your mother?”’ 

Mother looked up at him quick. Real 
quick. 

“T used to dream about things like that,” 
father said. “Floating down the river, pass- 
ing up the farms and towns, having the world 
drift by you while you loaf in a deck chair. 
Izzy and I used to talk about houseboats,” 
he said. “‘ But what we were 
going to do was go around 
the world on a tramp 
steamer. We even had our 


bag apiece. We had cut 
out all the nonessentials. 
We were going to wear 
sailor clothes and wash 
them ourselves.” 

Mother was sitting real still, watching fa- 
ther. ‘Izzy would never have stuck to it 
anyway,” she said quietly. “He was too am- 
bitious.” 

‘Why, he would too,” father said. “If I’d 
have gone through with it, he would. I 
guess every boy has dreams like that. Glen 
and I were going on a walking trip through 
Germany. Just a pack on our backs and a 
walking stick. Glen could speak German and 
he claimed his father had relatives in every 
hamlet. We were going to eat practically free. 
We were going to walk right on through 
France. That’s why I took French,” father 
said. ‘If the summer held out and Glen’s 
relatives didn’t detain us too long, we were 
going to end up in Switzerland,” father said. 
“Glen knew a man who ran a resort there.” 

“Well, why didn’t you?” I said. “What 
stopped you?” 

Father sighed and stopped dreaming. His 
eyes twinkled. “ Nature set a trap,” he said. 
He looked at mother and laughed. “‘ Nature 
set a trap,” he said, “and I walked in.” 

“Huh?” I said. 

“T met a girl,” father said. “She had soft, 
wavy, brown hair.”’ 

“They weren’t natural waves,’ mother 
said. ‘““She used to work hours over those 
waves.” 

“She was a witch,” father said. ‘‘Round 
and slim and cute. Ina mad moment I threw 
the walking trip through Germany into the 
ocean. I pushed Izzy and his tramp steamer 
off a cliff. I remember how Izzy looked at 
me. A very, very sorrowful look, and he said, 
‘Adventure comes only to the free.’ 2 

“And what’d you do then, father?” Pud 
said. ‘‘What’d you do then?” 

“T said, ‘Good luck, Izzy,’” father said. 
“Good luck, Izzy!’ I said, and I turned and 
walked straight into that beautiful trap.” 

Mother was still watching father. She 
looked worried. ‘Girls have dreams too,” 
she said now. ‘* Margaret and I were going to 
bicycle through England before we got too 
old and clumsy. We were going in June and 
we were going to visit all those places that 
we'd read about—Stratford-on-Avon, Can- 
terbury Cathedral, Piccadilly Circus, Ludlow, 


2 





luggage planned. A duffel | 


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Jewett City, Conn. 


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3 Peartree Court, Peartree Lane 
Little Common, Bexhill-on-Sea 
Sussex, England 


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Make a Swans Down Instant White 
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HOLIDAY FROSTING 


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¥ cup Borden’s Eagle Brand Sweetened 
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1 teaspoon grated lemon rind 
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1 cup Baker’s Shredded Coconut 
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Hit 
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i _ 


LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Castle.” Mother sniffed and her voice shook 
a little. 

Father gave mother a queer look, a long 
look. Then he turned to us and talked fast. 
“But I’ve never been sorry,” he said. “‘Re- 
member that, boys. The trap’s the thing. A 
nice little trap with a beautiful girl and then 
a job you like and kids and a house—that’s 
life. Not a tramp steamer.” 

And then father left and mother got busy 
and nothing was the same again for weeks. 
She got us busy too. “‘We’re going to have 
this place so immaculate,” she said, “‘and so 
orderly that Uncle Dillon will think we’re 
the nicest family in the whole United States. 
Pick up every single block and girder and 
screw and piece of that Erector set,’”’ she 
said. ‘““You should see Uncle Dillon’s room 
at his sisters’. There isn’t a pin out of place. 
You should see his dresser drawers!” 

We worked on it till schooltime. We 
worked on it again at noon. And after school. 
Boy, was that ever a neat highway! It went 
from the dining room through the hall into 
the living room, and around the back of the 
davenport right out into the study. 

“We couldn’t just leave this part back of 
the davenport, could we?” Pud said. “It 
hardly shows at all.” 

“You could not,” mother said. ‘‘I’ve vacu- 
umed around and through that thing for a 
week. It’s lived its life. Down it comes.”’ 

Mother had her hair wrapped up in a 
cloth. She was sure giving the place a going- 
over. She had aired and pressed the dining- 
room drapes and she was hanging them up. 
She got down off the chair and came over 
and looked at us back of the davenport. 

“Next time, don’t screw that stuff to- 
gether so tight,’’ she said. ‘“‘Remember it al- 
ways has to come down again,” she said. She 
sat down on the davenport for a minute, her 
feet up under her. “You'll help me, boys, 
won’t you? Maybe I can make Uncle 
Dillon choose us if you’ll just help. And then 
think, you get to go to the farm to stay, you 
two. Mamma’ll keep Bumps.” 

“I'd rather go on the boat,” I said. “I 
never been on a houseboat.” 

“Well, that’s impossible,” she said. “‘ You 
can’t go. Even if he did choose us, he doesn’t 
want children. But you'll help us to go, won’t 
you? You'll help me to get it for father?”’ 

“Sure we will,” I said. ‘‘Leave it to us. 
We'll put it over for you.” 

“I thought you wanted to go to New 
York,” Pud said. 

Mother sighed. ““New York! Well, maybe 
we can do that next year.” 


My goodness, but we kept it neat. We got 
it slicked up. Everything in place. And be- 
lieve you me, we kept it that way. Maybe 
you played Chinese checkers in the living 
room. You didn’t leave any marbles lying 
around. You didn’t put the board against the 
wall till later when you were going upstairs 
anyway. You put it away. Now. 


Moruer was nervous as a cat. Looking out 
the window every time a car came down the 
street, running around patting things and 
plumping pillows every time a taxi turned 
the corner. You never knew when it might be 
Uncle Dillon. 

“T called the folks,” father said one night. 
“It’s O.K. with them. The boys can stay 
there.” 

“That’s good,” mother said. “‘Of course, 
Uncle Dillon might not choose us.” 

“Well it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. 
Where’s that fishing tackle of mine?” 

“In the attic, I think,” mother said, and 
father went to look. 

“T don’t see why you want to go so much,” 
I said. 

“Darling, it’s not for me I want it,” 
mother said. “Me, I like a vacation on land. 
I hate boats. It’s for father.’’ Then her voice 
got soft. “‘I feel sorry for father,” 

“For father?’’ I said. “You feel sorry for 
father?” 

“Yeah,”’ mother said. ““He got married so 
young. He never had a chance at wandering 
and loafing. Boys are different from girls, 
Rod,” she said. ‘“‘They’re born with a wan- 
derlust. They ought to have a chance to get 
it out of their systems before they settle 


down. If they don’t they always regret it. 
They feel like they’ve been trapped.” 

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “‘That’s the 
way father feels.” 

“He does?” mother said. 

“You heard him say so,” I said. ‘‘ But it 
was his own fault. He said he walked right 
into that trap.” 

“Yes, I know,” mother said. ‘‘Nice men 
always say that. But there’s usually more to 
it than that, Rod. There’s usually more to it 
than that. I’ll tell you about that when you 
get a little older,” she said. ‘‘There’s a lot I 
can tell you about that when the time comes. 
Oh, I do hope Uncle Dillon chooses us. I 
want the house to be the best it’s ever been 
when he comes. I want the meals to be the 
best we’ve ever had. I want him to see how 
good I’d be on a houseboat. He has to choose 
us. We could never afford a houseboat our- 
selves.” 


It was astrain keeping it neat all the time. 
“My gosh,” Pud said one day. “‘ What’s so 
wonderful about Uncle Dillon? Has he got 


x KKK Kj hh Khu] hh 


Citta 


By Kenneth C. Anderson 


This is the great cathedral. Hear the 
psalm! 

This is the dim and cool religious 
air. 

Turn from the aisle and its loft calm; 

Mount upward through stone circles 
of the stair, 

And rise among the storied statues 
where, 

High in the galleries of the ancient 
deep, 

Lurk memories of the holy and the 
fair. 

Far up, in stone, the echoes, fast 
asleep, 

Breathe deeply, while the windows 
watch, and weep 

Their silent purple tears of Gothic 
balm. 

Grow faint with height and dimness 
and the rhyme 

And rhythm of the arch and 
clustered palm! 

Stand back against the wall of sacred 
clime, 

And listen to the silence of all time! 


OK OK KK ee 


horns or something? Is he Superman or 
something ?”’ 

Mother laughed. “Anything but,’ she 
said. ‘“He’s little. ... You know,” mother said 
to father, ‘that’s why he never married. 
Girls were always taller than him. He was 
sensitive about it, poor Uncle Dillon.” 

“That’s probably what made him rich, 
too,” father said. 

“Not getting married?” mother said and 
she looked sharp at father. “I suppose so,” 
she said. ‘“‘Men with wives and children to 
support don’t have money.” 

“‘T meant being little,” father said. “He had 
to try harder and show people. But not getting 
married helped, too, I’m sure,”’ he said. 


Well, the house stayed neat and Uncle 
Dillon didn’t come and didn’t come and then 
one night mother and father left us alone. 
Mother never would have gone but father 
was making this speech. It was a dinner and 
father’d been practicing the speech for days. 
It sounded keen too. Mother had him change 
his tie three times while we were waiting for 
Jim to come to stay with us and she kept fix- 
ing herself up, too, putting on more lipstick, 
fussing with her hat. 

“Why don’t you wear your keys, Roger?” 
she said. 

“My what?” father said. 


December, 1949 


’ 


“Your keys,” mother said. “You never 
wear them any more. You know, all those 
keys you won in school.” 

“Don’t be silly,” father said. ‘‘Where 
would I wear them? Around my neck? In my 
nose? I don’t wear a watch chain.” 

“Well, wear one,”’ mother said, ‘‘and put 
the keys on it. I’m proud of you, Roger. I 
want people to know about all the honors 
you’ve had. What they ought to do,” she 
said, “they ought to let me introduce you. 
Then I could tell them.” 

“Good heavens!”’ father said. “Listen,” 
he said, “does it sound better if I say the men 
of my organization or the engineers of my or- 
ganization?” 

“The engineers,” mother said. “Anyone 
can have men. ‘Engineers’ sounds profes- 
sional. Where can Jim be?”’ she said. 

We found out in a minute. Jim was sick. 
He couldn’t come. 


Morner couldn’t get anyone else that late. 
“Oh, it makes me ill,” she said. “It just 
makes me ill. I want to go so badly and hear 
your speech.” 

“Well, what’s the matter with Rod?” fa- 
ther said. ‘* They’ve had their dinner. Bumps 
is ready for bed. When does a boy get old 
enough to take responsibility? Rod knows 
how to take care of the three of them and we 
won’t be late. We’ll be back by nine.” 

So, that’s the way it was. It was nothing. 
We played in the living room. I could have 
been doing it for years. We’d been wasting 
money. There was nothing to it. Gosh, we 
often play like that for three hours. 

Mother said to do anything we wanted to 
that was safe and reasonable. She said to 
draw and play games that Bumps would like 
too. She said to keep them amused and she’d 
make it right with me. And it was nothing. 

When you’ ve been a boy all your life your- 
self, there’s nothing to it. You know what 
boys like. You know better than grownups 
what to do to amuse them. We made a house- 
boat in the living room. 

Was it ever swell! We took three card 
tables and put them up in a row, edge to 
edge. Then we got blankets and rugs and 
bedspreads and covered them all over. We 
got the radio from my room and connected it 
up in there. We took the shade off a floor 
lamp and put the lamp down on its side and 
stuck it in. Was it ever neat! We got games 
and cards and books. We got cookies and ba- 
nanas and glasses of milk. We got a bed tray 
for a table. We ate and played. We got pil- 
lows and lay down in there listening to the 
radio. It was swell. It was super. Bumps 
loved it. Pud and I loved it too. And then 
Uncle Dillon came. 

I thought it was him right away because 
he was little and then he told me too. He had 
bright little eyes that blinked all the time and 
no hair at all. He didn’t look like a fuddy- 
duddy. He looked fun. 

He grinned and said, “‘ You’re Rod, what? 
Well, put ’er there, Rod. Folks home?” 

“Mother and father will be home by nine,” 
I told him. ‘‘They didn’t know you were 
coming tonight. You come on in and wait,” I 
said. ““You just come on in and wait. Have 
you got a suitcase?” 

He had one and we took it up to my room. 
It was a little messed up because we’d had 
to move the furniture to get the rug for the 
houseboat, so we left the suitcase by the door. 

“You better come on down and wait in 
the living room,’ I said. So he did. 


Mother had been nervous about leaving 
us. I could tell from the way she rushed up to 
the door when she came home. 

“How was the speech?’’ I said. 

“Oh, good,” mother said. ‘‘Very good.” 
She looked in the living room. ‘‘What a 
mess,”’ she said, pulling off her gloves. ‘Is 
everything all right?” 

Bumps crawled out of the houseboat for a 
minute. “Hi!” he said. : 


“Sure, everything’s swell,” Isaid. ““Ev-— 


erything’s swell and Uncle Dillon came, 
mother,” I said. 

Mother dropped into a chair that was still 
up straight. “‘ No!” she said. ““Oh, no!” She 
was wailing it. ‘“He didn’t!” 

(Continued on Page 154) 
















































= F* = = 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL L553 


o Cougle 


who broke the rules! 


At West Point, life is governed by regulations—two whole books of them—and 










many cadet customs and traditions. Even courting is done according to rules, as 
Cadet Walworth Williams and Barbara Savage of Georgia found out. 


So, after Cadet Williams got his commission, and married Barbara, he had an 
idea. “Let’s go back to West Point and break all the regulations we followed when 
I was a cadet!” 


“Tt’s a date!” Barbara exclaimed. “Just as soon as | change my wedding dress for 
my going-away suit and—” she thought the rest—“freshen up with Woodbury 
Facial Soap...” 





Barbara bought the dinners during his cadet days. 


“Too bad this isn’t the big game,” Barbara 





- 


S&S 


. 


bd 
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e 
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“We couldn’t stroll like this when I took you 
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world’s record for running a mile is 4 min- 


utes, 1 second!” 


It was a rule. But this time the rule is broken 
—and Lieutenant Williams pays. The thought 
makes Barbara glow (of course, some of her 
glow is due to regular Woodbury care). 










There’s an old, established rule Barbara never 
breaks: keeping to soap that doesn’t burn her 
skin —Woodbury. It contains an ingredient of 
rich face creams. Doctors tested Woodbury 
among women, and not one showed a trace 


sighs. “The one when we couldn't sit to- 
gether! We’d be breaking that tradition right 
now.” Barbara never breaks her beauty tradi- 
tion: using extra-mild Woodbury Soap. 





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PAT. OFF 


(Continued from Page 152) 

“Yes, he did,” I said. ““He came. He had a 
suitcase. I had him put it by my door. We 
had to move the furniture to get the rug, so 
we couldn’t get in the room.” 

Mother looked dumb. She looked stunned. 
She looked petrified. ““Where...is... he?” 
she said. 

“It’s all right, mother,” I said. “‘It’s all 
right. He’s gone out. He was hungry. He 
went out for something to eat.” 

Mother put her head down in her hands. 
“Didn’t you...even...ask him to... sit 
down?” she said in a slow little voice. 

“Sure we did,” I said. ‘‘We even let him 
lie down. We took him right in the houseboat 
and gave him a cooky.” 

“A store cooky,” mother moaned. “A 
store cooky!”’ 

Pud came out of the houseboat and stood 
in front of her too. ‘‘We were nice to him, 
mother,’ he said. “‘We were real nice to 
him.” 

““We sure were, mother,’’ I said. ‘‘ We gave 
him a glass of milk in the houseboat too, but 
he was still hungry and there wasn’t any- 
thing else here.” 

Mother’s shoulders shook. ‘‘ Did he talk?” 
she said. “‘Did he say anything?”’ 

“Let’s see,” I said. ‘‘We talked to him, 
I know,” I said. ‘“We were real polite, 
mother. We talked to him.” 

“Yes?”” mother said. ‘““What did you 
say?” 

“Oh, we told him things,” I said. ‘We told 
him how neat the Alcan Highway was and 
how we hated to take it down because he 
was coming. We told hirn how you get sea- 
sick when you look at fish. 

We told him how you hate 
boats.” 


“Oh, Rod,” mother said. > He who injured you was 

either stronger or weaker. 
If he was weaker, spare him; 
if he was stronger, spare your- 


“You didn’t! You didn’t 
tell him that!” 

“Sure we did,” I said, 
“but we told him you 
wanted to go on his boat 
anyway,” I said. “‘ We told 
him you wanted it for father. We told him 
all about father.” 

“All... about... father?” mother said in 
a real little voice. 

“Um-hum,”’ Pud said. “ We told him how 
father got married too young and never got 
to wander so he resents it.” 

Mother was crying. “We told him it 
doesn’t usually look like this, mother,” I 
said. ‘“We told him we’d been keeping it real 
clean because he was coming so he’d choose 
you and father.” 

Father came in. He had been putting the 
car away. “Everything O.K.?”’ he said. 

“Yes,” mother said. ‘‘Everything’s O.K. 
Everybody’s safe,” she said. 

““What’s the matter?’ father said. ““Some- 
thing happen?” 

“Just Uncle Dillon,’ mother said. “He 
came. They invited him in and had him sit 
under the card tables. They told him how 
hard we were trying to get him to choose us. 
He got hungry and there wasn’t anything to 
eat so he went out to get something. Oh, 
Roger!”’ mother said. She got up and went 
over to father and put her head on his chest. 


self. 


Farner put his arms around her. “Don’t 
you care,” he said and he put his face against 
mother’s hair. ‘‘What’s an old houseboat 
trip?” he said. “‘We’ll have a vacation. 
We'll go to New York,” he said. ““Who wants 
Uncle Dillon’s old houseboat trip anyway?” 
he said. 

“You do,’’ mother said. She was crying 
hard. ‘‘You can’t fool me,” she said. “‘ You 
want it and I was so sure we’d get it too.” 

“Look what you’ve done, boys,” father 
said. ‘Your mother works like a dog to keep 
the house in order and the minute her back’s 
turned you tear it down and pile it all in the 
middle of the living room. Couldn’t you 
stand by her once?”’ 

I felt like a rat. I felt like a snake. I hadn’t 
thought about the house. I only thought 
about taking good care of the boys. But 
mother straightened up and wiped her nose. 

“Don’t scold them,” she said. “It isn’t 
their fault. It’s mine. I’ve always let them 
build what they wanted to. I’ve always let 


Oe Seer 


them think their house was to have fun in. 
I told Rod to do anything safe and reason- 
able to amuse them. I was cheating, trying 
to show Uncle Dillon how neat and orderly 
we are when we aren’t. It serves me right. I’m 
terribly sorry, Roger,’’ mother said. “I did 
want it. For you.” 

The doorbell was ringing and there was 
Uncle Dillon with a big sack. I let him in. 

“Hi,” I said. ‘““They’re back.” 

Uncle Dillon came in, his bright eyes 
blinking. He held them open wide and un- 
blinking for a minute and smiled at mother 
and father. 


“Ou, hello, folks,” he said and he shifted 
the bag to his left arm so he could shake 
hands with mother. “Nice to see you. How 
are you, girl?” he said. ‘‘You’re back early, 
aren’t you? You’re looking well, both of 
you,” he said. He shook hands with father. 
“ You're looking fine, son,” he said. 

“How are you, Uncle Dillon?’ mother 
said. She sounded awfully sad. 

“Fine. Fine,’’ Uncle Dillon said. ‘‘Had to 
restock the galley,” he said. “‘ Hope you don’t 
mind if we go ahead with our meal,” he said. 
““Come on, mates,”’ he said and Uncle Dillon 
got down and crawled into the houseboat 
with his sack. 

Mother and father looked like they’d just 
seen some strange new animal. 

Pud and I crawled in too. 

Uncle Dillon had got wonderful stuff. 
Potato chips and cheese crackers and pickles. 
Sliced cheese and ham and crackers. Apple 
juice in a big bottle. We spread it all out on 
the bed tray and started to eat. 

Was it cozy! With the 
tipped-over floor lamp for 
light. And the radio going 
softly. And the blankets 
and rugs all closing us in! 
Was it ever neat! Uncle 
Dillon sat cross-legged eat- 
ing crackers and ham and 
pickles. His bright little 
eyes blinked and blinked. 
He unscrewed the top of the apple-juice bot- 
tle. He picked up one of the glasses we’d been 
drinking milk in and looked at it against the 
light of the floor lamp. 

“Think we ought to rinse out the mugs, 
mateys?” he said. 

“T’ll do it,” I said. 

“Ah!”’ he said and he filled one. “‘We’ve 
only used them once,” he said. ‘‘Can’t get too 
clean on this houseboat,” he said. “‘Hey!”’ he 
said. ““What about those landlubbers? Sup- 
pose they want some chow? Better ask 
them,” he said. 

I lifted the blanket and looked out. Mother 
and father were still standing there looking 
like living statues with their mouths a little 
open. 

“You want some chow?” I said. ‘The 
skipper said to ask you.” 

Mother turned her head very slowly and 
stared at me. She was asleep. She was in a 
trance. She was off her nut. Father too. He 
looked cross-eyed. He looked foggy. 

“Some... chow?” father said. 

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s keen. Crackers and 
cheese and ham and pickles.” 

Uncle Dillon stuck his head out. ‘‘ Better 
get used to it, son,” he said. “‘We ain’t 
gonna kill ourselves cookin’ on that house- 
boat. We’ll eat crackers and cheese and 
pickles and pop and only cook when we feel 
like it. Better have some, son,” he said and 
he blinked hard and offered father a cracker- 
and-cheese sandwich. 

Father stooped and took it and stood up 
holding it. He still looked stunned. And Uncle 
Dillon ducked back under the blanket. 

“Want some apple juice, father?” I said. 

Poor father. He just stood. He just stood 
and held the sandwich. 

Uncle Dillon stuck his head back out with 
the apple-juice bottle in his hand, his eyes 
blinking. 

“Get a glass, son,’’ he said to father. And 
father went to the kitchen. 

Then Uncle Dillon stopped blinking and 
looked at mother. He got up on his feet out 
of the houseboat and stood looking at 
mother, the apple-juice bottle in one hand, 
crackers and ham in the other. 


—SENECA. 








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_ “How about it, girl?” he said. ‘‘We could 
tie them to the deck if it worries you. I’d 
make ’em wear life belts every minute if you 
Say so.” 

“You mean the boys too?” mother said. 

“What else could I mean?” Uncle Dillon 
said, cross. ‘What else could I mean? I’ve 
been trying for almost forty years to have the 
fun I didn’t have when I was a boy. I’ve been 
doing it wrong. The way to have it is with 
boys. Say the word, girl?” he said. Uncle 
Dillon smiled and held it, looking at mother, 
waiting. 

Mother started to smile. It started slow. 
And finally it was a real smile. A real smile, 
a big one. “Uncle Dillon, you’re a doll,” 
mother said. ‘‘You’re just a doll!” 

“Oh—no—I’m—not!” Uncle Dillon said. 
“Oh, no, I’m not. I was a doll,” he said. “I 
was a doll. For years and years, I was a doll. 
With six mothers,” he said. “The wrong kind 
of mothers,” he said. ‘‘Did I ever build a 
houseboat in the living room?” he said. He 
drew in his breath and blew it out and took a 
bite of ham and crackers. “‘We’ll want to 
leave Wednesday,” he said. “The day after 
school’s out. O.K.?” he said, blinking hard, 
chewing fast. “No dress-up clothes,” he 
said. He stuffed the rest of the crackers in his 
mouth. 

“O. K.,” mother said. “I guess,” she said. 
“ Their clothes won’t take so long. It’s mine.”’ 

“Yours?”” Uncle Dillon said and he 
stopped chewing. ‘‘Are you going someplace, 
girl?” He held his eyes wide open. 

For two seconds mother stood frozen. Then 
her face broke into a wonderful smile and she 
was a grand lady now, a princess talking to 
the river-boat man. 

“Yes,”’ she said. ‘““Yes, Uncle Dillon, I 
am. I’m going to New York,” mother said. 
““Mamma’ll keep Bumps,” she said. ‘‘He’s 
too little for the houseboat. And Amy and I 
are going to New York,” mother said. 

She stopped talking and looked at Uncle 
Dillon a minute. She wasn’t a princess any 
more. She was mother. 

“Oh, Uncle Dillon,” she said then and her 
voice was low and soft and loving. She went 
over and put her arms around him and he was 
just as big as she was, not any bigger. ‘Oh, 
Uncle Dillon,” mother said, ‘‘I love you.” 

Father came in with a glass and his fishing 
tackle. “Thought I’d show you my ” he 
started to say and then he stopped, seeing 
mother hugging Uncle Dillon. 

Uncle Dillon pulled away from mother and 
looked at her. ‘‘That’s good, girl,’’ he said. 
“That’s good. I love you too,’”’ he said. ““You 
know how to raise boys, girl,” he said. 
“That’s three fine boys I’m taking with me, 
girl,” he said, looking at father and Pud and 
me. 





A STREET IN OUR TOWN 


(Continued from Page 51) 


to boast about our parish. I could tell 
you, with shallow pride, that I am a member 
of the vestry and the Diocesan Council and 
the Interracial Board of Trustees for our 
church-administered college for Negroes; 
that my wife helps teach in the Adult Bible 
Class, that my oldest son serves as an acolyte, 
my second son sings in the boys’ choir, and 
my four-year-old son is the loudest and most 
unmanageable member of the primary de- 
partment. I could tell you that our relatively 
small parish is preparing to build a new 
$250,000 church and that among our com- 
municants are professional and business and 
social leaders of our town. 

But such boasting is as superficial as are 
most of our claims to Christian virtue. I do 
not like to question the effectiveness of the 
Christian churches in the world today; but 
certainly that effectiveness is open to ques- 
tion. There is the yawning chasm between 
Sunday and Monday—or between. Saturday 
night and Sunday—and the conspicuous ab- 
sence of the Christian ethic in our daily lives. 

And now the last of the symbols along our 
street, There is a contradictory serenity to 
the timeworn houses there. Their wide gal- 
leries are architecturally conspicuous today, 
but this impression of spaciousness is false; 











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BAEREZEESD PEE PU ERNE 


many of these houses of old Greenville have 
been divided and subdivided into a myriad 
of apartments. I am not extolling the virtues 
of ample living space, nor criticizing the 
handicaps of compactness. But something 
else has largely vanished, together with the 
capacious house, and that is the home with 
the capacity to attract and hold its inhab- 
itants. The family is not today the sure 
refuge, the certain entity and the wellspring 
of proper conduct and lasting values. It has 
shrunk even more in meaning than it has 
in size. 

I am no Jeremiah, no prophet of disaster. I 
know that in Will Percy’s town we have con- 
tinuous proof that men of good will can ac- 
complish much. We are moved frequently 
by compassion or kindliness or simple jus- 
tice—more frequently than our distant crit- 
ics would believe. I would like to tell you 
about some of the occasions on which we 
have been so moved, not boastingly but be- 
cause they serve as a happy balance to the 
pessimism that sometimes overtakes us. 

The first story is now a recurrent one. It 
began in 1946 when a Catholic planter was 
among a few invited non-Jewish guests at 
the dinner that marked the beginning of the 
United Jewish Appeal drive. He was deeply 
moved, as were the rest 
of us, by the recital of 
the suffering and per- 


VCcemper, LI 


million-dollar school-bond issue. This would 
not be unusual except for the fact that two 
thirds of the mition dollars had been allo- 
cated in advance tor two new Negro schools. 
During the past summer our town approved 
a $200,000 bond issue for two swimming 
pools—we had none at all—to be identical in 
size and cost. One 1s for white citizens and the 
other for Negro citizens; this equality in 
recreation was made possible by the joint 
efforts of almost every civic group and by the 
vote of some 400 Negroes. 

I am happy that I can tell these stories 
about our town. They prove that so many of 
our citizens are men and women of good will. 
And we are not unique in such activity. 


Bur, walking sometimes along our street, I 
am not sure that we can be content with 
these sporadic and generally disconnected 
evidences of good will on earth. There is no 
sacrilege in saying that were Jesus Christ 
walking upon earth today, He would espouse 
first the cause of the submerged, long-denied 
minorities who live among us. Ours is the 
Christian challenge to heal, likewise, the sick 
and to lift up the neglected; not through 
God-given miracle, but through the talents 
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secutions of a hapless 
people. Near the close 
of the dinner he whis- 
pered to me that we 
ought to do something 
to help. As a result, 
$10,000 in contribu- 
tions was raised from 
the Protestant and 
Catholic citizens of 


® Small Ramsay, who had served 
as ring bearer in a fashionable 
wedding, insisted on attending the 
reception afterward. One of the 
bridesmaids found him a comfort- 
able nook and plied him with cake 
and punch. 

“It was a beautiful ceremony,”’ 
she mused happily. *‘Would you like 
to have a wedding like that when 
you grow up, Ramsay ?’’ 


sense, by extending to 
all our fellows the rights 
and responsibilities of 
the Christian demo- 
cratic society we have 
evolved. We can and 
must extend and 
thereby strengthen 
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Greenville for the 
United Jewish Appeal. 
And we did it again in 
1947 and 1948. 

The second story is, 
in a way, a sequel. A 
year ago my newspaper 
sponsored what we 
called a Friendship 
Barge. Weundertook to 
collect a bargeload of 
clothing, nonperishable 
foodstuffs and farm implements for shipment 
to stricken areas overseas. The project was 
under the general direction of the World 
Church Service, an interdenominational 
Protestant organization. We filled the barge. 
The first donation was 150 overcoats from 
the Jewish merchant who was the chairman 
of the United Jewish Appeal Drive; other 
Jewish merchants contributed almost half of 
the clothing we gathered. 

The third story is also a sequel. Our 
Roman Catholic community numbers about 
10 to 12 per cent of our total white and Ne- 
gro population, or some 3000 people. For 
sixty years the Catholics have maintained a 
white and a Negro school; they have taken 
care of approximately 20 per cent of the 
white and Negro school load. Obviously, they 
were schooling many non-Catholic children. 
They are now engaged in raising $200,000 to 
build a new parochial school. And last De- 
cember eight Protestant and Jewish citizens 
got together and decided that we ought to 
help. At a dinner attended by about 43 
Protestants and Jews, $15,000 was pledged. 


fiantly. 
married.”’ 
**Ramsay! 


reflectively. 
he explained, 


Tue fourth story concerns more impera- 
tive matters. Like every other Southern 
community, Greenville has been too neglect- 
ful of its Negro citizens. For a good many 
years my newspaper has urged that we cor- 
rect this situation; and I have been con- 
stantly heartened by the growth of the 
Southern conscience in these and related 
matters. A year ago our county authorized 
the building of a $1,500,000 low-cost hospital, 
its facilities for white and Negro patients to 
be equal in number and quality, and the cost 
to be evenly divided between the county, 
state and Federal Government under the 
relatively recent hospital-building program. 
This will be the first major hospital to be 
built in the county in nearly 25 years. Also, 
during the past year our town approved a 


The youngster shook his head de- 
“I’m never going 


How 
aren’t you ever going to marry? 

He took a bite of cake and chewed 
“Well, 
“P’ve lived with mar- 
ried people too long already !”’ symbol of man’s bro- | 


Greenville: the symbol 
of self-government for 
all men, our city hall; 


to get 


terrible. Why 


quiry and expression 
for one thing,” Which are the library 
and the newspaper; the 
therhood, the churches; 
the symbol of our evo- 
lution from the savage, 
the inviolate home. 
There is no law of God or man which says 
that these symbols are reserved for the in- 
spiration and guidance of a dominant few; 
on matter whether that dominance is one 
of position or of race. We are accustomed to 
speak of minorities, as if we who numerically 
dominate this continent are a majority. But 
it is ourselves who are the minority. Chris- 


WEBB B. GARRISON. 


tianity is a minority religion. The white — 


ethnic group is a minority group. It is we 
who are facing the forces of overwhelming 
numbers, not those we have disregarded. 

But overwhelming numbers is not the 
answer, for either the majority or the minor- 
ity. There lived once in Galilee a lone Man. 
About Him he drew only twelve disciples, 
and one of them a traitor. Yet, in the short 
space of less than two thousand years, those 
who follow after Him, however superficially, 
can be counted in millions. Most of us here 
are among them. About us, on every side, are 
the lesser evidences of our faith and our 
evolution. We have no patent on them; 
rather, the less they are shared, the weaker 
is our hold upon them. 

And this is no time for a weakened grip. 
For the sign of the Cross is not the only sign 
of our times. The hammer and the sickle jut 
angrily across our horizon, feeding upon our 
fears and our hates and upon the hates and 
fears and hopes of the disregarded majority 
of humanity. We cannot afford simply to 
say, “We are good and they are evil.” We 
can survive and win only as a united army. 


«inging what was once to us of the South a — 


hated battle song: 


In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born 
across the sea, 

With a glory in his bosom that transfigures 
you and me: 

As He died to make men holy, let us die to 
make men free, 


While God is marching on. THE END 


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Like the lone intrepid infantryman in Capa’s 
historic picture of the Battle of the Bulge 
(above), Wally Rifleman was caught in that 
decisive struggle with small hope of escape. 


The love of his family 
and a challenging job 


blot owt war memories 
for Wally Rifleman, 
of Green Bay. 


by RICHARD E. LAUTERBACH 


N Christmas Eve, 1944, a gentle snow was falling. First Sergeant 

Wallace Rifleman, huddled on a hill opposite the Germans who 
were dug in just across the valley, watched as bursts of hot shrapnel 
alternated with sharp gusts of cold wind in blowing sheaves of snow 
from the dumpy pine trees. That night in far-off Chippewa Falls, Wis- 
consin, a young schoolteacher named Mary Pinch, whom Rifleman 
had never met, was tacking up her stocking, fastening gaily colored 
tinsel to the graceful tree in her mother’s cozy living room. 

That was the night, too, that Rifleman’s battered regiment crossed 
open ground under heavy shellfire and pushed into the town of Man- 
hay, Belgium. After twenty-two German counterattacks, the Americans 
were finally forced to withdraw. But their holding action was one of 
the turning points in the Battle of the Bulge, slowing Hitler’s time- 
table just long enough for the Allies to regroup for an offensive. 

The snow still slanted down on the twenty-fifth. Rifleman knew 
what day it was. He remembers, “It was pretty prosperous.” He had 
found an overcoat. And, miraculously, 
the mess sergeant had produced a tur- 
key, the first anyone had seen in ages. 
Even wolfing the turkey “it was too 
cold to think about Christmas.” The 
regiment celebrated the day by retak- 
ing Manhay and holding on until Gen- 


eral Patton’s tanks moved through. 


When Sergeant Rifleman’s outfit, Co. G, 423rd Infantry, 
was trapped in the Battle of the Bulge, Robert Capa’s cam- 
era was recording that same battle as he moved up with Pat- 


ton’s 3rd Army. Now, 5 years later, Capa pictures the 


peacetime life Wally fought for, that grim Christmas, 1944. 





Victory- 
rive Years 
Later 





Three months earlier it had seemed as if the Germans might quit. 
Then, on December sixteenth, “Hitler’s last bid’—as General 
Eisenhower later called it—was launched. Favored by the weather and 
perfect timing, the Germans’ surprise counterattack gathered a 


‘frightening and crushing momentum. During the month of Bulge 


fighting, American forces sustained 120,000 serious casualties. Wally 
Rifleman’s outfit, the 106th Infantry Division, was hit the hardest. 
Late on the afternoon of December nineteenth, after nearly three 
days of desperate, unorganized defense with inadequate supplies, the 
division’s 422nd and 423rd regiments were ordered to surrender. Ser- 
geant Rifleman, a tall, rawboned, tight-lipped veteran at twenty-seven, 
had no such intention. He turned to his company commander. 
Capt. Edward H. Murray, and said conversationally, “I’m taking off.” 
Murray replied, ““Let’s get going.” Rifleman and Murray broke for 
the woods, covered themselves with leaves and waited for nightfall. 
Mile after mile, hour after hour, they slogged back toward the 
American lines through sleet and snow, 
gnawing on bits of frozen chocolate 
D rations, barely speaking. At the Our 
River German guards patrolled the 
bridges to cut off retreaters. Dumping 
their bulky coats, the two men swam 
the icy river and then almost ran into 


an enemy troop movement on the other 


x HOW AMERICA LIVES x 





160 




















“Oh, for a yard!” is Mary Rifleman’s sigh. Afraid that Dickie will run into the busy street Dickie asks more questions than his mother can find answers for. She'll be glad whe hs 


in front of their apartment, Mary takes fam to the park when ple asant weather permits, but he is old enough for school, probably one of Green Bay’s 14 parochial schaole, $ ‘Hey! 
then has to carry his tricycle down and up the stairs. Their aim, a house in the suburbs. be following his parents’ religious education that way,” Mary explains her choices r 


“The last mile,” Mary calls the staircase. When Dickie runs errands to the grocery store 
by himself, he often blackmails his mother with demands for extra pennies to bi a lollipop. 
When he’s gone a little longer than necessary, Mary always phones the nearby store. 


shore. While “‘half the German army” rat- 
tled past a few yards away they dug into the 
snow-crusted ground. 

Before morning they had to shoot it out 
with a reconnaissance patrol. The second 
night, hoping to find food in a deserted- 
looking enemy command post, they stum- 
bled onto two guards, killed them in hand- 
to-hand combat, and then hid out in the 
bushes while a punitive squad hunted them 


through aserpentine series of foxholes. They 4 - 
Seconds?” Mary always 
y Ly 


played hide-and-seek with their pursuers be- p75 the coffecnot ready. 


fore finally throwing them off the track. 

Toward morning of the third day they awoke to the sound of a G. I. 
swearing at the weather. ““Those are the most beautiful words in Eng- 
lish I have ever heard,” Rifleman whispered to Murray. They had 
reached remnants of an American mortar squad holed up in a three- 
story stone house. After Murray left to report at division headquarters 
in St. Vith, three Tiger tanks tore down the house. Rifleman was cap- 
tured and herded together with hundreds of other prisoners in an old 
schoolhouse. At daybreak on the twenty-second there was such a 
heavy fog that he managed to escape again simply by wandering away. 
He dodged through patrols to 
an artillery command post near 
Vielsalm, where an American 
general, hearing the bare out- 
line of Rifleman’s story, gave 
the sergeant his sleeping bag. 
After six hours in the sack, § 
Wally began combing througlg ) ' 
the stragglers flooding into town 





and located seven survivors, 


Wally stays by irae, mostly cooks, from his own 


Out of town, rf j ‘ 
plots the future for his growing family. company. Suffering from expo- 





' 
La 





| he’s not too exhausted at night, Wally plugs at his studies or plans a new house. 
bed like to add structural theory to the Tr niversity of Wisconsin correspondence 
purses he’s taking. Someday he'd like to see Europe again, but not in uniform. 


sure and fatigue, they were immediately recommitted with fifteen oth- 
ers to form Company A of the 424th Regiment. “It dawned on us then,” 
Wally says, “how tough things were all around.” 

Despite the bitterest cold within memory of the oldest inhabitants, 
Sergeant Rifleman and his bedraggled group were unable to light fires 
for warmth. There were no overcoats, no blankets, no stoves and little 
ammunition. When the counterattack opened, the first in the Battle of 


the Bulge, Rifleman’s Company A was third in the line. 
H In recognition of his leadership, Rifleman was put up for a field 
wf lieutenancy. He turned it down: “A first sergeant’s job was the best in 
4} the Army. That’s what I knew how to do, that’s what I liked to do. 


I didn’t want to be an officer. Nor a private, again—that’s too tough.” 

Three weeks later he won the 
coveted Silver Star_for what he 
refers to as “nothing very much.” 
The War Department disagrees. 
Sergeant Rifleman was decorated 
for gallantry in action, and the ci- 


tation reads, in part: “When his 





company, approaching an assigned 
objective, was pinned down by “Someday ——’’ On Sundays Wally 
intensive direct small arms and shows the family a new house. 
machine-gun fire of a well- 

entrenched ene my, Se rgeant Rifleman, ignoring the imminent personal 


danger, courageously rose from cover to rally his men. Valiantly dis- 


regarding the withering German fire, Sergeant Rifleman gallantly 


moved forward, encouraging his men to follow. Inspired by new 


heights of valor and self-sacrifice by his daring example, the troops. . . 


seizing the initiative . . . fiercely assaulted the hostile positions, and 


mpletely overpowered the enemy, thereby enabling the company to 
sume its advance.” 

When Wallace Rifleman came home to Green Bay, 
s were blaring. But not for 


Wally walked into Leo 


Wisconsin, 


. l ] 
there was speechmaking, and brass band 
him. It was July 4, 1945. l nannounced, 














Most of Ww ally’s field projects are within 40 miles of Green Bay. “One minute I confer at 
city hall,” Wally says, “and the next I’m out with the laborers, up to my boot tops in 
muck.” He has no regrets about his choice of on-the-job training. “It’s all experience.” 


“Lucky we didn’t buy much new furniture,” Mary says, “with Dickie riding his bike 
around the place. He skips his afternoon nap now because it’s the only way we can tire him 
out.” Wally is proud of Dickie’s ability to throw a fast ball, climb, fish and swim, 


Haanen’s drugstore to ask for Dad Rifleman, who lived upstairs. He 
looked as dark and lean as an Indian, a barracks bag slung over his 
shoulder, no medals or ribbons on his dusty khakis. “He dropped in as 
casually as if he’d been downtown bowling,” Leo Haanen recalls. “All 
he said was ‘Where’s the folks?’ Never said anything about his experi- 
ences, but you only had to look at him to know that guy was a soldier.” 

Wally found his father down at his cottage on the bay shore. After 
a few beers, George Rifleman said it was a fine thing, Wally’s winning 
the Silver Star. Amazed and slightly annoyed, Wally asked, ““How’d 
you know?” His infrequent letters home never mentioned it. He didn’t 
write anything about the war, aside from a few references to “pretty 
rough going.” When Dad Rifleman told him that his commanding offi- 
cer had sent back news of the decoration, Wally said, “Oh, why’d he 
want to do that?” The subject was dropped right there. “I just don’t 
want to know I was in the war,” he told his father later. 

Anxious to make up for lost time, Wally grabbed the first job that 
turned up—on the night shift at the Kraft Cheese factory. “I couldn’t 
stand hanging around,” he says. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do, 
but I had to do something.”? Factory work convinced him that he 
wanted to be outdoors. 

One morning at the Veterans,of Foreign Wars post he heard a sur- 
veying job was open. Wally hustled over and contacted Art Porath, of 
Foth & Porath, Inc., Consulting Engineers. He told Art about his sur- 
veying experiences in the CCC, about his engineering studies with the 
Army in Panama. Porath seemed interested. “When does the crew 
leave?’’ Wally asked. ““Now,” Porath replied, “but about salary ——? 
Rifleman didn’t wait to hear him. Until he returned six weeks later 
from a power-line survey in Michigan, he had no idea what he’d be 
paid. He’s been with Foth & Porath ever since. 

While on a survey in October, 1945, Wally fell in love, seriously, 
for the first time. Before the war he had never thought much about 
romance. ““Too serious, too studious,” Leo Haanen, the druggist, says. 
“Besides, he was always helping his mother, doing odd jobs around the 
house, keeping an eye on his four younger brothers. He seemed tc 
avoid the girls.” 

In the tiny town of Stephenson, Michigan, there was no way to 
avoid the girls. Wally and his crewmates lived in the town’s sole 
hostelry—an eleven-room family hotel which also housed the local 





high-school teachers. One of them was (Continued on Page 170) 


Sunday mass is a “must” for the Riflemans. Both are deeply religious and 
their faith helped them when they lost their daughter last spring. “Dad” 
Xifleman worries sometimes, says, “Wally thinks and works too much.” 





3 by 
CE 
For holidays Mary doesn’t mind “going to Wally mixes Tom and Jerries before dinner when the Rifleman clan Christmas turkey is a gift from Wally’s 
a lot of fuss.” She’s a good cook, learned gathers for holiday feast and fun. Mary kneads chocolate fudge into bosses. Although he eats heartily, Wally 


; ea ts : vitae . . pe : eee 4 oa, 
to bake when she was nine years old. a festive ring shape and Christmas-decorates it with fruit and nuts. carries only 160 lbs. on his 6’ frame. 











o4. 


* HOW AMERICA LIVES x 


*HOTOS BY FRANCESCO SCAVULLO 
aioe rant 






Monday: Mary Rifleman 
receives a warm welcome 
from the directress of the 


salon, Mlle. Mala. 





wesday: (1) Kneel, legs together, abdomen in, arms overhead 
) Without bending forward, slowly drop buttocks over to left 
le and (3) land on floor with thump. Reverse and repeat 4 times. 


Wednesday: Mary 
learns to brush her hair 
in firm upward strokes. 





ae 


| 
{ Also on Wednesday: Art- 
Baye fully applied make-up 
calls for practice. 


ae ; 


re we 





‘riday: Newly coiffured . . . newly turned out. Mary Rifleman poses for her picture 
with a new assurance and grace on the final day of her five-day beauty course. 


> lays from today 


BY DAWN CROWELL NORMAN 


Beauty Editor of the Journal 


Ae you convinced you could be a prettier person if you just knew how to begin? You 
are probably right! Mary Rifleman, young mother photographed here, is pretty proof that 
it doesn’t take long to make the magic change! For five days, two hours a day, Mary attended 


a self-improvement class. From professional experts she learned enough about hair, make-up, 


skin, figure and grooming to last a lovely lifetime. Below are the highlights of her course. 


Use them to work out your own beauty course at home! 


Monday: Av examination by the salon’s medi- 
cal doctor proved Mary was physically fit and 
brought her up to date on her measurements: 
bust, 35’’; waist, 2834’; hips, 40’’; abdomen, 
30”; weight, 127!2 pounds; posture 





poor! 
Since her figure called for a redistribution of 
weight rather than a reducing program, Mary 
was given an 1800-calorie maintenance diet. 
Here is a typical day’s menu: 


1800 CALORIES 
Use Moderate Portions 
Breakfast 
Orange juice (8-0z. glass) 
| boiled or poached ege 
2 slices buttered toast 
Coffee or tea 
Lunch 
Hot-vegetable plate 
3 buttered crackers 
| raw apple or applesauce 
Milk, tea or coffee 
Dinner 
Cucumber salad, French dressing 
1 cup consommé 
Broiled calf’s liver 
Boiled cabbage 
Stewed fresh tomato 
Ice cream or custard 
1 slice buttered whole-wheat bread 
Tea or coffee 


Mary’s first taste of her exercise program, to 
be practiced regularly at home, was the exer- 
cise illustrated on the left, plus this for pos- 
ture: Stand with heels together about three. 
inches from wall, bend knees slightly, press 
small of back, shoulders and head against wall. 
Without releasing back, raise arms overhead, 
elbows straight, and place backs of hands 
against wall. Relax. Repeat 3-4 times daily. 

The rest of Monday morning’s class was 
devoted to skin analysis (Mary was told she 
had a dry skin) and make-up techniques. 
Here are some major points which helped 
add character and prettiness to her new look. 
She learned: 

A dry skin requires a liquid foundation, rather 
than the cake type, to be spread with finger 
tips evenly and lightly over face and neck. 

Cream rouge looks natural, lasts longer than 
dry rouge. Always start it with your finger tips 
at a point below the center of the eye. Never 
let it spread below the line of the nose or above 
the outer corners of the eyes. 

Powder should be a shade darker than foun- 
dation for daytime, a shade lighter for evening. 
With slight pressure of immaculate puff, mold 
the powder into skin, allow to remain a minute 


then dust off (Continued on Page 189, 


Thursday: Mr. Michel, 
credited with reviving short hair- 
dos, designs one for Mary. 





BY APPOINTMENT Po & 
PERFUMERS TO H. M. QUEEN MARY. GE 





YARDLEY, LONDON 








As modern as the art of tomorrow 











~ 


4 colorful new perfume by YARDLEY 


Lotus Perfume, $3.00 to $17.50. Cologne, $1.50 and $2.50. 
Sachet, $1.50. Dusting Powder, $1.65. Plus tax. 


England and finished in the U.S.A. from the or ginal English formulae, combining imported and domestic ingredients. Yardley of London, Inc., 620 Fifth Avenue, N.Y.C. 
Yardley products for America are created In Engia G hnisnec = . 













* HOW AMERICA LIVES x 


6 Mangd,.. 


tor your basic dress 






A basic dress with a slim skirt is a priceless possession. In a 
twinkling of an eye, you can change its mood and fashion. 
Peplums and overskirts accent the slimness of the skirt. A 
convertible neckline lends itself to changes of collar and cuffs, 
or a decorative dickey. Before you buy or make a basic dress, 
imagine it with the accessories and changes you hope to wear 
with it. Try to get at least five versions. « By NORA O’LEARY 





A checked wool cape 
to wear into the 
spring. Pretty with a 
bright-color lining. Belt 
eee! pap hdsnes holds it in place. 


wet ge? fe 
Spisteet tes ee 
, 


ssa 7 






















ee 
2 





a 


OGRAPH BY as c . . . 
:§CO SCAVULLO Mrs. Rifleman wearing her slim black dress with silk 


surah overskirt. Large patch pockets, red velvet rose. 






Taffeta ribbon eight inches 
wide in unpressed box pleats 
makes a pretty peplum... 
just sew on an inch-and-a-half 
ribbon for a sash belt. 


A decorative dickey with 
red-and-gold nailhead 
design that can be put 


on for $2, or make 
plain with velvet tie. 







Standing passementerie on 
white linen collar and cuffs. 
For a very professional 
look, have it put on by ma-t 
chine for only $1.75. 

Order Overskirt Pattern 2564, 15c, Cape Pattern 2565, 15c, — 


and Accessory Pattern Sheet, 2566, 15c, from Journal 
Reference Library, Philadelphia 5, Pa. ~ ; 


WITH MUSTAI 
Season roast with salt and pepper. 
) Blend 2 tablespoons prepared mus- 
tard with 14 cup brown sugar. Spread 
over top and sides of meat. Place on 
rack in uncovered roasting pan. 
Roast in moderately slow oven, 
325° F., 40-50 minutes per pound. 
Serve with glazed or plain baked 
sweet potatoes, 





AND BROCCOLI 


Cut 1 pound lean pork into small 
cubes and brown well in hot skillet. 
Drain off excess fat. Add 1 teaspoon 
salt, 44 teaspoon pepper, 4 tea- 
spoon M.S.G. (mono sodium glu- 
tamate) and 14 cups canned chicken 
broth, or use water and 2 chicken- 
bouillon cubes. Add 1 onion, sliced 
thin. Cover and cook 10 minutes un- 
til tender. Add | cup sliced celery and 
l small bunch broccoli that has been 
trimmed and cut into |-inch pieces. 
Cover and cook 5 minutes. Vege- 
tables should be tender but still a 
little crisp. Blend 1)4 tablespoons 
cornstarch with 4 cup water and | 
teaspoon soy sauce. Add to meat mix- 
ture and cook until thickened. Serve 
with boiled rice. Serves 4. 





Three Meals From a Leg of Lamb 


Buy a leg of lamb weighing 6-7 pounds. 
Have the butcher cut off 4 medium-thick 
chops from large end for braising. Cut off 
the shank end for dill lamb stew. The 
center portion of the leg will be your roast. 


ROAST LAMB 


Make 4 slits in the lamb roast. Cut a clove 
of garlic into 4 pieces and insert in the 
slits. Rub roast with salt and pepper. 
Roast on a rack in an open roasting pan 
in moderately slow oven, 325° F., for 50 
minutes per pound, or longer if you like 
it well done. Potatoes may be put in 
around roast in last hour and I, for one, 
like to make gravy from the pan drip- 
pings. Serves 4. 


BRAISED LAMB CHOPS 


Flour and season chops well with 1 tea- 
spoon salt and 48 teaspoon pepper. Brown 
with clove of garlic, minced, in 2 table- 
spoons shortening or salad oil. Drain off 
fat. Add 1 cup water. Cover and simmer 
3 minutes. Add 4 medium peeled pota- 
toes, 4 carrots cut into chunks and 4 
peeled onions. Simmer another 40-50 
minutes until chops and vegetables are 
tender. Add a little more water if gravy 
has cooked down, if there isn’t enough to 
ie: with the meat and vegetables. More 

etables may be added to the above 
recipe if desired. Serves 4. 


DILL LAMB STEW 


Cut meat off shank bone in medium-sized 
Pieces. Brown meat and bone in a little 





169 














Brown 4 pork steaks on both sides in 
a heavy skillet. Remove steaks from 
pan. Pour off half the melted fat. 
Sauté 34 cup diced green pepper and 
14 cup chopped onion in the fat. Add 
| No. 24 can tomatoes, 24 cup raw 
rice, 114 teaspoons salt, 4 teaspoon 
pepper, 14 teaspoon chili powder, 1 
cup water and the pork steaks. 
Cover and simmer over low heat 114 
hours, stirring occasionally. Serves 4. 


PHOTOS BY STUART 


hot shortening or salad oil. Add 2 cups 


water, 2 onions, chopped, | teaspoon salt, 


1 teaspoon dried dill and % teaspoon 
pepper. Cover and simmer | hour. Add 
4 medium potatoes, diced, 4 carrots, 
diced, and 4 medium onions, whole. 
Simmer '% hour until vegetables are 
tender. Remove the bone. Add 1 cup 
fresh, frozen or canned peas. Cook until 
peas are tender. Drain off liquid, add a 
bouillon cube and stir until dissolved. 
Blend 3 tablespoons flour with 4 cup cold 
water. Stir into gravy. Stir until thick- 
ened, season and pour over vegetables 
and meat. Serves 4. 


Four Meals From Half a Ham 


Buy a full half tenderized ham—one from 
which the center slices have not been 
removed. This will vary in weight, but 
614 pounds would be average. Have the 
butcher saw off *4 to 1 pound of the very 
end of the shank—this to cook with 
lentils, or Lima beans if you prefer. At 
home, divide the remaining piece of ham 
in half. Cut down the center just below 
the bone to make a boneless piece for 
slicing and a piece with the bone in 
for baking. From the boneless piece, cut 
slices for the ham with almond gravy, 
and thin slices for the broiled ham. Or 
instead of the latter, you might bake these 
end slices with scalloped potatoes. 


BAKED HAM 


There should be a piece for baking, weigh- 
ing 3 or more pounds. Bake | hour ina 
moderately slow oven, 325° F., on a rack 
in an open roasting pan. Peel off rind. 
Score and stud with cloves and glaze with 
any favorite mixture—sirups, brown sugar 
or whatever—and bake 30 minutes more. 
Serves 4. Save bones and scraps for mak- 


ing pea soup. 






















bell’s Tomato Soup 
a cons eat as it comes from can) 


1 cup grated process American 
cheese 


1 Ib. thin spaghetti, cooked 





1 medium onion, chopped 

2 cloves garlic, minced 

2 tablespoons salad oil 

1 pound ground beef 
Yy teaspoon salt 

a cana Campbell's Tomato Soup 
¥%, cup water 

Y) pound thin spaghetti 

Parmesan cheese 


e 





AUCE— 


L JA! 


“DELICIOUS ! 


VL 


he Campbell’s Tomato Soup 
eae ieecs fasten of double boiler 
until cheese is melted; stir constantly. 
Pour the sauce over the spaghettl. 
Makes 4 generous servings. 


JCE... AT ITS BEST! 


meee 


Cook onion and garlic in salad oil un- 
til soft. Add ground meat; stir to 
separate meat particles. When meat is 
lightly browned add salt, Campbell s 
Tomato Soup and water. Simmer 1 
hour. Cook spaghetti according to 
directions on package. Serve sauce 
over spaghetti. Cheese may be used 
as desired. Makes 4 generous servings. 


YES, CAMPBELL’S TOMATO SOUP IS ALSO ag 
FINEST TOMATO SAUCE YOU EVER TASTED: 


There’s no other tomato sa 
It’s smooth . . . velvety --- 


own matchless recipe from luscious 


j isht seasoning. Just 
butter . . . just rig you cari Buy! 


it’s the finest tomato sauce 


Clip these suggestions for your recipe file 


Easy Ways to Good Meals: 
99 Delicious Dishes made 
with Campbell’s Soups 

Main dishes, leftover 
dishes, desserts, gravies, 
= way sauces, salads. 50 pages, 
} many full-color illustra- 
tions. Write today ! 

? 


? ! 
e like Campbell’s Tomato Soup! 
lively-tasting. Made to Campbell’s 


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as it comes from the can, 


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Mail coupon now to: Campbell Soup Co., 
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170 


HAM WITH ALMOND GRAVY 


Cut 4 slices from the boneless piece of 
ham—about 14 pounds. Snip edges of fat 
to prevent curling during cooking. Fry the 
ham slices on both sides in hot skillet. 
Lower heat and continue to cook ham until 
tender. Remove ham temporarily. Brown 
4 cup slivered blanched almonds in the 
drippings. Push to one side of pan. Pour 
off all but 1 tablespoon fat. Blend in 14 
tablespoons flour. Add 144 cups milk and 
cook over medium heat until thickened. 
Loosen all the brown bits in the pan as you 
stir. Add ham and reheat in the gravy. Add 
a little pepper and a little salt, if it is 
needed. 


HAM WITH MUSHROOM SAUCE 


Broil 4 thin slices of ham on both sides. 
Serve on toast with creamed mushrooms. 
Serves 4. 


HAM SHANK WITH LENTILS 


Wash | pound dried lentils. Put in kettle 
with the ham shank. Add 1 large onion, 
chopped, 1 bay leaf, crushed, and cover 
with 1'4 quarts water. Cover and simmer 
slowly 24 hours or until tender, adding 
more water if lentils become dry. Taste for 
seasoning. Lentils may or may not need 
more salt, depending on saltiness of ham. 
Serves 4. 


Three Meals From a Leg of Veal 


Have the butcher cut you a 7-pound leg of 
veal, including the shank at one end and a 
portion of the cutlet or round above the 
knucklebone. Ask him to slice 142 pounds 
from the cutlet end very thin for veal birds; 
bone out the solid meat around the knuckle- 
bone and tie it into a roast (244 pounds). 
The knucklebone and shank should be 
sawed into 2 pieces so you can cook it for 
patties. 


SPICY POT ROAST OF VEAL 


Dredge the pot roast of veal in the follow- 
ing mixture: 2 teaspoons dry mustard, 4 
teaspoon poultry seasoning, 1!4 tablespoons 
flour, 1 tablespoon sugar, 2 teaspoons salt 
and 14 teaspoon pepper. Brown well in hot 
shortening, as veal has very little fat of its 
own. A Dutch-oven type of utensil is a good 
choice for any pot-roasting. When well 
browned, add 2 tablespoons vinegar, 1 
large onion, chopped (4 cup), 1 tablespoon 
fresh or dried parsley and a handful of 
celery leaves. Cover tightly and simmer 
slowly 2-2'4 hours until tender. In last part 
of cooking, small whole carrots and pota- 
toes may be added and braised with the 
veal. Make gravy from the juices. The 
seasonings and vinegar give this veal roast 
a very good flavor. Serves 4. 


VEAL BIRDS 


Even though the 1'4-pound veal cutlet is 
sliced thin, pound and flatten it still more 
with a mallet or edge of saucer. Cut into 6 
or 8 pieces. Prepare your favorite bread 
stuffing—or to 1 cup soft bread crumbs add 
1 tablespoon chopped parsley, 1 tablespoon 
chopped onion, '4 teaspoon salt, % tea- 
spoon pepper and !4 teaspoon poultry sea- 
soning. Moisten with 3 tablespoons melted 
butter or margarine. Place a spoonful on 
each piece of veal and roll up. Secure with 
toothpicks. Roll the veal birds in seasoned 
flour and brown well on all sides in a little 
hot shortening. Add 1'4 cups water. Cover 
and simmer over low heat about 30-40 
minutes until meat is tender. Thicken the 
gravy and reseason to taste. Remove tooth- 
picks before serving. Serves 4. 


VICTORY FIVE 


(Continued from Page 162) 


Mary Pinch, a sociable girl with a good fig- 
ure, a pretty face, soft blue eyes and lovely 
light-brown hair. His roommate began dating 
the girl across the hall from Mary, but Wally 
tended strictly to business. 

“Fortunately for me, all the guests had to 
know one another,” Mary says. “I don’t 
think we were ever formally introduced. 
Wally seemed totally uninterested. Then one 
day he asked me to go to a Packers football 
game at Green Bay.” 

“‘T didn’t mean it when I asked her,” Wally 
says. “I was surprised when she said ‘Sure.’” 


December, 1949 


VEAL PATTIES 
Place veal shank and knucklebone in a 
heavy saucepan with | teaspoon salt, a 
dash of pepper, 4 cup water and L small 
onion, chopped. Simmer 2 hours until 
meat is tender. If you don’t have a pot 
with a tight-fitting lid, you will have to add 
more water as meat cooks. Cool. Strair 
and save stock. Remove meat from bond) 4 
Chill and chop it fine. It chops easier i 
very cold. There should be about 2 cups. 
Add enough milk to stock to make | eup. 
Melt 4 tablespoons butter or margarine. 
Add 1 teaspoon chopped onion. Blend in 4 
tablespoons flour. Add liquid. Cook, stir- 
ring constantly, until thickened. Season — 
with | teaspoon salt, 4 teaspoon pepper, L 
tablespoon chopped parsley. Add _ the 
chopped veal. Blend well and cool. Shape 
into patties. Dip in cracker crumbs, then 
in beaten egg, then in cracker crumbs 
again. Fry patties quickly on both sides in 
about 4 inch hot shortening or salad oil in 
skillet. Serves 4. 


Three Meals Froma 
Chuck Beef Pot Roast 


Have your butcher cut you a 6-pound 


round-bone chuck roast about 3 inches 


thick. We like to save the center boneless 
section for a 3-pound pot roast. From the 
meat that remains, you will have part for a 
good casserole—1’4 pounds—the rest to | | 
grind for the meat-and-potato loaf. Use the | , 
ground meat first, as ground meat doesn’t | , 
keep as well as meat in the piece. f 


MEAT-AND-POTATO LOAF 


Mix together 1144 pounds ground beef, % 
cup chopped parsley, 1 medium onion, 
chopped, 1 clove garlic, chopped, 1'4 cups 
coarsely grated peeled raw potatoes, | egg, 
1 tablespoon salt, 4 teaspoon pepper, % Y 
teaspoon thyme and ‘4% teaspoon mar- 
joram. Place in greased loaf pan. Mix 4 
cup chili sauce with 1 tablespoon prepared 
mustard. Spread on top. Bake in a moder- 
ate oven, 350° F., about 14% hours until 
done. Slice and serve hot. Serves 4. (This is 
a very tender meat loaf and will slice better 
if allowed to stand about 15 minutes.) 


VIENNESE BEEF-AND-NOODLE 
CASSEROLE 


Cut 144 pounds beef chuck into thin slices. 
Then cut into long strips about '% inch 
wide. Dredge the meat lightly in flour 
(about 3 tablespoons). Brown in 4 table- 
spoons hot drippings or shortening. Add 2 
medium onions, chopped, and 1 small 
clove garlic, chopped. Season with 2 tea- 
spoons salt, 4% teaspoon pepper, 2 tea- 
spoons paprika, a pinch of basil and a 
pinch of marjoram. Add 2'4 cups water, or 
stock made from bouillon cubes and water. 
Cover and simmer about 45 minutes until 
meat is tender, stirring occasionally. Mix 1 
tablespoon prepared horse-radish with 14 
pint sour cream. Add to meat mixture 
slowly and blend well. Cook 4 ounces 
medium-wide noodles in boiling salted 
water and drain. Arrange meat mixture 
in alternate layers in a 2-quart casserole 
with the noodles, seasoning each layer of 
noodles lightly with salt and pepper. Bake 
in a moderately slow oven, 325° F., 30-40 
minutes until heated through. Serves 4. 


BEEF POT ROAST 


Dredge a 3-pound boneless pot roast with 
flour; sprinkle generously with salt and 
pepper. Brown well in hot shortening in a 
heavy saucepan or Dutch oven. Add a bay 
leaf and a large onion; cover tightly and 
simmer for 2 hours. Add potatoes in last 
hour. Make gravy from pan juices. Serves 4. 





















































YEARS LATER 





“He scared me,’’ Mary recalls, ““because 
he avoided me until the morning of the game. 
I thought he’d forgotten.” 

After that first date, neither of them had 
much doubt. Mary’s family guessed first, be- 
cause the couple often drove to Chippef\) 
Falls for week ends with the Pinches. Wally, 
after introducing Mary to his father, con- 
fided, “‘That’s the girl I’m going to marry— 
if she’ll have me.” A month or so later he tel- 
ephoned. ‘“‘Dad, I want to ask you some- 
thing,”’ he began. “‘If Mary and I get mar- 
ried, do you think you’ll like her?” 




























“Son,’’ George Rifleman chuckled, ‘‘ that’s 
your business—you’re marrying her.” 

It might have been a lengthy engagement, 
Mary thinks, except that a cousin of hers was 
getting married and “‘it seemed a shame to 
waste a wedding.’”’ Mary had planned on a 
sky-blue suit for the ceremony until she dis- 
covered her cousin was wearing aqua. Mary, 
who had a larger bank account, bought a new 
outfit. And so, early on a crisp February 
morning, she was married in a brand-new 
gold gabardine suit at the Notre Dame Cath- 
olic Church in Chippewa Falls. 

The brief honeymoon was spent at the 
home of Mary’s widowed mother, who teaches 
at a school for feeble-minded children. Then 
the newlyweds returned to Green Bay, a city 
which boasts that 70 per cent of its 60,000 
citizens own their homes. The Riflemans 
found housing scarce, had to settle for a 
crowded, unattractive apartment and a dis- 
agreeable landlord. The following January, 
when their son Dickie was born, they intensi- 
fied their efforts to find a pleasanter place, 
but what they liked 
they couldn’t afford. 

In desperation, 
they moved into the 
antiquated apart- 
ment over Leo 
Haanen’s drugstore 
where George Rifle- 
man, aspry and dap- 
per widower in his 
mid-sixties, shared 
bachelor quarters 
with twenty-year- 
old Richard, fourth 
of his five sons. 
While this arrange- 
ment has turned out 
surprisingly well, 
Wally and Mary 
want a place of their 
own more than any- 
thing in the world. 

The present walk- 
up apartment is 
roomy enough for 
the adults, but the 
entrance hallway 
needs a coat of 
paint, there is no 
hot water, and the 
only heat is supplied 
by two oilstoves 
which burn the 
walls. Mary’s tasks 
are eased by a vac- 
uum cleaner, an electric mixer and washing 
machine. The refrigerator is old-fashioned, 
and ice must be lugged up the stairs. Wally 
remodeled the kitchen cabinets and now 
promises Mary that if they have to stay 
longer, he will get a hot-water heater. 

Rifleman hopes to build his own home. De- 

spite his reputation in the community as a 
“tight-lipped charactér” and a “lone wolf,” 
Wally opens up when he talks about the 
problem of low-cost housing. He has no use 
for the cheap, jerry-built veterans’ projects 
mushrooming over the countryside. At night, 
when he’s not too tired, he pulls out his pen- 
cil and T square and “‘fools with ” neat, real- 
istic plans. ‘‘One nice thing about plans,” he 
says, confessing how his ideas on construc- 
tion materials have altered in the past year, 
“you can always change them.” At the mo- 
ment the Riflemans are thinking about a 
three-bedroom, ranch-style home with a big 
picture window. With two months off from 
his job, Wally says he could build the house 
for $5000, hiring and bossing his own labor 
force. Financing wouldn’t be too difficult be- 
cause Wisconsin, although it has no state 
bonus, does have a large fund from which 
veterans can obtain building loansupto $4000 
at only 21% per cent interest. 


ey, although proud of her contribution 
as housekeeper for the three men, would wel- 
come a change. She insists on just three basic 
requirements for the Rifleman dream house: 
a yard, a basement and enough closets. When 
she says this her husband shuts his eyes and 
sighs, ‘Mary, when we move I want every- 
thing so darn automatic all I have to do is 
come in a room and blink my eyes.” 


the Kibbys, in 


Always Home for 
One More 


by Margaret Weymouth Jackson 


What would you do if you were asked 
to adopt a 6-year-old orphan? 


ARTHA GILBERT was a 
spinster of 37, sole support of 
her father and aunt, when home- 
less “Gigi” was brought to her for 
adoption. Martha knew she should 
say, “I can’t take her,” but logic 
lost to the plea in Gigi’s eyes. 
Later, Martha married teacher 
Ed Kibby. They had one child of 
their own, adopted 4 more. On a 
joint income of no more than $4000 
a year—Martha was for 30 years 
postmistress of Randolph Center, 
Vermont—the Kibbys raised, edu- 
cated—and loved—6 children. Meet 


HOAV AMERICA LIVES 


in the January 
LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL od 
Also in the future for the Riflemans, they “9 . 
hope, isa large family of their own. ‘‘ Whether a 
we can afford them or not isn’t the thing,” ee es 
Wally believes. “No home is a home without a se. 
children.” Mary, who also comes from a fam- ofa 
ily of five children, agrees. “People can al- é "hs 
ways find reasons for not having children,” $ % eS 


she says, “usually quite selfish.’’ 


Lasr spring their three-month-old daugh- 
ter, Kathleen, accidentally smothered to 
death. It wasa terrible blow. Mary and Wally 
took it with characteristic fortitude. Wally 
was out on a job when it happened and Dad 
Rifleman telephoned him. Wally said right 
away, ‘ Don’t tell me something’s the matter, 
dad. I can take it. What happened?” 

The tragedy is behind them now and Mary 
expects again shortly. Having Dickie around 
has proved a great help in softening the 
heartache. Because of Kathleen’s death the 
parents have been spoiling him. In theory 
they believe parents should be strict, as 
Wally’s parents were, but with one difference. 
They want Dickie to 
understand why he 
is being punished. 

Their methods of 
raising three-year- 
old Dickie would, 
and Mary grins 
when she mentions 
it, ‘shock Gesell.” 
The key to their 
approach is ‘“‘flexi- 
bility.” Right now 
they are carrying a 
big stick, but only 
as a threat, and the 
blond, blue-eyed 
Dickie is sometimes 
inclined to be a 
terror. Unusually 
active and well co- 
ordinated, the over- 
sized boy has little 
chance to run in the 
apartment. Keeping 
him occupied has 
been a struggle since 
the moment when 
he began to walk 
at nine months, to 
climb a month later. 
His crib has stout, 
high bars, but 
Dickie soon scaled 
them. When he kept 
running into the liv- 
ing room at night, Mary was faced with a 
baffling disciplinary problem. “We didn’t 
want to spank him all the time,” Mary says, 
“so we had to try something. I put a little 
horse-radish on his tongue once—he cried— 
and since then he’s stayed in bed.” 

“Well, he’s a little better,”’ says Wally re- 
alistically. “Now we point to the horse- 
radish bottle and he trots back. He’ll proba- 
bly hate the stuff all his life.” 

As rapidly as he can adapt to them, Mary 
has been giving Dickie responsibilities. Be- 
sides drying the silverware and helping her 
roll cooky dough, he often saves Mary the 
weary trip up and down the stairs by run- 
ning errands to the Keenway grocery below. 
Wally, who is crazy about his young son, has 
done his part by taking Dickie fishing. First 
time out, using a cane pole and a glowworm 
for bait, Dickie landed a bullhead. Now he’s 
through with the “‘old stick.” He says, “I 
want one with a windup on ey 

Mary’s household budgeting is also “‘flexi- 
ble,” allowing for as much give-and-take as 
their limited funds permit. Without any for- 
mal bookkeeping, she knows that her weekly 
food bill, except around holidays, will aver- 
age about $25. Rent is only $30 a month, 
fuel and light total $6, insurance, recreation 
and contributions add another $20 a month. 

Expenses, aside from clothing and other 
personal items, are divided fifty-fifty, with 
dad and Richie contributing half and Wally 
the rest. Surprisingly, there are three cars in 
the family. Wally and Richie need theirs for 
work and Dad Rifleman, who is manager of a 
Green Bay haberdashery, drives out to his 
cabin daily during the warm weather. 

(Continued on Page 173) 


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(Continued from Page 171) 

By her own description, Mary is a “‘casual 
housekeeper.’’ She tries to clean thoroughly 
once a week, buys most of her groceries at a 
chain store on week ends, irons everything 
herself except starched shirts. Her motto is, 
“TI run the house, I don’t let the house run 
me.”’ Breakfast is on the table for Wally and 
Dickie soon after the family rises at seven. 
Richie catches his on the run, Dagwood style. 

Mary devotes most of her day to Dickie, 
has a hot supper waiting for the men around 
six. Her stand-by—and, fortunately for the 
budget, the family favorite—is spaghetti, 
Italian style. Mary splurges on butter, econ- 
omizes with cheaper cuts of meat, rarely 
serves desserts. 

The Riflemans’ one extravagance is the 
telephone. Mary frequently calls her mother 
in Chippewa Falls and her sisters in Mil- 
waukee or Detroit. These family chats run the 
average monthly bill over 
$5. “‘Since Richie’s been 
working for the Bell Com- 
pany,” Mary says, “it’s all ra 
in the family and Wally 
doesn’t object so much 
anymore.” 

“The heck I don’t,” 
Wally says. 

Aside from financial and 
housing headaches, the 
Riflemans’ marriage pre- 
sents no major problems. Their friends feel 
this is a great tribute to Mary, because Wally, 
under other circumstances, might have been 
difficult. Adversity’s child, he was born dur- 
ingWorld War I, graduated from high school 
at the depression’s height, was thrown around 
in the Civilian Conservation Corps on and off 
for four years, and, on joining the Army fora 
two-year peacetime stint, found himself “‘in” 
for another four. A nervous chain smoker, he 
still has a noticeable head twitch, doesn’t 
know how to relax, is so bound up inside him- 
self that days can go by without his saying 
more than “Hello”’ to people. 

Mary has learned to understand these 
moods and to wait them out. At first she felt 
that they might be indications of his dissatis- 
faction with her or with their marriage. Now 
she knows better and knows, too, that Wally 
is deeply and completely in love with her. 
The tragedy which they shared, Kathleen’s 
death, has only served to draw them closer. 

There are family squabbles, but they don’t 
amount to much. Mary is usually the peace- 
maker. Wally admits he has a quick temper, 
but says, with a rapid inclination of his head 
toward Mary, “‘She’s Irish.’’ Occasionally he 
gets irritated with his wife because she is in- 
clined to fall for the ‘soft soap”’ of door-to- 
door canvassers who claim to be ‘working 
their way through school.’” When Mary wants 
to buy a multivolumed encyclopedia for 


being pliable. 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL er 


“just a few cents,” Wally fondly calls her 
“Gullible Susie,” a nickname which Mary 
does not particularly cherish. 

But such incidents are infrequent. For the 
most part, Mary’s cheerfulness and her easy- 
going patience are wonderful antidotes to 
Wally’s reserved intensity. He is learning 
how to laugh as he learned how to take a gun 
apart and put it together again in the dark. 
A sense of humor, they both agree, is the 
greatest asset to any happy marriage. 

Mary has no trouble ‘‘smoothing out” her 
father-in-law and young Richie. Dad Rifle- 
man thinks Mary is “ pretty swell” and says, 
“She’s been awful nice to me.” Richie, whose 
mother died when he was only seven, has 
been helped a great deal by Mary. ‘I always 
tried to keep a place for the boys,’”’ Dad Ri- 
fleman explains, “‘but now it’s a real home.” 
Richie, when he isn’t out dating his best girl, 
gives Mary a hand around the house on some 
of the heavy cleaning, and 
on special occasions can be 
pressed into duty as a 
sitter. 

He is tremendously fond 
of Mary, confides in her 
and gets her advice whether 
he asks for it or not. 
Not long ago he was about 
to buy, on the installment 
plan, a diamond ring as a 
high-school graduation gift 
for his current girl friend. Before putting cash 
on the line for a down payment, he told Mary 
about it. Mary needed all her persuasive 
powers to talk Richie out of it, but she did. 
When Wally and his father heard about 
Richie’s almost-extravagance, they decided 
on an object lesson. Richie was made to 
keep a family “cost book” for a month or so 
until he came to comprehend how many 
dozen eggs there are in one diamond ring. 

Mary’s special problem is lack of free time. 
Although uncomplaining, she misses the in- 
tellectual stimulation of teaching. If there 
were time and money, she’d like to take 
modern-language courses at night school or 
even resume teaching. First, of course, she’d 
like to sleep and sleep and sleep—something 
she hasn’t done since Dickie was born. 

Fun, like leisure, is something the Rifle- 
mans have to work for. They do little enter- 
taining except for Thanksgiving and Christ- 
mas, when the Rifleman clan gathers and 
Mary fixes a turkey, a gift from the office, 
while Wally mixes Tom and Jerries. Eve- 
nings they listen to radio dramatizations, but 
see very few movies. Wally’s favorite star is 
tall, monosyllabic Gary Cooper; Mary pre- 
fers Bing Crosby. Once every fall, since their 
first date, the Riflemans turn out to root for 
the Green Bay Packers’ football team. 

They read few books, and when they do 
their choices are among popular biographies 


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or historical novels such as Frances Parkin- 
son Keyes’ Crescent Carnival. Wally keeps 
up with several newspapers daily, thumbs 
the weekly news magazines, The Saturday 
Evening Post and a trade journal. He never 
misses Westbrook Pegler’s column, although 
he disagrees with it most of the time. “I like 
a good argument and that vigorous, florid 
writing,” Wally says. They both get a kick 
out of Blondie and Dagwood. 

Although he bowls occasionally and has 
tried the new form of shuffleboard which is 
Green Bay’s latest craze, Wally concentrates 
most of his energy on his studies and job. He 
joined the American Legion and the VFW, 
is still a “member in arrears,”’ almost never 
goes around. He and Mary are interested, 
but not active, in politics. “I guess I’m a 
Democrat if anything,” Wally says, ‘‘but we 
split the ticket.” 

The car is their chief escape from the 
shut-in feeling which 


December, 1949 


Rifleman’s reliability and the manner in 
which he makes decisions fast and, when ad- 
visable, independently, have offered him jobs 
at more money. Backed up by Mary, Wally 
has stuck to his training and he’s not sorry. 
Neither are Foth & Porath. “‘As long as we 
are in business,”’ Herb Foth says, ‘‘ Wally has 
a place with us.” 

Wally Rifleman’s few close associates agree 
that he learned much in the Army and that 
the qualities which marked him a standout 
on the battlefield are already distinguishing 
him in civilian life. Although he still broods 
over his “‘lost time,’”’ Wally is beginning to 
feel that his experience is paying off. On one 
difficult construction job he was able to re- 
cruit and boss a Mexican day-labor gang, us- 
ing the Spanish he picked up while soldier- 
ing in Panama. 

While he will never be an extrovert, his 
knocking around has given him a quiet toler- 

ance of other peoples 


the apartment induces. ea eer 2 and races. ‘‘In Central 


On hot nights they dis- 
regard Dickie’s_ bed- 
time schedule, pile into 


America I learned that 


There are people who do things the natives are not 
in an unkind way, people whose just “gooks,’”’ he says. 


the Oldsmobile, buy touch hurts, whose voices jar, whose “They want the same 
him a double orange tempers play them false, who wound things out of life that 


popsicle to keep him 
quiet, and drive the 
twelve miles out to 
Dad’s cottage. When 
they vacation, usually 


as the rest of us. 


and worry the people they love in the we do.” When Green 
very act of trying to conciliate them, 
and yet who need affection as much 


Bayers brag that their 
city is “100 per cent 


—GEORGE BERNARD SHAW. White” and must re- 


main that way, Wally 


in the winter, they get OM recalls what happened 


in the car without any 
preconceived plan and invariably wind up at 
the Pinch place in Chippewa. 

Wally is so ambitious and so industrious 
that if someone didn’t remind him he might 
work right through his vacation. He is now 
completing his fourth year of G. I. on-the-job 
training with Foth & Porath and makes 
$2700 a year. The firm took on several vet- 
erans under the same arrangement and Wal- 
ly’s boss has no hesitancy in stating that 
Rifleman has turned out “‘by far the best.” 
When the course is finished Wally will have 
the equivalent of a four-year university course 
in engineering and will be due for a moderate 
raise. With a few more years of experience, 
he can qualify as a registered civil engineer. 

A specialist in sanitation engineering, Wally 
has been supervising sewer- and water- 
construction projects in the field during the 
past year. Local contractors, impressed by 


JIM BROWN, 


when Negro replace- 
ments arrived in Europe. At first his com- 
pany voted thumbs down and a Jim Crow 
system resulted. “‘After three days’ combat,” 
Wally says, ‘that changed. The men would 
line up for chow black, white, black, white. 
No one cared.” 

In the five years since the fateful Battle of 
the Bulge, Wally Rifleman has started a 
family and a career, both bright with prom- 
ise. This Christmas, for the first time in his 
life, he has begun to dream optimistically 
about the future. Until now he has been held 
down by the omnipresent and desperate need 
to get on with the job at hand. Now, with 
Mary and Dickie, Wally Rifleman has a fu- 
ture worth planning, a future he earned by 
never losing faith in himself. As his boss, 
Herb Foth, remarked recently about a trou- 
blesome construction job, “If Rifleman can’t 
do it, nobody can.” 


CLASS OF °50 


(Continued from Page 55) 


experience that they are ready for’’ has paid 
off with Jim, who has never had to be 
spanked or punished for anything since he 
was five, and at sixteen is a straight A stu- 
dent at Shaker Heights High School. At 
twenty-one he will have control of a $5000 
endowment policy from his parents, an offer 
of a trip to Europe from his aunt, and over 
$1000 savings of his own in the bank. 

Jim has never been a problem to his par- 
ents or school. He studies from an hour and 
a half to two hours each night and for one 
hour every morning, after his dad drops him 
off at school in the family car. With an I.Q. 
of 133, Jim might not have to work up to his 
ability in some classes, but he is proud of his 
top grades in his favorite subjects, math, 
chemistry and physics. He works reasonably 
hard at languages, English and history sim- 
ply because it would never occur to him not 
to. Last year he took Latin, which he re- 
garded as ‘‘dull, boring and useless” and 
still got an A. He shows the same conscien- 
tiousness in sports. Realizing he wasn’t star 
basketball material, he practiced every day 
perfecting his aim. Now “‘He’s one of our 
best shots,”’ says the coach. 

But one teacher made him mad by saying, 
“You’re so hard-working, I don’t see how 
you can have any fun.” Jim thinks he is 
having fun. ‘‘When I first came to Shaker 
Heights, five years ago, I felt lost among so 
many strange kids.’’ Now, as a senior, Jim 
is president of his fraternity, G.D.I. (the 
Go-Do-Its) and vice-president of his class. 

Although Jim goes steady with Connie, 
whose blond prettiness stands out in con- 


trast to Jim’s dark hair and eyes, they have 
broken up twice. Once because dating or 
Saturday night conflicted with basketball 
(on that occasion a mutual friend patched it 
up for them by convincing Jim that “if 
you’re not going to date her, at least let her 
date other fellows’’), and once because Con- 
nie thought she was too young to go steady. 
That didn’t last long either. Hearing that 
Connie had a date with someone else, Jim 
appeared on the doorstep before the other 
boy got there and brought Connie around 
to his way of thinking—‘“‘ which wasn’t very 
hard,” admits Connie. 

Jim gets no allowance. The Browns think, 
“There’s more of a compulsion to spend 
your money when you know your next allow- 
ance is around the corner.”” Every morning 
he receives $1 to cover his daily expenses 
(his cafeteria lunch, consisting of meat, a 
vegetable, a double order of mashed potatoes 
with gravy, two bottles of milk and cake or 
pie a la mode, costs him 70-90 cents). Over 
a third of the student body, on allowances 
of $1.75-$2.50 a week, either bring their 
lunches or go home to eat. But Jim manages 
to save something out of his $1 a day, and 
most of the $250—$300 earned from his sum- 


al 


mer job rolling and lining tennis courts. Thisg») 
and what extras his parents give him (“You ™ 


get more money with no allowance,” he 

comments shrewdly) buys $2.50 corsages of 

yellow roses for Connie for special occasions 

(although he spent $5 for two white orchids 

for the Senior Prom), the $10 silver bread 

tray he gave his mother for Christmas, and 
(Continued on Page 176) 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


Mabel got more than a pretty 
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And that is the wise and simple 
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TRADE @® MARK 


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(Continued from Page 174) 
the “cheapest, still usable” gas for Little 
Jet, Jim’s 1937 Ford, purchased in partner- 
ship with another boy for $95 and ‘‘slightly 
used.”’ (Before they fixed it, Jim had to stand 
up to put on the brakes, and get out of the 
car to turn on the taillight.) 

Adhering to Shaker Heights teen-aged 
custom of staying in to study during the 
week, Jim dates Connie only on Friday and 
Saturday nights. They can find plenty to 
do: usually a dance at school—sometimes 
sorority or fraternity sponsored—a party at 
one of the girls’ houses, or a movie in down- 
town Shaker. Not all the parties are planned; 
“Sometimes we just drop in at someone’s 
house, sit around and talk, or dance.” But 
some of them are lavish affairs. At one party, 
given in honor of Todd Kolb, Shaker star 
athlete and winner of a $6000 scholarship to 
Cornell, the high light of the evening was a 
huge many-tiered cake with an icing picture 
on the top of Todd shooting a basket. An- 
other Shaker custom among. fraternities 
occurs Saturday nights. Connie’s sorority, 
S.S.S. (name is strictly secret), and Jim’s 
fraternity, G.D.I., leading teen-aged social 
groups, schedule their business meetings 
early at members’ 
houses. After the 
meeting the boys go 
to the girls’ house to 
get their dates. (Those 
belonging to other 
sororities, but whose 
dates are G.D.I.’ers, 
must stay upstairs 
while the rival soror- 
ity holds a business 
meeting downstairs.) 

Shaker’s five fra- 
ternities and five so- 
rorities are called 
“clubs”’ and, accord- 
ing to student esti- 
mate, number about 
25 members each. 
They are not offi- 
cially recognized be- 
cause Ohio state law 
forbids fraternities 
and sororities to func- 
tion as part of the 
schools’ programs. 
Although G.D.1., dirty! 
Jim’s fraternity, is 
supposed to grab off 
all the top athletes, 
these “clubs” don’t 
exclusively run the activities of the school. 
This is partly because Russell R. Rupp, Shak- 
er’s energetic and civic-minded principal, 
schedules plenty of competition to keep stu- 
dents busy. School activities include three big 
dances a year, open houses, all-school parties, 
sports rallies and dances in the gym after 
games, a bobby-sox review, two play produc- 
tions. Also, a gradual lessening of interest in 
fraternities and sororities has become appar- 
ent in recent years. During the war these 
“‘clubs”’ were all-powerful. As one of the mem- 
bers admitted, ““There was a lot of drinking 
and Cain-raising around here.” But attitudes 
have been changing. The members feel that 
“Fraternities are nothing like they used to 
be.” . . . ““They’re hardly worth the hurt 
feelings they cause.” Jim’s fellow G.D.I.’ers 
refuse to take in any set number of members 
each year. This change in the constitution 
makes the group less exclusive, thereby 
weakening its popularity. They have out- 
lawed “‘hacking’’ paddles and done away 
with initiations and religious discriminatién 
altogether. 


knees. 


tub, 


Burt most Shaker Heights girls continue to 
take sorority life seriously. They stage com- 
plicated and expensive initiations (Connie 
had to dress as a chicken, using feathers stuck 
to her skin with glue) and deliberately fan 
rivalry between sororities by scheduling 
rough-and-tumble touch-football games. 
Feeling ran too high at one game and one 
girl broke her collarbone. Since then the 
games have been stopped. But Connie, after 
three years’ membership in S.S.S., chose 
Bradford Junior College because it has no 
sororities. 


Kk RK iw KK. KOK 


a OE bout Yall ny 


By Marjorie Lederer Lee 


Oh, Robert in his brimming bath’s 
A bouncing ship upon the seas, 

And I am but the galley slave 
Assigned to face and hands and 


A tidal wave’s a little thing 
Compared with waves in Robert’s 


And two weeks’ wash is easier 
Than Robert’s elbows are to scrub. 


Oh, strange it is and odd it is 

That I'll be old before I’m thirty, 
Shining up a little boy 

Who’s ten times cuter when he’s 


wk KK KEKE SS 


December, 1949 


Most of Jim’s fraternity members smoke, 
with the exception of those in training for 
sports. They drink beer—chiefly at their 
annual exam blowout, a general letting-off- 
steam party at a place outside of town, 
and during Cottage Week, when each fra- 
ternity rents a summer cottage at one of the 
resort areas near Shaker Heights. 


Td cover their identity, fraternities often 
use assumed names, such as “The Bird 
Society of Shaker Heights” and ‘‘Hy-Y.” 
Occasionally these groups get out of hand. 
One fraternity is credited with keeping the 
Coast Guard busy by letting loose all the 
boats moored to the resort docks. Another 
drove a small-town fire engine in the front 
door of a sorority’s cottage and left it there. 
These escapades usually go unpunished. Say 
the boys, ‘Naturally we never go back to 
the same cottage twice.”” And even if the 
police do catch the culprits, as one boy put 
it, ““They’re pretty good about letting the 
kids go with just a fine and a talking to, be- 
cause they know the parents will settle him, 
but good.” And they do. A small group of 
Shaker Heights boys and girls are pampered 
at home, and these, as one of the teachers 

~ said, ‘‘you feel like 
punching once in a 
while,”’ but the ma- 
jority of students are 
poised and well be- 
haved, and conscien- 
tious. 

The faculty tries to 
teach on acollegelevel 
by lecturing in classes 
and staging two-hour 
blue-book exams, 
works up to the level 
of the highest instead 
of the lowest intelli- 
gence, and often has 
student-conducted 
classes. The informal 
class atmosphere, and * 
a rule limiting classes 
to 25, keeps the stu- 
dents alert, attentive 
and responsive. 

Since about 80 per 
cent of each senior 
class goes on to col- 
lege, a “college craze”’ 
starts as early as the 
sophomore year. All 
students are encour- 
aged to write letters 
of introduction to deans of admissions at var- 
ious colleges and to keep all correspondence 
in a personal “‘college’’ file. Competition for 
top grades is keen and sometimes smothers 
those students who have to plug for a passing 
D. According to one faculty member, “It’s a 
terrible thing to see some of these kids being 
pushed beyond their capacity.’’ One girl 
wants to be a laboratory technician and has 
sent for all the literature from a number of 
colleges and hospitals. Although the school 
intends to get her through her senior year—as 
one teacher says, “These parents like to see 
their children graduate’”—she doesn’t have 
sufficient ability to do training-school work. 

While Shaker has its share of disciplinary 
problems, they are mostly of the practical- 
joke variety. Two boys regularly cut up 
rulers into one-inch squares~in industrial- 
arts class and pile them neatly on the teach- 
er’s desk; one inquisitive boy got a chloro- 
form-soaked wad of cotton, and in study 
hall, where the interested glances of class- 
mates were too much of a temptation, he 
took a few healthy sniffs, and quietly passed 
out. Another class ‘“‘character”’ decided the 
public-address system was a natural for an 
announcement that this would be “Be Kind 
to Your Teacher Week.”’ He finished off with 
a blood-chilling Inner Sanctum laugh and 


was promptly suspended for a week by j, 


Principal Rupp, who, some disgruntled stu- 

dents claim, “‘has no sense of humor.” 
Although Mr. Rupp and the student body 

might not see eye to eye on everything, they 

do agree that Shaker High is “‘terrific.” A 

red brick building surrounded by huge old 

trees and well-kept grounds, and built 

(Continued on Page 178) 








LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 








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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


(Continued from Page 176) 
around an inner court, the school is equipped 
with an indoor heated swimming pool, a 
system of chimes to signal changing of 
classes, an indoor recreation room (the Elbow 
Room), where students gather at lunchtime 
to dance to the juke box, and two parking 
lots, filled with student-owned cars. Like 
Jim, who thinks “‘it’s silly to dog up a car 
with signs and coon tails,” boys paint their 
cars a shiny black, buy new parts—do every- 
thing possible to make them look like ’50’s. 

Behind the school is the stadium, around 
which revolves a controversy of major pro- 
portions. Students want floodlights erected 
for night games. But Shaker is surrounded 
by $50,000 homes, where conservative liv- 
ing is the rule, and a petition was turned 
down. Shaker loses more games than it wins, 
athletes complain; the coaches claim, ‘‘Some 
of these kids have lived pampered lives. They 
don’t know what it is to get out there and 
fight to win.”” But according to Mr. Rupp, 
who referees college football games in addi- 
tion to his principal’s job, ““We can’t con- 
centrate on scholastic rating and sports 
rating too.’”’ Parents back him up on that. 

In addition to wanting their children to 
get a good education, Shaker parents want 
them to have a healthy respect for money. 
Connie Wright, whose family owns a twenty- 
three-room house, with wall-to-wall carpet- 
ing, a paneled music room, and two brand- 
new cars in the garage, received no gradua- 
tion present from her parents last June. “I 
guess they were thinking about the clothes 
I’d have to have to go to college,” says 
Connie. And although seniors exchange 
engraved calling cards at graduation time, 
heap lavish gifts on the teachers (such as 
negligees, wrist watches, fountain pens and 
$25 E Bonds), very few receive allowances of 
over $5 a week, and only one boy in the 
senior class was given anything which re- 
flects the wealth in suburban Shaker. He got 
a new convertible. 

An upper-middle-class, prosperous com- 
munity, Shaker Heights has had the same 
mayor for over twenty years, which is an 
indication of the fact that its citizens are 
well satisfied with their town. It’s difficult to 
find a new house under $35,000 (there are no 
mass developments), and to buy on the street 
on which the Browns live the purchaser 
“ought to be making better than $10,000 a 
year.” 

The Browns’ house is a twenty-year-old 
white frame shingle with dark green shut- 
ters, set back from a well-kept lawn. Rows 
of pink and red geraniums line the driveway. 
Three stories high, it was valued by the 
original owner at $18,000. Five years ago, 
when the Browns were transferred to Shaker 
from Hammond, Indiana, it cost them $23,- 
000. Comfortably but not lavishly furnished, 
the rooms look friendly and lived in. The 
mantelpiece over the fireplace and the two 
corner cupboards in the dining room hold 
Mrs. Brown’s prize pieces of English Wedg- 
wood and Royal Doulton china, some of 
which has been in the family for generations. 
(Jim is frankly proud of the fact that his 
great-great-grandfather fought at Trafalgar 
with Lord Nelson.) Downstairs is a seldom- 
used pine-paneled recreation room. 


‘The Browns entertain very little, usually 
people from the duPont Company, where 
Mr. Brown is an assistant works manager. 
They sometimes have neighbors over for a 
Saturday-night bridge session or a Sunday 
dinner of steak, mashed potatoes, peas, ice 
cream and pie or cake—all family favorites. 
They serve liquor occasionally and they both 
smoke, although Jim hasn’t the slightest in- 
terest, as yet, in either. He zs interested in 
his basement chemistry lab which his father 
made out of odds and ends, and where they 
conduct experiments together. 

Jim’s room, which runs across the top of 
the house, is cluttered-with school pennants, 
posters announcing Jim’s candidacy for last 
year’s election, souvenirs from family motor 
trips, an assortment of books (Will James’ 
Smokey, Caroline Mytinger’s Headhunting 
in the Solomon Islands, Robert Louis 
Stevenson’s Kidnapped), and some baby 
toys. Jim’s $280 school wardrobe, hanging 


neatly in the closet, includes a canary-yellow 
corduroy sports jacket, white dinner jacket 
and black trousers, two pairs of slacks, a 
grayish-blue gabardine “‘good”’ suit, and a 
covert topcoat. But his favorite school out- 
fit is blue jeans, white shirt worn open at the 
collar, and brown loafers. Jim likes to study 
in his room and sleeps up there except in the 
summer, when he sleeps on the side porch. 

Just as Jim’s room is his own, so are his 
convictions. Neither he nor his family at- 
tend church: ‘We have tried to keep Jim’s 
mind open for later influences he will meet,” 
and although Jim isn’t sure about the exist- 
ence of God (“I think science has pretty well 
proved evolution”), he wants to read the 
Bible through someday, “‘so I’ll know what 
I’m talking about.” 

He’s on surer ground in his ambition to be 
a chemical engineer. Fearing that they might 
have influenced him on that score, his par- 
ents held a round-table discussion last year 
of Jim’s job qualifications. With Jim present 
and chiming in objectively about himself, 
they considered West Point and Annapolis, 
but abandoned those. Says Mr. Brown, 
“‘He’s not sufficiently compliant to arbitrary 
discipline.””’ Jim rejected law and business 
administration and finally arrived right back 
at chemical engineering. Jim explained, “I 
just can’t imagine myself on a soapbox, ar- 
guing about something. I like people, 
but I’d hate to have to be with them all the 
time, so chemical engineering is right for 
me.” Jim thinks he’ll be making $7500 a year 
by five years after he graduates from college, 
would like to make a million, but “it takes 
an awful lot of luck to do that and you have 
to be equipped to take advantage of all the 
breaks.”’ He is pretty sure he won’t get mar- 
ried until after college. 

He would go to his mother and father with 
any problem, no matter how tough on him 
they might be, but “I don’t think I do any- 
thing they wouldn’t approve of, or at least 
excuse.’”’ When discipline is needed, as it was 
when Jim stayed out until 3:30 in the morn- 
ing after a movie date with Connie, they 
talk things over to make sure Jim sees where 
he is wrong. “Usually I feel so bad about it, 
they don’t have to lecture me.”’ And with all 
the closeness they share, the Browns have 
managed to avoid being possessive with 
Jim. Last spring they let him accompany an- 
other boy on a trip down South, half ““hitch,” 
half bus ride, but asked him to keep an ac- 
count of his $20 expense money. He kept it 
faithfully and arrived home with 36 cents 


December, 1949 


in his pocket. Mrs. Brown feels she wo 
like to be around if Jim gave a boy-girl party, 
although he never does. Says Jim, ‘The 
girls always come up with one before thing 
get dull.” But she and Mr. Brown leave t 
house free for fraternity meetings and some 
times give Jim their 1946 Buick while they 
ride to the movies in Little Jet. 

Jim is surprisingly objective about thing g 
that matter to him. He worked hard to ma 
the basketball team (“With Jim, basketba 
comes first, then me,” sighs Connie re 
signedly), but won’t go out for sports ir 
college—“All that rah-rah team spirit i 
good for you in high school, but in colleg 
studies come first.’” With Connie, he’s asse 
tive. As he says, in mock seriousness, “‘I’vé 
got her trained.” But he still gets mad wher 
he remembers the time Connie pretended to | 
fall asleep on a movie date. He wouldn’t | 
speak to her for hours, until she apologized 
And once, when she teased him by singing 
all the fraternity songs except his, he made 
her get out of the car and walk alongside for | / 
two blocks. But Connie likes to remember) 
the time he impulsively hugged her whe 
she lost in a school contest, “right there in 
front of all those people.’’ And the time she 
had to make a speech. “I was so scared, I was 
crying.” He drove her around in the car, | 
sang to her, told jokes, and when she walked _ 
across the stage, he stood up in the audience | 
and waved so that she could see him. 


Anp although the Browns take pride in all | 
Jim’s accomplishments, they remember es- 
pecially something that happened when he 
was only nine. On December 2, 1942, while | 
the Browns were eating dinner, a call came i, 
through with the news that Mrs. Brown’s 
father was seriously ill. Mrs. Brown and 
young Jim left immediately for Bayonne, 
New Jersey, knowing that the eighty-eight- 
year-old man might not survive an opera- 
tion. Because of war transportation tele 
they reached their destination over ten ho 
late. They were cold—the temperature wa 
below zero; hungry—the train was serving. 
only the troops on board; and anxious f ‘ 
fear the sick man would guess the reason be- 
hind their sudden visit. Jim took the situa- 
tion in hand, giving his mother time to con- 
trol herself, hugged his grandparents, and 
when his grandfather asked whv they had 
come, he said simply, ““We just wanted to 
see your faces.”” Says Mrs. Brown softly, 


“That meant more to me than anything he 
THE END 


has ever done.” 


**4h—I see you’ve decided to purchase 
the lovely old comb-back Windsor !” 





( 


SAN 


| / 


/ 


« ¢ 










LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 





























is ; 


: Gee, 
y NS : ; \ 
1 \Y as ve 
4 Se eee Se | lps Aaa 
iy This is how Chic Young, the cartoonist, makes a first rough sketch for the famous strip. 
hoy ae 
4 AS | Ty Saree nee MM Ce were aN a 
@ com) | De ee ee eer NE Ge me eo al 
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Then when each panel in a strip meets his approval, he makes a careful pencil rendering as above. 


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After this, the pencil rendering is carefully inked in, as you see here. 


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PHOTOS BY STUART-STEPHENSON 


Not an inch wasted in this compact kitchen. U-shaped plan uses space with economy. 


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Of course, one does not live on daf- 





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= 
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CL hae ee : discouraging (Continued on Page 193) 





Supper by the open fire at the hutch table just around the corner. SINK RANGE 

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{ 

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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


AGEN 


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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 


THE DOG WHO HAD EVERYTHING 


their return. That was, of course, a mistake. 
The children would have valued him far 
more if he had made them whistle for him. 
But Buck never knew any of the devices 
that human beings use in order to be appre- 
ciated. 

Occasionally Mrs. Brown spoke to Buck, 
but she was not often home during the day. 
She was working hard at her real-estate busi- 
ness, being brisk and practical and proud of 
making good. When she came home at night, 
Buck always tried to follow her into the 
house, although he knew very well he wasn’t 
allowed. She was afraid his paws might 
scratch her fine polished floors or his hair 
would shed upon her expensive upholstery. 
She was careful about her possessions. 

One Saturday afternoon, in the warm Flor- 
ida winter, when Richard was twelve years 
old, all the Browns went on a picnic. They 
settled down on a private stretch of seashore 
which they had all to themselves. The chil- 
dren threw a ball into the water. Buck went 
after it, barking and splashing. Then Rich- 
ard went swimming while Buck sat on the 
sand, panting, with water running off the 
end of his tongue. Suddenly Richard cried 
out. His head disappeared behind a wave, 
then reappeared, farther from shore. Mrs. 
Brown rushed into the surf, but she couldn’t 
swim. Buck plunged, swam out, found the 
boy and dragged him back to land. 

What a night that was for Buck and his 
family! Mrs. Brown gave a party for the 
whole neighborhood. The children drank 
Buck’s health in ginger ale while the grown- 
ups toasted him in champagne. Everyone 
praised and patted him. He had his picture 
taken for the paper. Mrs. Brown was so 
stirred up and grateful that she said, ‘From 
now on, if Buck wants to come into our 
house, he can come, scratchy paws and hairs 
and all! Nothing is too good for that dog! 
We'll give him everything!” 

It seemed as if Buck understood. His eyes 
glowed and his tail never stopped waving. He 
smiled with his whole body. Even his bark 
was especially deep and pleased. That night 
was, although no one knew it at the time, the 
supreme moment of his life. For it is the des- 
tiny of most dogs, and human beings, to h
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